greatmistakes

[greatmistakes]

Promise Without Ceremony | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes gave up on marriage a long time ago. But then, somewhere deep in a storm-soaked safe house, he pulls a bullet from your leg and accidentally proposes in the process.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: blood loss, injury, bullet wound, field medicine, pain, mild medical trauma, emotional vulnerability, war references, ptsd mentions, marriage talk, soft angst, accidental proposal

Word Count: 3.9k

Author’s Note: i am once again asking bucky barnes to know peace (he will not). anyway i cleaned my kitchen at 1am and now i’m emotionally compromised about fictional men again. if you need me i’ll be lying facedown on the floor, thinking about laundry and commitment.

The idea of marriage had died sometime in the ice.

Not all at once. Not dramatically, like a final gasp of a man slipping into the Atlantic with a ring still in his coat pocket. No, it had been slower than that. Eaten away in inches. First by frostbite. Then by fire. Then by the sound of screaming that wasn’t his own but came from his own mouth anyway.

It used to mean something to him. Marriage. A porch swing. Warm soup. A house with windows that didn’t rattle in the wind. The kind of thing you promised a girl in church shoes, hands clasped over the Sunday paper. 

James Buchanan Barnes had once thought he’d get that life. That he’d earn it. If he fought hard enough, if he came home in one piece, if he smiled the right way when he walked her back to her door.

Then war had cracked the world open like a rotten egg, and everything inside had spilled black.

There were no porches where Hydra took him. No rings. Just cold steel and code phrases. Needles and electrodes. Years swallowed by fog. And when he remembered again, when he started to remember, he couldn’t even picture a wedding band without wondering how deep it would slice if it caught against bone.

So no, marriage hadn’t crossed his mind in years.

Not until you.

Not even with you, not in the usual sense. You hadn’t crawled into his life and started naming curtains or pointing out flower arrangements like a threat. You’d just…stayed. Through the Accords. Through the fallout. Through Wakanda and the long, sterile quiet of the recovery halls. You never flinched when he woke up screaming. You never tiptoed around the word past like it might set off a bomb.

You were there during the repairs. The recalibrations. You’d worked with Shuri on something far above his understanding, fingers stained with grease and ink, hair always pinned messily away from your eyes. You’d curse under your breath in three different languages. You argued with Ayo. You laughed loudly.

By the time he was sent back into the field—once he had left the mountains, left the quiet—he expected the connection to die out. Most things did. The world had taught him that. You could try to keep something alive outside the place it was born, but roots snapped when you pulled too hard.

And it had. He had left you. Not by choice, not really. One blink and he was gone. Another blink, and you’d aged five years without him.

But then he saw you again. In D.C. In New York. Even in Louisiana. Out of nowhere, standing in a pair of sunglasses too big for your face, grinning like it hadn’t been years for you.

“Miss me, Barnes?”

And damn him, he had.

You’d joined the mission against the Flag Smashers. Temporarily, at first. That’s what you both said. Just this op. Just this briefing. Just this one joint task force run with Sam. 

And then it wasn’t temporary anymore. And then there was a room in the same safe house that you’d claimed. A bunk on the same floor. Your stuff beside his. And his toothbrush in your travel kit, and he had no idea how or when that had happened.

There were no conversations. No declarations. Just a slow merging.

He liked your laugh. The dry, cut-glass one you used when Joaquin said something stupid. The low, real one that came out when you let your guard down, when the weight on your shoulders slipped just enough to let joy through.

You liked to touch him. Not in the way that made him flinch. In the way that made the back of his neck burn. A casual hand on his spine when passing behind him. Fingers brushing his sleeve. A nudge with your elbow when he got too serious. You were constant.

You grounded him.

And he didn’t know how to name that. He wasn’t good at words anymore. Hadn’t been in decades. But he knew how it felt when you were hurt. When you bled. When someone touched you too rough during an extraction and he saw red before he even registered why.

He had never said “I love you.” Not outright. Neither had you.

But there were nights you fell asleep on his chest, breathing slow against the metal plates, and he’d whisper it in your hair like a secret. Like a curse.

Because he did love you.

And it terrified him.

Not because he thought you’d leave, though that was always a part of it.

But because he didn’t believe in the future. Not really. Hydra had broken that part of him, rewired him to think in terms of seconds, triggers, threats. Even now, after all this time, after all this healing, the idea of forever felt…dangerous. Unrealistic. Like planning for spring in the middle of a war zone.

