#please tell me this reads okay

[vaya-writes]

The Wyvern's Bride - Part 3.2

When Adalyn gets sacrificed to the local wyvern, she’s a little annoyed and a lot terrified. Upon meeting the wyvern, she discovers that he’s not particularly interested in eating people, and mostly wants to be left alone. In a plot to save himself from the responsibilities his family keep pushing on him, Slate names Adalyn as his human Envoy, and tasks her with finding him a wife.

2000 words. Cis female human x Cis male wyvern (slow burn, arranged marriage, eventual smut). firefly-graphics did the divider.

Masterlist - Previous

Adalyn wakes early. She’s used to getting up at sunrise to start baking, and up in the Spires with the balcony door propped open, she has an unimpeded view of the lightening sky.  

Slate had woken earlier still and is nowhere to be found. There’s evidence of his stirring here and there. A blanket in a pile by the chaise. Crumbs at the table. A covered plate of cold toast waiting for Adalyn. She bites into it, relishing the jam Slate had procured.  

She’s tempted to go back to bed. To sleep in until the sun finishes rising. To loaf about and relax, perhaps with a book. But she’s not yet game to go through Slate’s collection, and the threat of boredom chafes at her skin.  

Instead, she dresses for the day, gathers up some of her cleaning supplies, and makes for the kitchen. She’s not sure what state she’ll find it in but is looking forward to using the area herself.  

Light streams into the windows as she makes her way down the Tower until finally, she enters the passage that leads to the kitchen. Its dark, but thankfully short, and when she finds the dining room, the skylight illuminates the area enough to see her to the kitchen. 

Adalyn swears under her breath as she locates the flint and steel and lights the nearest brazier. Perhaps lighting is another thing she’ll have to talk to Slate about. 

When the kitchen is lit, Adalyn leans against the counter and surveys the place. Her legs are wobbly from the trek – it had been nice to stretch them, and she can move without discomfort now, but the hike will still take some getting used to. 

The Matron’s staff had tidied the kitchen. Dishes had been washed and put away, and any remaining food had been sealed and put in the larder (dried fruits are all that remain). Still, there are crusts and crumbs scattered about, and the fire pit is overflowing with ash.  

Adalyn sinks into cleaning. She marvels over the plumbing as she wipes and washes the counters. She puts on a pot of tea when she works, settling into the familiar routine. She even rummages through the larder for ingredients, and once the counters are clean, starts baking some bread and biscuits. She’d brought her starter yeast from home, and Slate’s kitchen is stocked with everything else she needs.  

By midmorning she’s surveying the fruits of her labours with satisfaction. There’s a platter of sweets to snack on, jam sandwiches which she eats on the spot, and a tea set which she resolves to take upstairs. She sets aside a handful of other things to take to the Tower, so that she won’t have to descend to the kitchen each morning for supplies.  

Throughout the morning Adalyn had noted a distant rumble. It had been almost comforting. In the stillness beneath the mountains, with Adalyn’s busywork being the only sounds, it soothes her to hear something else. 

When she finishes her work and takes a moment to breathe, she listens to the sounds with curiosity, then recognition. The occasional boom and slight tremors beneath her feet could be indicative of a cave in but had been too consistent. It’s more likely Slate, at work somewhere within the Spires. 

She glances at her food, then around the kitchen. There’s honestly not much else for her to do, and with the rest of the day stretching out before her, she decides to explore. 

She sets off in the direction of the byway, following the distant sounds of earth rending, retracing her steps through the dining hall and a winding passage before she emerges into the enormous cavern. At the size of it she blanches. Awe inspiring as it is, the walls are still unremarkable, and she worries that she might lose her way. She’s looking around for landmarks, anything to help mark one passage from another, when she notices the pile of stones beside her.  

Their purpose immediately becomes clear. Adalyn notes the number of stones and their arrangement – unique. Each door marker is different from the next. She resumes her exploration, walking alongside the stream and taking in the sights. Plant life creeps down from the ceiling, spilling over the edge of the cave opening, high above. The area is almost lush. 

She doesn’t have to walk the entire cavern, thankfully. The sounds are coming from just across the main-way, and she eyes one passage speculatively. The gouge marks around the edge of the doorway are fresh; debris and dust litter the ground and a set of footprints, visible even to her, track through it all. She spies a bundle of white and stoops to examine it. A shirt, discarded in a heap. 

She’d go in after Slate if it weren’t for the darkness. At its thickness, she balks. Even if the wyvern were through the passage, she has no way of knowing about any hazards.  

“Slate?” She calls. 

The noise ceases. For a moment she hears nothing. Then there’s the crunch of footsteps. 

“Adalyn. Are you alright?” 

The air swirls with dust. Adalyn waves the particulates away from her face and coughs. “I brought you lunch, though it might be early.” 

Slate emerges from the darkness, pausing at the threshold of the shadows. “It’s never too early to see you, dearest.” 

Adalyn squints at his outline, using the expression to cover her embarrassment. “Do I get to see you?” 

He straightens, and steps out of the corridor. Contrite, he runs a hand through his hair, smearing a white streak through it. “Sorry. Difference in eyesight, I guess.” 

He’s shirtless, in his demi form. There’s a layer of filth and grit covering him, almost creating patterns against his grey skin and dappled scales. 

She eyes the swarths of them: thick and dark on the backs of his arms and shoulders, lightening colour at his sides, and thinning into skin over his chest. There’s a fresh scar above his left pectoral, and Adalyn recognises it as the place where Slate had removed a scale. 

She drags her eyes away from his chest and forces a polite smile. “Did you want to wash up first, or...” 

Slate gestures towards the cavern. “Let’s go over there. You can sit in the light, and I can take a dip in the stream.” 

Adalyn takes a seat at the bank before unwrapping their food. She sets the remaining sandwiches aside for Slate while she picks at a biscuit. She watches with bemusement as Slate kicks off his shoes and socks before stepping straight into the stream. She catches sight of his back – tessellated scales the colour of coal – and the amusement slips her mind. 

“What are you working on today?” 

His arms are wreathed in shadow, fingers tipped with long claws. Adalyn watches, riveted, as he dispells the claws into puffs of smoke and begins rubbing water up his arms and chest. His skin from the forearms down is still shadowy, and cloudy water streams off him in rivulets. 

“I’m carving the passage from the main-way to where your quarters will be.” 

“By hand?” 

“The first time, yes.” 

He climbs the bank to sit beside her, and she wordlessly hands him a sandwich. He smiles his thanks. “What about you?” 

Adalyn sighs. “I don’t know. To be honest, without a bakery to run, I fear I might get quite bored.” 

“What did you used to do with your free time?” 

She leans back, watching a cloud pass. “Cook. Clean. Garden. Sometimes spin and sew.” 

“Do you like doing those things?” 

“Yes, sometimes. They help me feel in control.” 

Slate considers while he finishes his food. Then rests his hand in his chin. “We could find you a project. I always have several to keep me busy.” 

She grins. Slate seems the type to keep multiple pots on the burner. “You got a list, or something?” 

He straightens and counts on his fingers. “Finish the blueprints for your quarters, carve out the passages and main spaces, contract a smith for fittings, designate a permanent space for my workshops, build said workshops, prototype different elevators,” he pauses, and a blush touches his cheeks at Adalyn’s expression. “To start.” 

She enjoys his enthusiasm. Even if she finds it hard to relate. “I thought you’d finish the Tower first.” 

He brushes some crumbs away and reaches for a sweet. “I don’t want to crowd you longer than necessary. Your space is my top priority.” 

Some of her mirth fades, and she tries to keep a neutral expression. Part of her fixates on those words, searching them for further meaning. Perhaps he is being genuine.  

Tentatively, she replies. “I don’t feel crowded.” 

She misses the way he looks at her, somewhat sharply. Fearing he had misstepped. “You don’t? I- well, I know how humans value their privacy.” 

She purses her lips. Part of her very badly wants to protest the distance he’s literally building between them. But she doesn’t want to push, and risk seeming clingy.  

She lets the topic drop. “So what project do you suggest I take up?” 

He thinks. “You like cleaning.” 

A nod. 

He looks almost pained as his picks his next words. “I suppose I don’t mind if you go through my things. Organise them, I mean.” 

She’s torn again. She wants to react with brevity. Tease him for his tastes. ‘What if you don’t like my system.’  

Instead, she approaches the situation with growing anxiety and caution. She wonders if having her in his space, touching all his things, will drive him to push her away faster. She’s practically a stranger. And he’d been so frustrated with his family meddling.  

“If you’re sure. I know it could be a bother.” 

He shakes his head. His fingers creep towards hers. “It’s not. You’d have to try really hard to bother me. Just wait until tonight. Some of the magical artifacts can be aggressive, and I’d better point them out.” 

She eyes his hand, next to hers, and some of the tightness in her chest lessons. Anxiety temporarily assuaged, she manages a smile. She stands and readies to leave, allowing herself some humour. “Okay dearest.” 

--- 

When Slate joins Adalyn for dinner he is both late and sodden. He lands on the balcony and lingers there, sheepishly wringing his clothes out. 

“There is a bath here.” 

“I don’t want to track dust through my room,” he says before going to fetch a towel.  

Adalyn had rekindled the fire herself and lit the braziers, and dinner is set out when he joins her at the table, once more in his human form. She wonders if there’s a particular reason he chooses the form so frequently. 

“Sorry I’m late. My timepiece is broken.” He bites into a pastry and lets out an appreciative groan.   Adalyn hadn’t found any substantial supplies in the larder and had managed to make some fruit pies with the jam preserves. He swallows and smiles at her. “How are you finding the keep?” 

She shrugs. Adopts a teasing tone. “There’s room for improvement, I suppose.” 

“Oh?” 

“I don’t want to seem like I’m complaining.” 

“Please. Complain to me.” 

“Perhaps you could build an exit or two? I’m getting plenty of fresh air from the balcony, but it’d be nice to go for a walk on the surface.” 

“That’s a quick fix. Though I’d be careful walking around the karst. There’s a lot of places you could fall.” 

“We’re also down to bread and cheese. Some supplies wouldn’t go astray.” 