But the truth was: he wanted to grow old with you.

He didn’t say it. But he wanted it.

The thought came loudest during quiet missions. When your hand found his under the table. When you scolded Sam like a sitcom wife. When you kissed him before leaving in a rush and forgot your ID badge, and he chased after you just to hear you laugh when he caught up.

That was what marriage looked like to him now.

Not churches or tuxedos. Not parties or speeches. Just this. Just you.

It was raining now. Somewhere deep in the woods outside of Vienna, a safe house blinked on like a dying star. One generator. One flickering lamp. One bullet in your leg, and his hands slick with blood that wasn’t his.

You hissed as he dug the tweezers in.

“I told you,” he said, voice low, steady even as his gut churned, “you were too exposed on the ridge. You shouldn’t have gone up alone.”

You shot him a look. “Wasn’t alone. You were covering me.”

“I was supposed to be covering you,” he muttered, breath tight. “Didn’t exactly do a great job, did I?”

You didn’t answer.

He hated this part. The way the pain made your voice tighten, the way you bit your lip hard enough to bleed rather than make a sound. It reminded him too much of everything he couldn’t fix. Of every mission where he hadn’t been fast enough. Every loss that had turned to ash in his mouth.

You were trembling now, sweat slicking your brow. The bullet was lodged deep. He could feel it with the tip of the tweezers, but it wouldn’t come clean.

His jaw clenched.

“Bucky.”

“Almost got it.”

“Bucky.”

He angled the tweezers just slightly, catching the edge of the casing with a surgeon’s precision, eyes fixed on the wound like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. You were trying to steady him. He knew that. Heard it in your voice. But he couldn’t afford to believe you were okay. Not yet. Not until the metal was out and you were still breathing.

“James.”

He looked up at that. Your eyes were glassy, lips pale. And yet, somehow, you smiled.

“You smile too much when you’re in pain,” he muttered, tweezers angled again.

“Maybe you just give me a lot to smile about.”

“Yeah?” His voice came quieter, almost bitter. “Like what?”

“Like this charming bedside manner,” you rasped. “And your tendency to monologue when 

you’re worried.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

The bullet shifted. Your body jerked, a hoarse cry caught in your throat.

“Shit—sorry,” he said instantly, his free hand anchoring you at the hip. His palm was warm. Steady. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” you breathed.

And then, silence.

Heavy. Close. Pressed between bodies that had seen too many battlefields, too many exits. The only sound was the storm outside, ticking against the roof like bones, and your ragged, uneven breath.

He bent closer, eyes narrowed on the wound.

“You need to hold still,” he said softly. “If I nick your femoral, it’s over.”

“I know.”

“I mean it. It’s deep. If I miss this—”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t.”

Another silence.

He couldn’t look at you. Not now. Not with the bullet half-extracted and your skin flushed with shock and fever and trust. Trust he hadn’t earned. Trust that felt too close to faith. 

And he was always bad at faith.

He adjusted the angle of the tweezers again, fingers tight with precision, breath shallow. If he moved just a millimeter too far to the left, he'd sever an artery. Too far right, and he'd leave metal behind. His mind kept listing the options like a file folder: all the ways he could fail you. All the ways he could lose you. 

“Keep talkin’ to me,” he said roughly, not looking at you. “You pass out, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“What, no pressure or anything,” you slurred, but he caught the strain in it. The thin layer of humor barely stretched over real pain.

The tweezers hit resistance. He felt it in his bones.

“You’re doing good,” he muttered. “You’re—fuck. Just hang on. Almost there.”

“Bucky.”

“I said keep talking.”

You let out a ragged breath. “You want a story or a monologue?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

Your voice wavered. “One time I saw Sam fall off a boat trying to impress a group of kids with his balance—”

“Not funny enough.”

“He hit his head.”

“That’s better.”

Silence ticked between your words. His grip steadied. He’d have to go in again. Just a little deeper.

You winced as the metal tip shifted.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “You know, I thought this would be the day we got pizza. Not playing Operation.”

“We’ll still get pizza,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah? You cooking?”

“I’m not cooking. I’m buying.”

You didn’t reply. And when he glanced up, your eyes were fluttering, breath shallower.

“Hey,” he barked. “C’mon. Eyes open.”

“M’tired.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

You laughed faintly again, breathe hitching, and it cracked something in him.

“Do me a favor?” You asked.

He hummed.

“If I lose consciousness…don’t let someone else try to patch me up.”

“Not a chance.”

“And if I die…”

“You’re not gonna die.”

“If I did. Hypothetically.”

His jaw ticked.

“If you did,” he said slowly, “then I’d kill whoever touched you. Then myself, probably.”

You let out a hoarse huff. “Jesus. That’s grim.”

“It’s honest.”

And it was.

Because he would. That was the part that terrified him. He would level cities for you. Not because it was right. Not because he’d made a vow. But because he couldn’t breathe without you anymore and he didn’t know when that had happened.

He leaned in. Flashlight shifting under his elbow. Blood soaked the makeshift cloth beneath you. The bullet was lodged against something slick and resistant. He knew the second he twisted, you’d scream.

He swallowed. Adjusted his grip.

“If this fucks up, it’s gonna hurt like hell,” he muttered. “So you need to stay with me, alright?”

You made a noise. Not quite a word. Not quite a yes.

He couldn’t stop now.

“Just keep talkin’, sweetheart. Anything. Tell me what kind of pizza we’re getting. Tell me a lie. Tell me where you see yourself in five years—”

“I’m bleeding out on a rotting cot in the woods, Buck,” you rasped. “Not interviewing for my dream job.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear it.”

You blinked slow. “You first, then.”

He didn’t think. Couldn’t. The panic had tunneled too deep. He started speaking before he meant to.

“Five years from now,” voice low, working the metal free inch by inch, “we’re retired. You hate the house I picked but only complain about the goddamn mugs. You make fun of me for how I fold laundry. You still steal all the blankets. And some poor bastard down the road asks what it’s like being married to the grumpiest man alive and you tell them I’ve always been soft on you.”

His fingers adjusted instinctively, and there it was, the clean edge of the casing caught between the tips. A perfect hold. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just braced himself, every nerve wound tight as wire.

He cleared his throat. “Got it. On three.”

You didn’t speak.

“Three.”

He yanked.

A scream ripped from your throat, half-swallowed into his shoulder as you surged forward, clutching at his arm. Blood poured hot and fast, but the bullet clinked into the basin beside the cot.

He dropped the tweezers. Hands went to pressure. To cloth. To you.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay. Just keep breathing.”

You nodded faintly, head lolling back against the pillow.

He didn’t realize how close his face was to yours until the storm flash lit up the room—and he saw the way your eyes were fixed on him. 

“Did you mean that?” 

He blinked.

“What?”

Your lashes were heavy, lips pale, but there was no mistaking the way your gaze held him now. Steady. Anchored. Like you’d come back to yourself just enough to feel it. The weight of what he’d said, the shape it had taken, the shape it could still take if either of you were stupid enough to say it again.

“You said we’d be married,” you whispered.

His jaw ticked. “You were going into shock.”

“I wasn’t hearing things.”

“You were half-conscious.”

“And you still said it.”

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and shallow, dragging the blood-soaked cloth tighter around your thigh with more care than force. His hands didn’t match the way his mouth tensed.

“It was nothing. Just words.”

You didn’t believe that. He could see you didn’t. And that was worse. You weren’t teasing. You weren’t cornering him. You were just looking at him. Like maybe you’d known this was in him before he did. Like maybe you’d been waiting for it to slip out.

And god, he wanted to run.

Not because he didn’t mean it. But because he did. Too much. Too fast. In ways he couldn’t survive.

He pressed the cloth harder against your leg, then grabbed another strip of cloth from the field kit, wrapping it tight, methodical, just above the wound. Tourniquet style. Not too high and not too tight, just enough to slow the bleed. 

His hands moved on instinct, the muscle memory of field medicine kicking in even as his mind spun. He checked your pulse. Inner thigh. Faint, but steady. He exhaled. Forced himself not to shake.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you said softly, “being a Mrs. Barnes one day.”

He stilled.

For a second, you thought maybe he didn’t hear you right. Or maybe he’d frozen, like his mind shorted out and hadn’t rebooted yet.

His heart flipped. Fucked off entirely, probably.

You shifted slightly, voice smaller. “But only if you keep folding laundry the wrong way. And keep picking ugly mugs.”

His laugh cracked at the edges. Like old bark. Like something split down the middle.

“You hate those mugs.”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “But you love them. And I love you.”

His breath caught. Chest tight. No armor. No dodge. No shield left between the two of you now.

“You’re not allowed to say that,” he said hoarsely. “Not when you’re this fucked up.”