Slate nods. “I go hunting every few days, but it’s slipped my mind, with all the changes. I’d planned to visit the valley tomorrow; we could stock up then?” 

“What are your plans in the valley?” 

He smiles, coy. “Oh, you know. Post some letters. Check in with some craftsmen. Pick up a gift for my wife.” 

“You’re too sweet.” 

“Right?” 

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll forgive your tardiness then.” 

“Was that all you wanted? A door and some food?” 

Adalyn narrows her eyes. “I could make a list if it pleases you.” 

“I love lists.”

---

Next

[lygma-nygma]

Being a batfam fan is funny because people will make a post like “here’s my headcanon-“ and it’s just something that’s directly canon to the story then post about major canon events and get everything wrong.

[adrinktostopyourthirst]

Bucky Barnes | One Shot | Finally

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Spy!Reader

Plot: Bucky and you have a hard time staying away from each other. And though you try to push him away, every time he finds you again, the universe finds a new way to pull you apart.

Warnings: 18+. Smut, fluff and angst.

Words: 9,1OO

A/N: Recently I’ve been trying to understand what it is people want to read of my works and I have no idea, so here is my brain in scrambled pieces. I'm so sorry it’s so long, I swear it's worth it!

Romania.

It isn’t often you agree to such an extensive trip to meet up with one of your clients, but apparently this particular one can’t be seen in the more supervised countries. Besides, you’ve never been to Bucharest before, so you’re quite enjoying your drink at the small picturesque café.

You’ve done your research and know damn well who you’re meeting up with. A small part of you is screaming at you not to agree to do business with him or back out now, but your curiosity overrules any common sense. Last you heard, Hydra had lost their favourite asset and you can confidently say you were relieved to hear it. It had been a few too many times that specific organisation had made your job more difficult than it had to be.

A many number of things could have happened to the Winter Soldier. He could’ve been killed, corrupted by another organisation, fled to live as a hermit– You really want to know. It’s the spy in you that enjoys knowing the ins and outs of the criminal world. He’d tried not to mention who he is, but you had a few offers on the table, he needed some leverage to get you to agree to meet him. Safe to say, you were surprised he’d told you he was the Winter Soldier. Big chance you will now be the only person to know about the asset’s current whereabouts. That is, if you live to tell it of course…

Every hair in your neck stands up straight, despite the comfortable weather and the easy going crowd roaming the street. The sudden change in atmosphere has your spy senses stand on alert. Your spine stiffens and you casually look around, slightly discouraged at the way your body has never responded to anything in this particular manner.

You cross your legs and turn to look behind you, scanning every face in the crowd. When you turn back, the seat next to yours is taken, only a rickety metal table separating you from the large man sat in the other chair. Your breath halts in your throat and you look him up and down, instantly recognising the buff man as the Winter Soldier. How? You’re not sure, you’d never really seen a picture.

You check his hands. Gloves. With this weather? To cover up. You check his build and take a particularly long time to do so, because God, this man is broad. He’s all sturdy flesh and muscle, firm and casual. His thighs look like tree trunks and you know the man is fast, despite his build. You force the deliberate sweep of your eyes over his body to appear more nonchalant and confident than you feel.

Then your eyes reach his face and the breath gets knocked out of you. There is nothing in that face that hints towards a stone cold killer. Dark blue, deep set eyes, freckles pattered over his nose and cheeks, lips bitten raw from contemplation and an expression on his face that almost looks like… Nerves?

“Hello,” you start carefully, unable to keep your surprise from your tone, but sounding relatively cool to your own relief.

“Hi,” he says and the tone of his voice is deep, but rough, like he hasn’t spoken in ages. You think that maybe he hasn’t.

“Should I refer to you as the Winter Soldier?” you ask, composing your cool nature entirely now. “Or would you say that is a bit on the nose?”

He huffs a laugh and you smile, feeling the overwhelming urge to make him do that again. “James will do, thanks.”

“Alright James,” you say, taking your time to let your mouth get acquainted with his name, “what is it you need my services for?”

“I hear you’re a spy,” he starts and searches your face. “A good one– the best one.”

“Well now, I’d hate to disappoint,” you purr. “What do you need?”

“It’s not so much a document or one piece of information,” he mumbles and his face hardens as he collects himself. You sit upright and frown as you study him. “I need you as a partner for an assignment.”

You instantly shake your head, “Absolutely not. I’m not working for Hydra, that organisation is–”

“Not Hydra,” he quickly cuts in. “Just me. It’s a personal assignment.”

You wait for him to continue, not appreciating his vague communication if he wants to become partners on whatever this is.

He sighs, “I– I have a lot of… gaps. Things I don’t remember, things I can’t quite place. Years of information. The things I did for Hydra– I wasn’t there for most of it. Neither were a lot of people. So I need someone with access to some dark shit to help me figure it out.”

Chewing your lip, you process the information he gives you and empathy clenches your heart together. James gives you the time you need to put the pieces together. You’d heard of Hydra’s experiments with brainwashing and had already sort of assumed some of their soldiers had only worked for them because of that reason, had stayed far away from the organisation’s shit to steer clear from that danger.

But it’s so different to see it in real life, or what is left of it, you suppose. Many things aren’t quite clear to you just yet. However, you slowly start nodding your head. Your brain starts running a million miles an hour, all the gears turning to form a plan, the way you always do before you agree to a job.

“Can you pay me for the service?” you ask, already wondering to yourself if you’d help the clearly hopeless and damaged man for free, and to be honest, just for kicks. The things you’d dig up from everything he’ll give you– Selfishly, you’d kill for it. Anyone would kill for it.

He gives you a tight-lipped, apologetic smile, “Not that much. But I can save up more.”

You think. Your gut tells you he won’t kill you after he gets what he wants, even though he could. And though you will always keep a close eye on him and everything he’s capable of, your gut feeling has never disappointed you.

So you sigh and shake your head. “That’s okay. I’ll do all of it for free, and you can pay me what little you have to insure that I stay quiet. Sound fair?”

His eyes narrow with a twinkle that you hadn’t expected from a man like him and he says, “Deal.”

“Alright,” you say and finish your coffee before clearing your throat. “First order of business: tell me your full name.”

He shakes his head with a faint smile, “James Buchanan Barnes.”

Oh shit.

You do know him.

Germany.

Relief seeps into your bones as you cross the threshold of your building and you slip into your routine of coming home. Tired feet drag you through your building and to your apartment, and muscle memory unlocks your door. After the week you’ve had, you are ready to turn off your brain and settle down.

You enjoy being this tired though, revel in it. Exhausting yourself with a normal person job and the way it puts your usually restless body to sleep at night is exactly what you wanted for your life.

One step into your own hallway, however, makes your daydream of a quiet night in crumble to your feet. Something is off. You can blame your trained senses for being so instantly on edge, but the apartment you just stepped into isn’t a place that has been vacated for the past nine hours. This apartment isn’t empty.

An even older routine settles into your bones this time and you creep into your home on light feet. The air is warm and the space is completely quiet. You’ve been alive long enough, seen enough, to know quiet is never good.

You don’t turn on any lights and let your eyes adjust to the dark. Ears perked and muscles at the ready to spring into action, you slowly make your way further into your home. And when you slip around the corner and look into your darkened living room, you let out a frustrated sigh at the dark figure lounging on your couch.

“How did you find me here,” you grumble and it is hardly a question.

You can feel him sit up and tune in to your presence. You couldn’t explain it if your life depended on it, but you instantly knew who it was. The dark figure in the dark apartment, waiting patiently for someone to catch him. After all, he will deny it until his dying day, but he does have an awful lot of dramatic flair for someone so stoic.

“Better question is: why are you here?” he counters and you drop your bag onto one of your dining chairs, shooting him an unimpressed glare. “Trying to stay off the radar, are you?”

“And failing, clearly,” you say before he can say it for you. “How did you find me here, James?”

Your eyes are finally fully adjusted and you see the smirk forming on his face. You haven’t seen that smirk in five years. “I have my ways,” he says and pushes off the couch, adjusting his leather jacket. “Now, what are you doing in this abandoned town?”

“It’s not abandoned,” you counter and slip off your coat, deciding to just go about your old routine and ignore his presence as much as you can. Maybe then he’ll go away.

“It’s a shit town and you know it.” He cocks his head at you, eyes tracking all of your movements.

You notice his puzzled look. He’s genuinely wondering what is left of his old ally and you can’t quite blame him. Perhaps he can easily see your lame attempt at finding a normal life for yourself. He has probably tried a thousand times himself to escape the roaring life of saving the world, has probably failed every time, too. But you’re determined to make it work – make yourself normal and live a full life.

And that is all you were to him anyway, just an ally. The entire time, you’d felt that he paid a little too much attention to you, but you supplied critical information and occasionally wiped someone off the map. A spy. Nothing more, nothing less. However, for the infamous Winter Soldier to need your alliance again, you cannot help but feel wary.

After the first time he approached you, you’d spent months together. It was an effort not to grow too close – too much effort. Because you had. It was impossible not to, helping someone literally piece their life together through intimate and awful memories. Digging through protective walls and coping mechanisms to help him rebuild some of his life again. With a lot of reluctance from both of you.

Yes, you’d grown close then. Grown close enough that you fell asleep slumped over the kitchen counter in his awful Romanian apartment, your face sticking to the countless research papers. You’d woken up hours later on his poorly constructed bed on the floor with a blanket thrown over your frame. Close enough that you’d eventually asked him to assist you on your missions. Ones that required a different skillset than your own. Close enough that you cooked for each other, sometimes shared clothes, roasted one another for the mental health issues that lead you both to your current occupations.

After a while, you couldn’t describe your relation to Barnes in any other way than a partnership. Partners. Who had kissed once. Maybe twice. After some bad Vodka.

You sigh and turn to him, “Why are you here, James?”

“I need to lay low for a while.” A wider smirk, his eyes narrowing at you. “I remembered I know someone who is very good at that.”

“Careful,” you warn and roll your eyes. “You just gave me a compliment.”