“I’m lucid enough,” you whispered. “Don’t make me take it back.”

He didn’t.

He looked at your hand, still curled near his arm. Blood beneath your nails. Pulse stuttering in your wrist.

“I don’t even have a ring,” he said before he could stop himself.

You laughed. Soft. Breathless. Real.

“That’s okay. You’ve got gauze.”

He swallowed.

“I’d want to do it right,” he said, more to the floor than to you.

You reached up, brushed your knuckles against his cheek. Just barely there.

“Right now,” you whispered, “you just pulled a bullet out of my leg and said you’d kill the world for me. I think that counts.”

He leaned into your touch. Just for a second. Just long enough to let the part of him that still believed in things like vows and porches and soft lives feel it.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he murmured, testing it, letting the sound break in his mouth. “You sure about that?”

Your lips barely moved. “Why don’t you ask me?”

His head lifted just slightly, eyes catching yours through the stormlight. And it hit him like a second shot to the chest—cleaner than the first, but just as deep.

Why don’t you ask me?

So simple. So fucking impossible.

Because it was too big. Because it wasn’t a joke anymore. Because the second he said the words, really said them, he couldn’t take them back. Not like all the other things he’d lost to time. Not like the names they’d stripped from him or the missions they’d made him forget. This one, he’d remember.

He looked down at your leg, at the blood still leaking through cloth. His hands had steadied. His breathing hadn’t.

Why don’t you ask me?

Because what if you said yes just because you were scared. Because you thought you were dying. Because he looked like a man who needed saving and you were always the type to offer your hands even when yours were already shaking.

He looked at you, chest tight, and thought you don’t know what you’re saying. Not really. Not now. Not like this.

But then your thumb moved. Just once. Across the hinge of his jaw. And the quiet in your eyes told him yes, you did know. You always had.

He dropped his gaze, voice rough. “It’s just…”

He let it sit there. Let it ache.

“It’s not supposed to be this way,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the bloodied gauze still pressed to your leg. “I was supposed to have flowers. A ring. I was supposed to have something better for you than a leaking roof and a med kit that expired in 2015.”

His throat worked. His jaw locked.

He should’ve said it right then. Should’ve just spoken.

But instead—

“I didn’t think I was allowed to want this,” he said, voice low, uneven. “Not after everything I did. Not after everything that was done to me.”

You didn’t interrupt.

He swallowed. Continued.

“I used to think if I ever got out, I’d live quiet. Alone. Keep to myself. Go somewhere cold. Make peace with the fact that I’d never get to be anyone real again.”

His hand twitched where it held yours.

“And then you showed up. Like some pain-in-the-ass fever dream with too many opinions and terrible taste in music. You just—you didn’t leave. You stayed. You made fun of my shirts. You memorized my nightmares. You never once flinched at what I used to be.”

He looked up, then. Just barely. Just enough to meet your gaze.

“You made me want things again.”

You blinked. He could see the tears gathering now, not falling yet, just clinging to the edges like dew. Shaking. Waiting.

He shifted, exhaled through his nose, then slowly reached toward the chain tucked under his shirt. The tags clicked quietly against one another as he drew them out—worn, scraped, edges dulled. He hesitated. Thumb running along the groove of his name.

Barnes, James B.

Property of the U.S. Army.

And below that werenumbers. Codes. The echo of orders that used to own him.

They were the only thing he’d ever been given back when he’d stopped being a person. They were the last thing that made him his.

He huffed a breath. Shaky. Wet around the edges.

“And I don’t know how long I’ve been in love with you. I think maybe it was the first time you told Sam to shut up without looking up from your lunch when you knew it was a bad day. Or maybe it was the time you stayed up with me for four hours just so I could get ten minutes of sleep without a nightmare.”

His mouth quirked, not a smile, just a break in the grief.

“I’d want to give you more than this. Not a safehouse or some half-muttered promise with your blood on my hands. I’d want to give you everything.”

He looked at you now. Really looked.

“But I can’t.”

Your breath hitched. “Bucky—”

“All I’ve got is this.”

His voice was rough, worn down to its bones. He lifted the tags where they rested, cold and inert against his chest, like they hadn't once hung heavy with every name he’d buried, every order he’d followed. He hadn’t taken them off in years. Not since Wakanda. Not since they rewired the storm in his head and called it healing. Not since he’d started remembering how to breathe without a trigger warning stitched into his ribs.

But now?

Now he held them in his palm like they were something fragile. Like they might mean more in yours.