His smirk turns to a smile and he shrugs off his own jacket, instantly making himself at home in your apartment. A strange thing when it comes to Bucky, since you don’t recall that man feeling at home anywhere. Then, he did always have this incessant cocky streak around you and he is awfully good at getting on your nerves, so he probably sees the perfect opportunity to be a pain in the ass.

“If you so much as sneeze on anything, I swear–”

“Yeah, yeah,” he cuts in, his tone unimpressed. “You’ll skin me alive. You’re always so weird about your stuff.”

You give him a tiny proud smile and decide to make yourself something quick to eat, only to feel him peer at you from the edge of your kitchen. He’s met with a confused frown before you raise your brows at him to make him spit it out.

“What’s the catch?” he asks warily.

You smile and look down at the sandwich you’re making. “Nothing. Just fix your shit and get out of my hair as quickly as possible.”

He winces slightly and you turn to him fully now, slowly taking a bite.

“What.”

Bucky sucks in a short breath and gives you an apologetic look before he speaks, “It might be a while…”

Your brows drop, “What did you do?”

“Nothing, I–”

“Bucky.” You cut him another look, one shaped by many, many instances of working together. “What. Did. You. Do.”

“It’s not important. I’ll make it quick, I promise.”

You open your mouth to continue arguing with him, but decide against it, already done with his shit. Yes, he is doing better and supposedly now qualifies as a good person. But you know the man before you and the soldier cannot stop himself from lying about pretty much everything. He has damaged tendencies. Give him an inch and he will take a mile, show him a weakness and he will exploit it. You genuinely think he doesn’t know how to be different, how to not abuse those effortless skills he trained all those years working for Hydra and surviving it.

“It’s my weekend off,” you tell him instead. “If you get between me and my plans, I will change the locks.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You think I can’t get through a simple lock?”

Another glare is his answer and he raises his hands in surrender. You walk around him and toe off your own shoes, grabbing everything to take a shower as you shove the rest of your sandwich in your mouth. Bucky slowly strolls through your place and examines everything that belongs to you.

“Can you not pretend like you haven’t completely scanned the place already before I got home?” you ask him as you make way for the bathroom.

“It can’t hurt to have a second look,” he mumbles, but you have already closed the door and move take the shower you’ve been looking forward to the entire day.

You should probably work harder to get him out, should probably make an escape plan and move somewhere else. But you know arguing with him is futile and the best approach with him is to patiently wait for him to move on. Bucky doesn’t get attached and doesn’t nest, so he’ll be gone soon enough.

As the scalding water trickles down your scalp and spine, you realise how much more alert you should have been when you noticed someone was in your home. Especially with all of those loose ends and enemies you have scattered across this planet (and others). Yet, somehow you think your body knew it was Bucky waiting for you. After all, it isn’t the first time he’s pulled this shit, waiting up for you. Usually because you kept something from him, he found out and would start ambushing you to fess up.

And even though technically, you haven’t exactly kept anything from him this time, you can’t ignore the dreadful feeling that explaining your current situation will be the hardest thing to ever speak up about. How pathetic, to try and live a normal life when you’re ‘extraordinary’. Ugh, you hate that word. You’re trained well and you refuse to be anything but good at what you put your mind at.

Now, Bucky. He is extraordinary. He has potential to make a difference. You have always felt that. Hated working with him because of that. Not because of him – he never made you feel less than him at all. But–

The water turns cold and you groan audibly, time having slipped away from you as you got lost in thought. Stepping out and drying yourself off, you get ready to walk out of the bathroom. You’re met with Bucky sitting on your couch, reading one of your books.

“Let me guess, warm water’s gone?” he asks, not looking up from the book.

You walk to your bedroom and shrug, “Cold showers are good for you, I heard.”

“I suppose I’ll take the couch then?” he asks, finally looking up from the book.

You turn back and peek through your doorway at him. “You can take the floor if that’s more comfortable for you.”

“We’ve shared a bed before.”

“Not by choice.”

He smirks, “You liked it.”

“You snore.”

“Sleep tight, sweetheart.” He grins at you.

You make to get to bed when you pause and turn back to him once more with a slight frown. “Why are you so cheerful? Aren’t there people after you?”

“Well,” he says, casual as always, “these may very well be my last days, so I might as well be in a good mood.”

You find yourself swallowing hard and desperately search his face for any intel on how true his statement is, without giving away that you might just care a little bit about his well-being. But his grin stays firm in place and he raises his brows in wait for you to call it a night.

Without another word, you close the door between you and crawl into your comfortable bed. And you wonder why it is that you can’t quite get comfortable this time.

…

A powerful jolt rips through your body as you lift out of layers of sleep. You’re too tired for whatever made you wake up so suddenly. It’s too goddamn late for this shit.

But as you gain more and more of your consciousness, your senses start perking up and you realise you might very well be in danger. The gentle and calm voice calling your name with a warm stroke of a hand down your arm, confirms that for you. That specific type of calm in Bucky’s voice sends your body into overdrive.

“We’ve got to go, sweetheart,” he murmurs and is already throwing clothes onto your bed. “Now.”

You sit up and rub your eyes and it dawns on you after a week of Bucky staying at your place. This man wasn’t going to leave you until he got chased out of your apartment. And that day has come.

“Bucky,” you start with a hoarse voice as you climb out of your warm bed and quickly throw on the clothes he picked for you, “who the fuck is after you?”

He takes his time to answer, pulling two fully packed backpacks from the corner of your room that you surprisingly didn’t know he hid there. Oh, this man is going to get an ear full about this bullshit.

“Some weird underground cartel that deals in tech or something,” he grumbles and throws you a pack. You are nearly too slow to catch it before you sling it onto your back. You gape at him after his answer and his face stays solemn as he pushes a hand gun into your hands. “Let’s go.”

“Bucky.”

He stops and turns to you fully. “It’s bad, okay? I’ll tell you later.”

“No. Tell me now.”

He groans out your name, peeking outside while he impatiently chews on his lip. “Don’t do this right now. You can be pissed at me later!”

“I will be pissed at you now,” you seethe, “and later. How about that?!”

He sighs and then grabs your arm, giving you a boyish grin before shooting two bullets through your window, breaking the glass, slinging an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him and jumping out of the fucking window with you clinging to him. It’s only when you fly about five stories down, that you realise the two of you are attached to a bungee rope that eases your descent. His feet touch the ground first, yours following. He cuts the rope and grabs your hand before he starts running towards the parking lot beneath your building.

“Bucky, you piece of shit!” you yell at him as you run, hearing the faint sound of gun fire behind you over the sound of your ragged breathing.

“I’ll make it up to you!” he simply yells back.

You can hear the smile in his voice. And the worst thing? You feel yourself smiling as well when you realise how easily you’ve slipped back into being his partner in crime.

…

Bucky checks one more time, his gleaming metal hand pulling the sheer curtain aside to peer out onto the dark streets. You hear some shouting coming from outside and still feel your heart pounding, even when you know you have definitely outrun those people coming after you. You hate how out of practice you are. And how much you missed the adrenaline of being on the run with Bucky.

He turns back to you and finds you with your arms crossed, glaring at him. Oh, you know the perfect way to let out this adrenaline. There might be actual steam coming out of your ears.

Bucky cringes and slowly strolls over, already reaching out his hands to use his irresistible charm on you. Like the time he dropped the cake you made one afternoon and tried to make it up to you. Or that time he left some very important documents in one of the buildings he set on fire. Or the time he accidentally deleted your recordings off the TV when you had been looking forward to watching the next episode for two weeks.

However, your burning eyes stop him dead in his tracks and he opens his mouth to say something, then decides against it and closes his mouth again. A second later, he tries again, “Okay. Give it to me.”

You give him a satisfied, albeit sadistic smile, at his willingness to take your scolding and then, you start yelling. You have no idea what words specifically are rolling off your tongue, but your speech starts somewhere during that first meeting in Bucharest, drifts to your entire time together as partners, how you drifted apart, only for him to show up whenever he pleased, and you continue to how he stood at your door a little over a week ago, to him terrorising your happy little life in Germany… To now.

Your voice rises with every instance you tell him about, fire burning in your core and hands flailing to give your story that much more power (even though you couldn’t stop your conviction if you tried). As the grin on his face grows through your rambling, a metal hand pressing to his lips to stop it from showing too much, you burn even brighter with fury.

Then you stop, breathing heavily. You give him a withering look to get him to start speaking up, because let’s be honest, all the two of you really needed was only just a look.

His shoulders slowly stop shaking and he drops his hand, eyes sparkling like a glass of Prosecco in the light. Devious asshole. “I just– I haven’t seen you this alive in a while. It looks fantastic on you.”

You gape at him like a fish and you wonder if the warmth in your face still belongs to your anger. Though you fear it belongs to quite the opposite. Either way, this man certainly knows how to make you passionate. And you realise he knows what you have been trying to do with your fake little life here in Germany.

“I don’t think you–”

“I’m sorry,” he says and steps forward, his large hands cupping your face as he looks down at you with earnest eyes. “I’m sorry for making your life so goddamn miserable. So tell me how to make it up to you.”

And for all the world, you can tell he means it. Can tell that he will do anything to make it up to you. You can almost feel the squeeze of pain in your own heart when you see the disappointment in his eyes after he realises you didn’t enjoy this as much as he had.

But the worst part is, is that you did. You’ve never felt more alive than with him. Never felt more like you. You wouldn’t necessarily call him an adventurer, maybe he is just a magnet for trouble. But whenever you’re with Bucky, you’ll drop anything for him and you’ll burn like an inferno doing so. He makes you into the best version of yourself and he makes you love the parts about yourself that you have been conditioned to feel guilty about.

You sigh, “I don’t know. Never mind.”

He doesn’t let go though and searches your eyes, his own narrowing in suspicion. “I’m going to make it up to you, you know.”

You cross your arms and give him an unimpressed look. “Yeah? How?”

He smirks and your knees weaken. “I could kiss it better.”

“Shameless flirt,” you huff and roll your eyes as an excuse to break his intense stare on you.

“You’re just too proud to admit that my kisses would make you forgive me,” he prods and your eyes snap back to his. He’s right, that is pride surging in your chest to lunge at him.

“You’ve grown too cocky for your own good,” you sneer at him.

“You like it.”

“I assure you, I don’t.”

“Liar.”

“Manipulator.”

He feigns hurt, “Ouch.”

You huff a laugh with a roll of your eyes, “Such a fragile ego.”

He smirks again and you swallow as you fight to look at his lips. So close to your own. “Now you have to kiss me for forgiveness.”

You can’t help but truly laugh this time, your face still safely tucked in his palms and his brows raise with intrigue at the sound of your laughter.

You tell him, “You are so full of shit.”

His smile fades, his eyes large with earnest and all of a sudden, it’s the man standing before you that sat next to you in that Romanian café. Stripped down, bare, rough, and perhaps a bit vulnerable.

“Let me kiss you,” he says in merely a whisper now.

You fight for your life not to falter to that genuine request and the way he said it. “It won’t make me forgive you,” you say softly, but barely hear your own voice over the increased pounding of your heart in your throat.

“I don’t care,” he murmurs. “Just want to kiss you.”

He doesn’t wait for your permission either, because quite frankly, you most likely gave him a look of permission instantly at that request. His soft lips slot over yours and you could’ve never predicted the depraved moan that resounded in the back of your throat as your mouths meet. Your hands instantly slip into his hair as Bucky’s hands slide around your waist to pull you closer, fingers digging into your flesh possessively.

The kiss deepens when his tongue meets yours and he lets out a groan of his own, a sound so addicting that you instinctively tug on his hair to hear it again. The laugh against your lips is rough as he hauls you closer and changes the kiss. Something more desperate and impatient. Something hot and sweaty and slightly messy. You might be walking as Bucky finds something to press you up against or lay you down on, and you almost squawk in surprise as you fall back onto the double, motel bed.

Though before you can say anything else, Bucky is on you again, his mouth demanding and greedy against yours. His hands feel and grab and squeeze every inch of you and you grind your hips upward for his weight. You want his heaviness between your hips and on your stomach and against your chest.

Growing impatient, convinced that Bucky’s brain might no longer be working, you lock your ankles around his hips and pull him down between your legs, sighing a groan of relief at the feeling of him tucked against you so warmly.

“God dammit,” he grunts and gives one luxurious roll of his hips against yours, making you whine as your pulse hammers down in your core.

His mouth grazes against your neck now and you can hardly breathe, panting as if you’ve run a marathon. The pressure between your hips leaves as he moves further down and you buck your hips at the ache he leaves.

“Bucky,” you whimper and look down, heart slamming in your throat at the sight of him. He messily yet gently makes his way down your body. Hands roughly pushing up your shirt as his lips find the plane of your stomach, kissing from your bra, down to your hips that you can’t seem to keep still.

Your body feels so heavy, yet so light without him on top of you and you can’t remember any moment before this kiss. Before five minutes ago. Everything is solidified. Your entire history with him. And Bucky presses a kiss just below your navel that confirms that feeling, his hands peeling off your jeans. That is until he speaks.

“Listen to me,” he orders and you freeze at the sound of him. He’s only sounded like that during missions where either of you might die. So serious and detrimental. “Don’t ever try to build a life without me again.”

“Bucky–”

“No,” he snaps and you close your mouth. “Don’t ever pretend like we don’t exist. Like you and I aren’t supposed to do this shit together, like you are better off without me, like I am better off without you. That’s bullshit.” You give him a questioning look. Where is this coming from? “I’m going to kiss you and you are going to forgive me. And then I am going to kiss you some more.”

He waits then. For you to answer, to process what it is he is saying exactly. It’s a lot of words with a lot of meaning, yet you’re not sure if this is the declaration you didn’t know you were waiting for.

So you speak from your gut and let out a breath, “Finally.”

Bucky smiles at that and surges upward, clearly happy with that intuitive answer. His lips claim yours once again and then you feel his fingers inching up your thigh.

You whine softly against his lips and you feel him smile as his fingers reach your drenched core. Two fingers slip through your folds to explore your wetness and Bucky drops his head into the crook of you neck.

“Finally indeed,” he breathes and slips his middle finger into you, making you whimper and buck your hips.

The stretch against your swollen walls sends an ache through your abdomen that cries out for more. You cannot explain the desperation to have him, to have every empty pit of you filled with his essence. His finger curls up and you throw your head back, making Bucky raise his own head to look at you.

“There?”

You nod frantically and Bucky pushes in another finger, making you tense up around him. He curls that one too and you don’t recognise the sound spilling from your lips. You’re already so fucking full.

As Bucky teasingly darts his thumb over your swollen clit, he traces his tongue over your mouth and you gasp for air at the sensation.

“Bucky, fuck!” you cry and he pushes his mouth to yours in a claiming kiss, his fingers moving faster as his thumb rotates over your clit. You can barely kiss him back, overtaken by pleasure as he pumps his fingers over and over until you can hear your wetness surround his sinful fingers.

It is by far the hottest thing you have ever experienced. So much time has passed and now this beast of a man who tries everything to make you blush with his flirty persona, is bent over you with his fingers peeling your pleasure to the surface like his own fucking release depends on it.

His chest is heaving from watching you, brows pulled together, eyes dark as they rake over you hungrily, muscles flexing as his hand disappears between your legs.

His leg slips beneath your knee and pulls your leg up to finger you in a different angle and your nails bury themselves in the muscles of Bucky’s neck, abdomen flexing at the wave of pleasure that courses through you. “More. Oh my God, more!”

“I know, I can feel it,” he grunts and slows his fingers. “But I’ve waited ages for this. I refuse to let it be over so soon.”

Your brain is nothing but cinders and you shake your head violently, “No! No, please. You can have everything, just let me come. Please.”

Bucky pecks your lips. Once. Twice.

“You want to come all over my hand, pretty girl?” he murmurs in your ear and you can only gasp at the press of his fingers against your spot. “Can I lick you up after?”

You clench around him like a vice, his low voice making you drip onto his palm, his words incinerating what is left of your pride. You can only nod, so you do. And his hand starts moving again. Faster, deeper, more thorough. You keep nodding, your moans raising, your pleasure retreating like a snake ready to strike. Oh God, oh God, oh God–

“Come.”

Your hips fly to the ceiling when you come, thighs trembling and closing around his hand. Bucky keeps moving and thrusting and curling until he has wrung all of your pleasure from your body and you feel like you’re made of jelly. Your voice is hoarse from yelling your release and the sheets below are drenched with your desire.

Soft kisses are pressed to your face and that is how you return from whatever plane of existence you went to. His gentle laugh makes you shiver and you open your eyes to find him licking his fingers like there is caramel dripping from them. You swallow hard and zero in on that action, making his eyes sparkle.

But something changes when you reach up to stroke his hair and his eyes flutter. Your eyes rove over his face in admiration and your entire soul sighs at the sight of him. Bucky looks down at you curiously and cocks his head.

“What is it?” he asks and you chew your lip, trying to find the words.

“You and me, huh?” you murmur with something like wonder in your voice. Bucky can only nod. You continue, “Who would’ve thought…”

Bucky leans down and kisses you. Soft, slow, deep. It makes your body sing. And he shuffles back to make himself at home between your legs. Though as he does that, he remains his focus on kissing you. Deeper, more, desperate. Depraved. He moans and breathes and you swear you hear him whimper, his hips grinding over your oversensitive cunt as he gets lost in kissing you.

Raking your nails over his scalp, you once again wrap your legs around his hips and pull him down. And if Bucky hadn’t snapped his leash just yet, this does it. He turns wild and passionate and heavy. One hand of his and one hand of your own both reach down, messily working together to get rid of his jeans. He shimmies out of them, not bothering to get rid of them entirely, but bothering to at least take off his shirt.

Your fingers drag down his pecks and abdomen, trying to memorise every curve and edge with what little brain capacity you have left. You feel like no more than a flame, no more than passion and want and need. And when Bucky slides his bare cock through your folds to slicken himself, you shudder so violently, your breath shudders with it.

“Woman, you are going to kill me,” he breathes and nips at your lips.

You almost growl with impatience, “Then fuck me and die already.”

He laughs, bold and happy, before thrusting into you in a long stroke. Home. Oh fuck, he’s home. Both of you freeze, taking in the moment of being fused together before he slowly pulls out and out and out. And sliding back in with an agonizing thrust.

Something in you clicks. Something so vital, so necessary. And Bucky feels it too.

“Yes,” he groans and presses another kiss to your lips, like he can’t get enough. “This is it.”

You nod and close your eyes in pleasure. In relief. You shudder with emotion and clamp onto him. Bucky keeps pressing kisses to your skin. Your neck, your lips, your cheek, temple, forehead.

“This is it,” you choke out and Bucky smiles. “You’re it.”

Bucky breathes a sigh, as if he’s been waiting ages for you to admit it. “Finally.”

Infinity War.

Biting your lip and bouncing your leg, you try to let the rumble of the swift jet calm your nerves. Your eyes search the cabin and go over the confusing screens for the thousandth time.

“Nervous?” Natasha’s sensual voice sounds next to you and you force a smile.

“Why would I be nervous?” you ask and smirk at her. “We’re only stepping into a war with the probability of us winning being like…” Zero? Less than zero? You sigh, “I don’t want to think about that.”

She bites back her own smirk and raises her eyebrows. “Wasn’t talking about the war. Are you nervous about seeing him?”

Bucky.

You glare at her after quickly glancing around to see if anyone heard her, making Natasha try even harder to hold back a smile.

Yes, you were nervous to see him. So much had happened. So many aspects of your spy work had suddenly intermingled and now you are fighting along with the Avengers. Even after you were sure they had torn themselves apart over Bucky. Being caught in the middle of that had put you and Bucky’s relationship –if you could even call it that– so far to the back of both your minds, you barely had time to mention it to anyone until Steve shipped him off to Wakanda to get some real help.

You and Bucky were over before it even started and you think that maybe it’s for the better. Neither you nor Bucky are any good at that relationship shit anyway. It showed over and over.

Luckily enough, you’d found plenty of distraction being on the run with Sam, Natasha and Steve. No Bucky in sight, but knowing he was safe and taken care of. Private mission after mission with other people you cared about, people who didn’t know about you and Bucky, one of them eager to forget about Bucky himself.

You barely gave it any thought.

Except you thought of Bucky every day.

And now you get to see him again. However, if any time would make you reconsider any commitment at all, it would be now.

“No,” you answer and then turn serious. “I mean, I was. But now I’m just preparing myself for either grief, or death.”

“Are those our only options?” she asks with a displeased frown. “Why not prepare for victory or somethin’?”

Giving her a long and hard stare, you sigh deeply. “Yeah. You’re right. If I die, I might as well die hopeful.”

“That’s my girl,” she grins and you bump her shoulder with yours, finding your own smile breaking through.

That’s when Steve gives Sam the coordinates to fly through a barrier and show you the hidden – and beautiful – kingdom of Wakanda. So you ignore every jittery feeling you have in your stomach at possibly seeing Barnes again, and you channel it all into hope.

…

Natasha strokes her hand over your shoulder as you walk up to king T’Challa, who’s flanked by his closest guard and a palace that screams to get you on your knees to worship. You barely hear the conversation the king has with Steve, partly because you’re still in awe of the beautiful place around you.

Now this, this is a refuge.

“How are we lookin’?” Natasha asks from next to you and that’s when you start to pay attention. You’d need a hell of a lot of man-power to win this.

“You will have my Kings Guard,” T’Challa starts, “the Border Tribe, the Dora Milaje, and…”

“A semi-stable hundred-year-old man,” finishes a voice that makes your entire system dysregulate. Oh God, it’s been so long since you’ve heard the warm timber of that voice.

You notice your hands have started shaking and clutch them behind your back, squeezing courage out of them to face your past, as Bucky Barnes walks up to hug Captain America.

“How’ve you been, Buck?” Steve asks and Bucky answers with a heart-stopping smile.

“Uh, not bad,” he answers, “for the end of the world.”

They share another warm look before Steve turns to everyone behind him and then to the king, “Should we prepare?”

A few minutes later, you’re following the king inside with all of his closest guards and your own team, which now includes Bucky. Focusing your eyes on everything around you, you barely notice the large hand slipping around your elbow and pulling you into another hallway.

You know better than to scream for help and you use the momentum to swing the person around and pin them to the nearest wall with a knife to their throat. But the air rushes from you when you stand face to face with Bucky.

“There she is,” he grins and slowly raises his hands in surrender.

You back away slowly and look at him like a gaping fish, your insides pounding and swirling and thrashing as your body heats with adrenaline. It’s him, it’s him, it’s him.

“New arm?” you ask him, your voice coming out surprisingly steady, and he glances at the appendage, flexing his hand between your faces.

“Yeah, you like it?” he asks and he almost sounds like a young boy, genuinely interested in what you think of it, of him.

And you calm. Everything inside of you settles and the heat turns to warmth. Your insides seem to melt with relief and you throw your arms around his neck, almost tipping over until Bucky’s arms automatically slide around your waist to pull your pliant body tightly against his. He’s so big and strong and warm.

“I’ll take that as a yes?” he laughs softly and one hand starts to stroke your hair gently as you huff out a sob into his neck. “Oh, sweet girl. You’ve never been sad to see me before.”

You finally pull back and cup his face as he lets you survey him closely, him grinning widely at the worry in your every feature. You breathe, “You’re good. You’re safe.”

He nods and takes your hands, pressing a kiss to your palm. “So are you,” he whispers and you nod.

“Not for long,” you add, deflated.

He gives you a sad smile. “Now, who would we be if we didn’t go down fighting, hm?”

You smile slightly at that. “Back on the same team.”

He presses a gentle kiss to your lips and the planet stops turning.

“Finally.”

The Blip.

Another knock sounds and you roll your eyes, throwing on a quick cardigan as you hop over to your door. Unusual, for your quiet, lonely evenings to get interrupted like this. You’re ready to cash in what you can only assume is some complaining neighbour or your awful land lord when you open the door and are met with a familiar face that makes your heart squeeze together.

“Steve,” you breathe.

“Hey.”

You step aside to let him in and take a deep breath.

“Want something to drink?” you ask as you close the door behind him and let him venture into your home. Or, whatever you have tried to turn into your home. It had never been more than the latest home trends and some empty picture frames.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I found you?” he asks and you get a feeling of déjà vu.

But you shake your head with a forced smile, “I left a trace for Natasha to track for emergencies. I know how you found me.” You give him a pointed look and Steve actually has the decency to look slightly apologetic.

That look tells you enough about how much of an emergency this is and you wonder what prompted Natasha to decipher your code and hand your location to the Captain. Maybe he was the one breaking and could use a familiar face. Maybe something turned him awfully worried about you. Maybe-

No.

“Aren’t you mad that Natasha told me?” he asks unsurely and you give him a tight-lipped smile, taking a seat in one of your dining table chairs and ushering for him to do so as well.

“Would you believe me if I said that it’s actually quite nice to see a familiar face after five pretty lonely years?” you refute and he gives you a warm smile.

“It’s good to see you, too, Kid.”

A comfortable silence settles between you two and you fidget with your hands, staring at them intently before raising your face back to Steve. “Why are you here, Cap?”

He lets out a long sigh. “Ever since the Blip,” he starts and you can feel him debating whether to continue, “I never– I didn’t get to tell you how sorry I am about Bucky.”

You freeze and slowly turn your gaze to him. “Okay. Now I am pissed at her.”

“Natasha didn’t tell me,” he quickly assures and you raise a brow at him. “He did.”

You fall quiet at that. “Bucky told you about…”

“What,” he laughs. “Didn’t think you two were serious enough for him to tell his best friend about it?”

You reply with a humourless laugh of your own. “He um– He wasn’t a very committing guy. And I don’t blame him. Why commit to something if you might lose everything all over again?”

The pity in Steve’s gaze feels burning to your skin. “Well, if you’re that scared of losing something, it might be worth committing to,” he says and you find yourself agreeing with the wise bastard.

“Well, I committed and look where I am now,” you huff. “Turns out, he was right all along.”

“Kid–”

“Why are you here, Cap?” you try again, all of a sudden too eager to get rid of him.

It takes a while for him to answer and dread settles low in your belly. When he starts talking, you’ve already started shaking your head. “We have found a way to bring them all back.”

You still. And you stay like that. Seconds. Minutes. Maybe another five years have passed.

“Did you hear what I said?” he tries.

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true. We figured out a way. Time travel.”

You bark a laugh and give him a pointed glare. However, your vision is already slightly impaired by the tears pooling at your waterline. “Don’t,” you stop him before he continues elaborating. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve thought about this in the past five years? That you, or Nat, or even Tony fucking Stark himself would stand at my door and tell me we figured it out? About a million times, Cap. And the more normal this delusional scenario became in my head, the more absurd it seemed to be. And now, you expect me to just believe that nearly five years on the dot, you have figured out a way to return everything to normal?!”

Steve can take it, the sudden outburst of your disbelief. He has definitely encountered a whole lot more scepticism in his life. But his heart breaks a little for you. Bucky had tried to be so casual when he finally told Steve about you, but Steve had caught the sparkle in those hundred-year-old eyes and he couldn’t describe the relief of Bucky having found someone, let alone you.

But now, to see you so far removed from Bucky – from hope. He hates it.

“I waited,” he almost whispers. “Until I was completely sure. We need you for this.”

You blink away your tears and one rolls down your cheek. Steve quickly reaches to catch it and cups your face. A touch normally so very unwelcome, but now you cannot help but bury your face in his palm.

“You’re sure?” you ask, voice breaking.

Steve pulls you in and up to his chest, engulfing you in a tight hug. “Time to bring our best friend back, Kid.”

Time Travel.

You cannot help but smile when you see the handsome brainiac hunched over a laptop near some high-tech stage that you can’t seem to look at too long without talking yourself out of this.

“Hey, Tony,” you say quietly as you walk up and his brown eyes light up when he hears your voice. Stepping away from the screen, he opens his arms wide and pulls you into a tight hug. Another comfortable embrace that you can only breathe in and cherish.

“My favourite spy,” he murmurs and pulls back.

“How are you doing?” you ask him.

He gives you a knowing look. “Oh, you know. Good. Until he showed up,” he sneers with a pointed look at Steve, who simply rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.

“Yeah,” you sigh, “he has a way of interrupting peace.”

Tony snorts. “Now that, is what I call a paradox.”

You laugh and pat his shoulder, “Pepper and Morgan?”

“They’re wonderful.” He grins, but you can see the fear shining in his eyes and you give his shoulder a firm squeeze.

“Thank you for doing this, Tony.”

He smirks in answer. “I swear, if you and Barnes don’t openly kiss after all I am about to sacrifice, I will find the stones and undo both of your existences.”

You shoot a thunderous glare to Steve, and to Natasha who is walking up behind the Captain. But Tony stops you before you can scold them on their horrible secret-keeping skills, “Pepper told me.”

You grit your teeth.

The Avengers are a bunch of gossips.

The Endgame.

You stumble backward, your sprained ankle and broken ribs somehow only a faint ache over the sight before you. You almost trip over debris, or a body, or just air and you keep blinking to see better or to make it all go away, you don’t know.

He did it. Tony did it. You’re sure you can still feel the snap of his fingers vibrate through your spine. And there he is. Slumped against more debris, half of his face cracked like burnt coal, his suit barely reflecting its original colours. The blue light at the centre of his chest is fading, shuttering and then… it goes dark. With Pepper’s hand over it.

Your own hand barely muffles the sob trying to break through and you stumble over and over again as you back away from that horrible, awful reality. He did it. But at what cost?

You turn around and start jogging. How? You’re not sure. Your body is in no state to hurry. But it’s incomplete. You were barely strong or extraordinary enough to be of any help during the fight, but you tried your best. Helping people in the field, some war medic patching up gushing wounds. You’d cashed some punches and kicks yourself. Dealt them, too.

It was all because you needed to be there. Because you needed to stay alive. Needed to stick around to see him again. And now… Now… You barely survived this, barely made it through. And Tony died. Tony Stark. The chance of him still being out there-

You start running faster. Hobbling and grunting from the pain.

“Bucky,” you voice is raw and frantic, it’s barely a sound as you cry out for him. “Bucky! Bucky!”

Head swinging from side to side, you hope the soldier reveals himself from behind one of the plumes of smoke. Further and further away, you flee from the horrifying scene of whatever is left after Thanos. You need to find him, but you can’t identify anything on this war ground.

If he’s dead. If Bucky is dead–

Your head whips around so fast, your neck might crack, when you’re sure you hear your name. Everything about you goes quiet and you hold your breath like it will make any difference. Slowly, you walk in the direction where you assume the sound came from, but you almost cringe at the idea that you might just be going insane. After all those explosions, your hearing can’t possibly be this sharp.

Though perhaps intuition is at play here, because you’ve always been able to feel him. Always knew it when it was him waiting up for you, or looking for you, or needing you.

“Bucky,” you croak again.

“Here…” It’s so quiet. But you hear it over everything else and follow the echo of the sound.

“Bucky,” you rasp out. “I’m coming!”

And there he is. On hands and knees, struggling to get up. You can only describe your approach as a dive, as you clash onto your wobbly knees and wrap your arms around him. His body instantly stops struggling and falls into your rib cage.

He’s here. He’s here. He’s here.

“Yeah,” he groans. “’M right here.”

You had no idea you were sobbing it to him, but you don’t care as your hands grapple for a better hold of him. He does the same until both of you are kneeling in front of each other, cupping each others’ faces to check for injuries.

“You look pretty all roughed up,” he mutters and you smile through your tears.

“You look awful,” you reply and he chuckles before pulling you into his chest. “But you’re home.”

He shudders and you might actually hear him let out a sob of his own as he tightens his grip on you.

“Finally.”

[strangesickness]

THIS IS A PRO COMICS/ROCKSTEADY/ETC. BATJOKES POST PLS DONT GET IT CONFUSED FROM THE MEME. I LOVE THEM <3

batman twt when they find out i'm reading batman comics where batman and joker are trying to kill each other and i'm kicking my feet and giggling

[leviismybby]

Did Isayama ever state that Levi stopped eating after Erwin's death and that the cloak Levi wears in season 4 is Erwins?

[oceanwithouthermoon]

people who dislike saiki kusuo i need to pick and prod at ur brain. whats going on in there?

[reach-for-the-horizon]

Guys what happened to little Ajax I am losing my mind I need to know

[bathroomflooder]

I wish all narcissistic a very happy go kill yourself

aww, that's so sweet of you!! it honestly makes me so happy that you took the time out of your day to send me this message, you must really care about me :) one tiny little thing I'm going to suggest changing in your message is to maybe stop judging a group of people for having a mental illness that they can't control? another little mistake you made is wishing this to "all narcissistic"? this was probably just a typo, but I'm just pointing it out in case you missed it :) anyways, I hope you have a great day, anon!

[twistsandturnsroundwonderland]

Some memes because how else am I supposed to handle waiting for the second half of book 6. Thank you, Rook, for being so memeable.

Love and beauty? Hm, sounds familiar but I can’t quite place it.

Hello???? HELLO???? I WOULD LIKE TO SEE VIL PLEASE

…bonjour

Oh, CAN’T I?

[frownyalfred]

me when one more person passive aggressively comments on ASOH:

[candlesoul]

i dont want to do anything but i want to do everything you know

[silentiumdelirium]

Part 1 | Part 2

***

It‘s Dustin. Of course it is. This kid has been cockblocking him since he met him. Although Dustin hadn‘t really cockedblocked him right now had he? I mean Steve didn‘t want to go any further with Eddie, the kiss was just an experiment right? And well the feeling he just had was proof to his theorey, that it doesn‘t matter who‘s gender it is, kissing is kissing. And Steve likes kissing so of course it also felt good with Eddie. He apparently also likes when someone grabs his ass which he hadn‘t know until yet. No girl has ever done that. Also if Dustins knocking hadn‘t interrupted him he would‘ve kept kissing Eddie. But that doesn‘t mean anything it just proofs that Eddie is a good kisser and his mouth is like any mouth right? Oh god why has Steve done this? He feels like he hadn‘t proofed anything to Robin but maybe she has to him?

‚Steve?‘ He lifts his head from his hand and looks up to see Dustin‘s excited face. ‚Oh my god you guys keep hanging out without me! I told you you have to invite me next time‘ Dustin screams and Steve rolls his eyes. He has been a bit clingy since the whole upside down thing happenend again which is probably fair because Eddie almost died in his arms.

‚Nightmare 3 is finally out on video so we‘re gonna make a horror movie night! And i‘m just here to invite Eddie and oh Steve can we use your house? You‘re obviously also invited!‘

‚Oh thank you what an honor to be invited to a movie night which also happens at my house. I guess I also have to provide the movies since I work at the video store?‘

‚Yes exactly thank you‘ Dustins grins ignoring Steve‘s sarcastic tone.

Eddie grins as well. ‚well thank you for inviting me kid! I would be honored to join.‘

Steve rolls his eyes and puts his hand to his hips in the typical babysitter (or mum like Max always says) way.

‚But I‘m not gonna give them to you if they‘re too dark okay? You lot already have enough stuff to fill your nightmares with we don‘t have to add more!‘

Dustin groans and says: ,Relax Steve it‘s not that dark it‘s funny and we‘re sixteen now so we are legally allowed to watch it!‘

Right Steve forgot that they are already fucking sixteen now! Soon they‘re gonna go to party, drink, smoke weed…wait maybe they already doing that? Oh my god what if Eddie and the whole hellfire club is bad influence? I mean Eddie sells drugs so what if he also solds to Dustin and the others? He had to ask Eddie as soon as they were alone again. But as long as they are doing stuff at Steve‘s house he could at least watch them not do anything too stupid.

‚Alright alright you can do your stupid horrormovie night at my house but you have to provide the snacks and everything, I will only provide the videos.‘

‚Yes!‘ Dustins screams triumphant and high fives Eddie. ‚Can you also drive me to Mike now Steve? I mean you have to drive to work anyway right?‘ Dustin asks and Steve looks at his watch. Right work he had to go now so he wouldn‘t be late. He sighs ‚Jesus alright but hurry up don‘t want to be late again!‘ Dustin is already half out the door when Steve looks to Eddie who is standing at the kitchen counter again. Right where they were kissing just minutes ago. ‚Right so I see you tomorrow?‘ Steve asks suddenly very uncomfortable with the whole sitaution. Eddie smiles nervously and avoids looking at him. ‚Sure man see ya.‘ Steve grabs his jackets and moves to the door with one final glance to Eddie who is fidgeting with his rings. Steve tries not to think about how those hands with the rings had felt on his ass and quickly leaves out the door. He definitely has to discuss what just happenend with Robin!

***

Yay managed to write a next part so now you know who‘s at the door @stevesbipanic also you‘re username fits very well here because Steve Bi panic is incoming!!!

[corvidares]

okay, so i just finished re-reading Any Way the Wind Blows and this feels so blatant as to be smacking me in the face: simon is disabled.

now, the reason why that makes itself even clearer in this book than in wayward son (where he, of course, also has the wings + tail) is because simon is once again in the world of mages - despite doing his best to leave it behind. compared to wayward son, where hes basically and literally in the wild west. where theres magical beings everywhere, where simon practically fits in because he is one.

but ill get back to that.

ive seen a lot of really interesting points about what simon's wings represent and mean, and i'm not disagreeing with those. but in a very literal sense, they are a disability.

think about it like this: the world of mages (and Normals) is not built for humanoids who have giant webbed wings and a tail. simon constantly struggles with controlling these limbs, and their size makes it ten times harder. spaces are too small, furniture and objects are broken when he spreads them, and many a shirt or jacket are ruined.

he struggles to find a good way to deal with this - spell them away? wear them out by cutting holes in things? fold them extremely painfully into his shirt? even though this last one is treated like a solution for a little while, its far from ideal. who is simon doing this for? himself, or everyone around him? yes, of course Normals cant see them. and yeah, hes expressed discomfort about baz and penny spelling them hidden. but thats not the point. even with this botch job of a way to "wear" his wings, which succeeds at hiding them from Normals, simon still states a couple times that he knows people stare at him and his seeming hunchback. i mean, thats blatant.

(he eventually, with shepard's help, realizes a good way to work around this - zippers or buckles on shirtbacks - which very much feels like an aha! disability aid moment)

im not saying disability is based in how people look at you, or it only being a societal thing. (as in, when he wasnt in the world of mages, he wasnt suddenly 'not disabled at all') disability is a huge spectrum. but those things absolutely can be a part of the disabled experience.

but all of that doesnt even get to my main point: simon has no magic anymore. and in the world of mages, thats a huge deal. magic is like living and breathing, especially for baz and penny. its not something they question or have to worry about not being able to call upon. hell, even before simon lost his magic he was disabled, just to a different extent.

before awtwb, we dont hear much about mages whose magic is weak. but they come to the forefront now - which just solidifies that solid magical ability = able bodiedness.

smith is promising a miracle cure. a cure. think of it like bullshit orgs such as aut!sm spe@ks, wanting to "cure" autism - he wants to cure people. (and hes just as full of shit) why? because weak magic is seen as a disease, a problem, even subhuman.

take daphne, baz's stepmom. her quality of life is fine, great. her weaker magic doesnt seem to put her at a disadvantage. she manages her disability well. but in comparison to the norm, to what is expected of the average mage, shes got nothing. less than nothing. she feels shame over what she cant do.

smith's case becomes even more blatant when we see, at the end of awtwb, that he wants to essentially cull weak magicians. that they're holding back society. that theyre better off as powerless as Normals - who are blatantly seen as subhuman - than as weak mages. much like how ableist rhetoric puts forward that disability is a fate worse than death.

which brings us back to simon. he insists hes a Normal, now or always has been. baz insists hes the most powerful magician to exist. both of them are wrong.

and right. and right and wrong.

simon is some third thing - not a mage, not a Normal. akin to how disability is its own minority aside from race or ethnicity he has a foot in each world, and he always has. but now he cant achieve blending into either.

this is why the increasing presence and humanization of other magical beings beside mages is so important (thank you shephard!) how mages tend to seem magical beings is very ableist. theyre subhuman, theyre not to be trusted, theyre freaks, theyre dirty, etc. except oops, how can you keep thinking that penny, when this very nice one works at a cafe and helped you translate shephard's engagement terms?

even baz and the events of wayward son play into this - yeah, some vampires are horrible people. but plenty, like baz, are just people. with a range of experiences and morals and ways of living life. (take nicodemus) (i could make a point about how simon's stalwart acceptance of baz's vampirism helps baz comes to terms with it and how this is also super disability coded, but thats another essay)

in the beginning of awtwb, he decides to go to the extreme opposite of his chosen one powered life - to live as a Normal, and the second step (after cutting himself off from baz and penny) is getting his wings removed.

except he cant do it. and even having his wings touched is horribly uncomfortable. now, this partly has to do with how much theyre sensual parts of his body - same as his tail. but its also, separately, very intimate. theyre treated very clinically, like a fascinating specimen to pore over. im not trying to give niamh shit here, just saying what i saw.

but theyre part of him. people with disabilities often deal with being stared at and poked and prodded by the medical field (if theyre not ignored or waved off. maybe both.). even every day folks feel the right to touch disabled folks, or their mobility aids.

for a lot of people, mobility aids are a part of them - its like a stranger touching your face and thinking theyre doing you a favor. when instead theyre being weird as fuck.

simon's status as previous chosen one even plays into this sort of thing - people see him more as a figurehead, for what he can and cant do (including his wings!) than a person. hes a tragedy, hes a hero. hes inspirational, hes to be pitied. sound familiar?

the end of awtwb doesnt spell out whether simon ends up deciding to keep his wings (frustratingly). but they spell out that he would absolutely would, in my opinion.

simon increasingly treats them as a natural extension of his body. think of the scene where he flies about the watford goats. how he expresses his feelings with his wings and tail. and of course, how he learns to let baz loves each and every part of him: including his dragon limbs.

baz loves him, and loves them, not in a fetishistic way, but because its simon, and he loves everything simon is. not just what he represents or can or cant do.

[hoshiina]

pairing: akatsuki hyoga x gn!reader (no prns)

summary: he originally hates you, but you're a swordsmith who helps forge his spear

warnings: hyoga is very sweet near the end

The two of you knew of each other, but you had hardly ever spoken. Most likely because Hyoga hated you. You seemed rather quiet and indecisive most of the time— the type who annoyed him most. Why were you revived out of all people? Especially when we were lacking on revival fluid? He couldn't understand, nor did he particularly want to. He couldn't care enough to, so he decided to just stay away from you.

Now, you knew a lot more about him than he knew about you. For that reason, he pissed you off a lot more than he thought he did every time. You actually knew him rather well, and you spent most of your time crafting something for him. You were a young swordsmith, honing your skills before you were all turned into stone, and you had been revived by Senkuu to forge some weapons in the earlier stages. You had forged Kohaku’s katana of course, as well as put together some sharper arrows for Ukyo. 

And this time you were carefully forging Hyoga’s kudayari spear— all while he continued to glare at you every time you crossed paths. While you truly thought of giving him a half-assed spear on multiple occasions, you took pride in the work you did so that was the last thing you wished to do. Even if he’d never find out you were the one who made it.

After very focused sessions of work, you were finally finished and almost annoyed with how well it turned out. Sure, you didn’t want to give him anything below your standards, but was there a reason to give the horribly rude man one of your best works? Definitely not.

Either way, you were proud. Terribly so. Unlike usual, some part of you wanted to give it to him yourself and show off a little, but that was not how you were trained and taught. These pieces of work were a gift you gave, not for you to show off your skill. So later that day you informed Senkuu that you had finished what he had asked for and passed him your finished piece, asking him to give it to Hyoga.

“Why don’t you give it yourself,” he said, almost like a statement rather than a question.

“No, there’s no reason to,” you said.

“Fine then, I’ll pass it on,” he said and you thanked him.

What you didn’t know was that Senkuu would subtly mention that you had forged it when he gave the work to Hyoga. When Hyoga had originally recieved the spear, he was far too shocked to process what Senkuu had said about you. To receive a new spear, let alone such a delicately made one in this stone age was not something he had dared to dream of. After using it for his training for the entirety of the day, he was ecstatic— far more than he would ever like to admit. It was only then that he had connected the dots. The name Senkuu had mentioned was your name. So this was why you were revived— for fighters like him. Oh, why didn’t you say anything when he shot you looks? Why did you continue to forge such an incredible piece for him when all he did was be rude? That all annoyed him too, but he couldn’t help but be mesmerised by the work you’re able to do.

Since then, he had to admit he started to notice you more. He noticed how you actually weren’t that quiet when you were with the right people. You were energetic and had a bright smile. You were still often indecisive, but once you decided on something, you were confident in your answer. For some reason he immediately knew this strength of yours came from some inner confidence, most likely from the skill you had. He liked that a lot. 

The next time you saw him, you wouldn’t believe your eyes or your ears, because he would thank you with the loveliest smile you had ever seen. You did not think Hyoga was one to smile, let alone have such a sweet one. And to top it off, for it to be for you? You would have never imagined. 

“It’s a beautiful work,” he said, very genuinely. He was no longer smiling as much, but he meant what he said and you could tell. He wasn’t one to compliment others when he didn’t mean it. “I’m very honored to use it.”

There was truly no greater compliment to give a swordsmith and part of you wanted to cry. Spears were not your specialty, katanas were, so his took more time and learning to forge, and you were so glad you did. 

“I’m honored you’ll be the one to use it,” you said. “Don’t worry if you wear it down or break it in your training. I’ll be sure to make an even better one.”

Then he laughed, just a little. The tiniest bit. 

“Then, I’ll have to be off to train,” he said. “Next time, could I watch you forge?”

“Of course!”

From then, you'd quite often watch him train and ask him if there was anything you could fix on his spear, and he would come watch how you carefully forged his weapon.

You loved when he'd come to watch, because it was a rare time when the two of you would be alone together. It was usually in silence, which you appreciated because it was easier to focus that way, but you found it so sweet that he'd choose to be with you in his spare time. He also loved to watch you work. It was a sight that obviously few had seen and he wanted to keep it that way. You were absolutely glowing while focused on your craft and he was going to keep you to himself.

One day he had come to watch and while he was watching, he had fallen asleep. You had been focused for a little too long and by the time you noticed you didn't know how long it had been since he fell asleep. You knew that he was training harder than ever and yet he was coming to visit you so much more often. He must've been tired.

His facial features were always rather relaxed when he was with you, but the soft expression on his face while he was asleep melted your heart and you secretly hoped no one else would see it. You wanted him to be for you alone.

So, you took your chance. You knew you shouldn't, but you couldn't help it. You quickly kissed him, very lightly, and pulled away immediately. You thought he would've never noticed, but to your horror his eyes shot open. Was it his fighter instincts to curse? You were more than ready to run. You had absolutely no excuse and you weren't ready to ruin what the two of you had going on, let alone get rejected. However there was no way you were getting away from Hyoga out of all people.

"Was that what I think it was?" Hyoga asked, and you were unable to read his tone which terrified you.

"I... don't know what you're talking about," you said, hoping he wouldn't pry and further.

"Oh, then I'll demonstrate if you don't mind," he said and you were confused for a second, but only a second. Before you knew it his lips were on yours, and for far longer than the kiss you had given a minute ago.

"Do you... mean it?" you asked. Somewhere in you, you had assumed he was a heartbreaker. You could never be too sure.

"Did you mean it?" Hyoga asked, pushing the same question back onto you.

"Yes!" you said, so quickly he was caught off guard. "I wouldn't do something like that if I didn't mean it..."

He knew. He knew you weren't one to do something like that for no reason. Although he felt slightly hurt that you thought he would on the other hand, that was truly the least of his worries at the moment. He couldn't help but pull you in for another kiss.

"I have never been so serious in my life," he said.

"Not in 3700 years?" you asked and that made him smile.

"Not in 3700 years."

[endwersed]

man life must be nice when you're not a sensitive sally

[gentil-minou]

Gosh I need to edit this more before I actually start posting but I'm just so excited so here's a preview of my wangxian OUAT au, featuring wwx as emma, lwj as regina, and ayuan as henry (though are veering far away from both canon in both cases so no need to be familiar with the show to enjoy)

----

The doorbell rings.

He blinks once, then twice. Wei Wuxian isn’t normally one to get visitors, especially at this time of night. He tries to remember if there’s a no-candle policy in his lease his landlord might nag him about when the doorbell rings again.

He scrambles to his feet and stumbles to the door, already preparing an apology for something he probably didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to do and another apology in case he did know. He opens the door and sees….nothing.

Until he hears a quiet cough and looks down to see a little boy.

At first, he thinks maybe he’s a trick-or-treater who got a bit lost, but Wei Wuxian’s building is secured with a key and callbox entry. Plus, although he’s been wandering streets alone since forever, he’s pretty sure a kid this young would have a chaperone with him. He looks behind the kid and doesn’t see anyone else there.

But instead of asking something sensible like where his chaperone may be or even if the kid’s lost, he blurts, “How did you get in?”

The boy tilts his head and replies, “The front door. It wasn’t locked, I just walked in.”

So much for secured entry. But that doesn’t really answer why there is a human child at his door at nearly midnight. There’s definitely a law somewhere that says that’s illegal, probably.

The kid, who can’t be more than ten years old and really should have learned about stranger danger by now, beams up at him, as if technical breaking and entering is something to be proud of. Which, okay, maybe Wei Wuxian is kind of impressed by that.

“Aren’t you going to let me in?” the boy asks, his smile so sweet and unassuming that before Wei Wuxian even realizes it, he’s turned to the side and let the boy in.

The kid is wearing a blue puffy coat and carrying a white backpack that has homemade floppy ears made of felt that make it look like a bunny. They bounce up and down as the boy walks inside and slips his shoes off. Wei Wuxian very maturely resists the urge to tug on those floppy bunny ears, though only just.

Shoes off, his socks patterned with fluffy white clouds, the boy turns back around to look up at Wei Wuxian. His entire face beams up at him as if he were a sunflower facing the sun, which wow what an ego-boost. He’s got dimples, little baby dimples that are very cute and look very pinchable but that doesn’t matter because there is a baby in his house! And okay he’s at least ten years old but regardless why is there a whole entire child in his apartment? What is one supposed to do when some random kid shows up at their doorstep and invites themselves in?

“Oh shit uh, wait not shit,” Wei Wuxian stammers. “Shit, sorry. Um. A drink, you want a drink?”

Ask the random child if they want something to drink, apparently. Perfect.

The kid nods, still giving him that doe-eyed look. Wei Wuxian doesn’t have much by way of child-friendly beverage options, but he wasn’t exactly expecting something like this tonight. He settles on milk that looks like it hasn't gone too bad yet. Besides, expired milk builds immunity and character in children, that's how it works, right? He pours a glass for the kid, making sure to give him the cleanest one even though there’s a tiny crack on the surface.

He guides the kid over to the coffee table and hands him the milk. The kid takes the glass and sinks onto the deflated beanbag while Wei Wuxian perches on the edge of the couch. He grabs a can of beer from the six-pack still on the floor beside the table and takes a sip. Wait, is that allowed? Can he drink alcohol in front of children?

The kid doesn’t seem to care. He takes a tentative sip of his milk and makes a very polite face that fails to mask his disgust, before putting the glass down on the table next to the forgotten cupcake. Fair, it’s nice to see him asserting boundaries and all that.

"Okay," Wei Wuxian says, amused despite the situation. "Who are you and why are you in my house at—" he checks his phone for the time"—five minutes to midnight on a Friday night?"

The kid doesn't answer right away. His eyes are still focused on the cupcake, but in a way he probably thinks is sneaky. Wei Wuxian tilts his head to get a better look and sure enough, there’s a furrow between his eyebrows like the kid is trying really hard to ask a difficult question. After a minute, it becomes clear he hasn’t worked out a nice enough way to ask, but it’s a good thing Wei Wuxian knows enough about being a hungry child to recognize one.

He nudges the cupcake over to him and says, "Help yourself." Immediately, the kid grabs the cupcake with all the care in the world, like it’s a priceless artifact and promptly devours it. Wei Wuxian can’t help but smile as he eats. Suddenly the cheap cupcake feels like an excellent choice.

When the kid finishes licking the last bits of frosting and crumbs off his fingers, he sits politely with his hands in his lap and looks longingly toward the kitchen. He’s still too nice to ask forthright, but Wei Wuxian knows better and he isn't a monster.

Wei Wuxian gets up and opens one of the cabinets to look for something that’s probably child-appropriate, pulling out a bag of his least spicy chips. Chips are made of potatoes which are vegetables which means it’s probably not that bad for kids. Either way, the kid takes the bag gratefully and eats the chips with relish, even though they’re definitely way too spicy for someone his age.

“Alright, alright. You’ve been fed. Now tell me, who are you?” he asks again, though he can’t stop the tiniest bit of fondness from creeping into his tone. It’s just that everything this kid does is so cute! He can’t help himself!

The kid stops eating and tries to speak, but what comes out instead are the quietest little coughs Wei Wuxian’s ever heard. He’s been eating these spicy snacks and slowly turning as red as they are, but he’s so polite he hasn’t said a thing about them.

All at once, Wei Wuxian realizes he likes this kid, despite knowing practically nothing about him. It’s strange. He hates the kids the customers at his job will bring sometimes, especially when their parents just let them loose like it's a daycare and not a coffee shop. Wei Wuxian isn’t mean or anything, it’s just that wrangling kids is way above his pay grade. He didn’t even get along with other kids when he was a kid. All the other foster kids stood clear of him pretty much as soon as the social worker told his foster parents he was known for being “emotionally dysregulated” and labeling him a problem child.

But this kid is different from all the others, even though Wei Wuxian can’t quite put his finger on what’s so special about him. He seems like the kind of kid who would politely ask for steamed oat milk and say thank you, then ask his parents to let him give Wei Wuxian the tip. When he finishes, he’d probably throw his trash out without anyone asking and call goodbye to him one last time before he leaves. Even just imagining it makes Wei Wuxian feel wistful for something he’s never really wanted before.

It doesn’t help that this kid’s got what must be the fluffiest hair he's ever seen, and those dimples! It takes all of Wei Wuxian’s self-control to keep himself from pinching those chubby cheeks.

He doesn’t quite succeed and leans forward anyway to ruffle the kid's hair. "Ask for water, you silly,” he says, already standing and heading back to the kitchen.

When he hands him the glass, the kid just looks up at Wei Wuxian with his big, bright brown eyes filled with wonder. He’s looking at Wei Wuxian like he has the answer to everything. Wei Wuxian doesn't, but it's nice to feel like someone thinks he knows what he's doing.

The kid drinks half the glass before clearing his throat and finally answering Wei Wuxian’s question. “I’m Sizhui, but you can call me A-Yuan. Or even Little Radish, if you want! You called me that before.” He says it all in one breath, practically vibrating with energy by the end.

Wei Wuxian pauses in the middle of taking a sip of his beer. He’s not sure why he would ever call anyone a radish, and he’s pretty sure he’s never met this kid before. Does A-Yuan have mistaken him for someone else? Could this kid have some weird memory loss, except one where he gains fake memories instead of losing them? It’s definitely not the strangest thing about this whole situation.

Like all problems Wei Wuxian doesn’t know how to deal with, he decides to ignore that for now and asks, “Okay, A-Yuan then, why are you here?”

“Because,” A-Yuan starts, leaning forward and looking at Wei Wuxian with all the seriousness someone pre-puberty could possibly possess. “I need your help.”

“…Okay…” Wei Wuxian replies. The world must truly be fucked if someone is coming to him for help. He hasn’t had a vegetable in a week, unless pizza actually does count. “What do you need help with?”

He’s expecting the kid to say something normal like “my homework” or “getting to the train station”, you know, normal things a kid would ask a stranger to help him with.

He’s not expecting A-Yuan to respond gravely, “To save the world and everyone we love.”

Wei Wuxian blinks, speechless. A-Yuan doesn’t seem to notice, continuing to speak as he lifts his backpack onto his lap and rummages through its contents. “My family’s in trouble, our family. Everyone we know is, and you’re the only one who can fix it. Look here, see, I’ve got this book, it’s all written here. There’s a curse that’s affecting everyone and we need to break it.”

He plops the book down on the coffee table. It’s not at all what Wei Wuxian expects. It’s hand-bound, with a simple red fabric cover that’s blank except for the title that’s written in Chinese calligraphy. It’s written entirely in Chinese, in fact, completely by hand with the same impeccable calligraphy. Inside are what appear to be a bunch of stories or folktales. There are beautiful gongbi illustrations on every other page, inked in bright colors with an incredible level of detail.

Wei Wuxian can’t help but be impressed. The book is something he would expect to see at a museum or in a period drama, not on his coffee table with its chipped surface and water stains.  

A-Yuan flips to a picture of a man with long hair dressed in black and red robes. He’s playing a flute as shadows dance and twist around his frame. Then tendrils lift high into the sky and block out the sun. He’s standing on a pile of human bones, to really sell the whole villain energy this guy’s got.

A-Yuan points at the guy. “That’s you, you see?”

Wei Wuxian does not see, he’s pretty sure he would have noticed if his body was covered in shadows. Also, he would need way more conditioner for that length of hair.

The kid continues, interpreting Wei Wuxian’s stunned silence as something else entirely. “You’re the only one who can help them, who can save us all.” A-Yuan thrusts the scroll out to Wei Wuxian, who’s too floored to do much more than take it from him. “So, I’m here to bring you back.”

Wei Wuxian has to admit, the guy in the picture does look pretty badass. But it’s still just a drawing, and there’s little to suggest this looks anything like him at all.

He glances up. A-Yuan smile is so bright and excited that Wei Wuxian wishes he could feel his excitement too. The guy in the picture does look super cool, like someone he’d want to dress up as when he was A-Yuan’s age.

But all he feels is concern and confusion. Before, he was actually starting to enjoy spending time with this kid, but something is wrong, though it’s not what A-Yuan thinks. There’s a random kid in his apartment late at night, making up stories. And whether he likes it or not, Wei Wuxian is the adult here. He has to remember that.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he says, and the smile slowly drops from A-Yuan’s face and Wei Wuxian feels like the absolute worst person on the planet for doing that to him. “But I don’t know what this is, or who you are. I want to help, you’ve just gotta give me some actual answers. Where are your parents? Do they know where you are?”

A-Yuan looks down and mumbles, “I was so sure you’d remember if you saw this, if you held it.” He tightens the hands on his knees into fists and looks up at him with a startling conviction. “But that doesn’t matter. I know it, I know who you are. You’re Wei Wuxian. This is you. And you’re the only person who can save us.”

Wei Wuxian rubs his temples and contemplates chugging the remainder of his beer. He holds it in his hand, wishing he’d gotten another pack. “Look, I don’t know how you know my name, maybe you saw it on some mail outside or something, but—"

"You're my dad!” A-Yuan hastily interrupts. “That’s why, that’s how I know!"

Wei Wuxian drops the can. There's a splash of something spilling all over the carpet and he should probably make sure it’s not too bad. He's too busy trying to figure out how he could have a ten-year-old at twenty-five when he was definitely still a virgin at fifteen.

The initial shock slips away, leaving him only more confused. He raises an eyebrow at A-Yuan, willing him to explain.

"Not my real dad," A-Yuan says, rolling his eyes like somehow Wei Wuxian is the one claiming something impossible. "But you're my dad in every way that counts."

Wei Wuxian wishes he hadn't dropped his drink. He'd really like to take a sip of it now. And several more, maybe the rest of the cans, too.

This day needs to end. He should have stayed home and drank his way to oblivion, so he’d have been too far gone to answer the door in the first place.

TBC