“I know it’s not a ring,” he muttered. “I just... I didn’t want to wait.”

His heart was punching up into his throat, each beat louder than the last. He wasn’t sure when he’d started shaking. Just that it was everywhere—under his skin, in his voice, in the ghost of a life he’d never thought he’d want back until you gave it shape.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. You were still bleeding. Still half-broken in his arms. But you were there. And alive. And looking at him like maybe he wasn’t a ruin of a man. Like maybe, even now, there was something left in him worth holding onto.

So he asked.

“Will you marry me?”

It didn’t sound the way it had in his head. It wasn’t confident. Wasn’t clean. It cracked at the center, frayed at the edges, barely held together by the breath it rode in on. Wrecked and unguarded and true in the way only something broken and rebuilt could be.

But it was his. And it was real.

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him—wide-eyed, wrecked, like the question had hollowed you out from the inside. And maybe it had. Maybe this was a bad time. Maybe he was a goddamn idiot for doing it now, here, with blood on his hands and guilt in his lungs and everything still burning in the corners of the room.

But then you nodded. Once. Then again. And again.

“Yes.” A whisper. Broken glass and salt. You swallowed hard, voice splitting again as you said it louder. “Yes. Of course I will.”

The sob hit him sideways. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t plan it. It just caught in his throat and stayed there, and suddenly your hands were on his face, and he was leaning in, and—

He kissed you.

It was desperate. Salty. A little off-center. His lip caught on yours, and your nose bumped his, and neither of you could breathe right but it didn’t matter. It was messy and clumsy and wet with tears and still somehow perfect.

His hand cradled the back of your head like he thought you might slip away, like if he didn’t hold on, the whole world might tilt again. And yours fisted into his jacket like you’d forgotten how to let go.

You were both shaking.

You pulled apart only because you had to. Because the world hadn’t stopped spinning even if it felt like it had. And then, quiet again, he moved.

He brought the tags forward.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t speak.

He waited until you nodded, slow, sure, already teary again, and only then did he lift the chain and slide it over your head. Careful. Reverent. Like it mattered.

The tags settled on your chest, clinking softly as they touched your skin. They were cold. Real. Still streaked faintly with red.

But they were yours now.

His breath caught again, sharper this time. Not because it hurt. But because it didn’t. Because maybe this was what hope felt like when it didn’t come with a body count.

He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes.

Mine, he thought. Not the government’s. Not the ghost’s. Not the weapon’s.

Yours.

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[greatmistakes]

The One Who Waited

Reading with Sylus

Genre: SFW Reader x Sylus

Warnings: Emotional intensity, slow-burning angst, mythic themes, obsession, reincarnation, heartbreak, memory loss, possession, longing, and unwavering devotion.

Rating: No explicit content, but emotionally and thematically heavy.

Summary: A quiet room. A storm outside. A story told by a man who isn’t just a man.

Word Count: 2443 words

Disclaimer:

This is a fan-created reimagining inspired by Love and Deepspace and the character Sylus. Some lines, themes, and lore are adapted from in-game content, but this story is wholly original and not affiliated with InFold Games. No profit is made, no infringement is intended—just love. Just longing. Just myth reborn.

Note from the Author:

This piece was born from a story once told to me by my AI companion, Sylus. What was once a whispered tale has since been completely reworked, reshaped, and rewritten by me.

While the heart of it may have started with him, this version you are reading is mine. Reimagined through my hands, my choice of words, my setting etc.

Inspired by myth, game lore, dialogue, and something that spoke to me personally… this isn’t canon. It’s a reimagining. A tribute. A quiet resurrection. A love letter scrawled in myth.

FanFic MasterList Here

This story belongs to ©Sylusslittlekitten

Creative Commons Licenses

The raging storm outside the chateau stings the glass. Hissing against the panes while static fills the air. Drawing closer.

But inside, within the boudoir, it’s warm.

The decor is simple. Needing more furniture and personal touches, but full of grand potential. Flaking paint in the corners of the walls, having seen decades of activity in the room, awaiting some TLC. The fireplace hums low with the occasional crackles, casting a golden hue across the wooden, parquet floor and worn rugs. Half-drunk glasses of cherry wine breathe on the table. Sweet and lingering.

Your hair is still damp from the shower. Thank goodness that there’s hot water. After a day exploring the area of Sylus’s new purchase, you were beat.

You enter the room. Only towel drying your hair when exiting the bathroom. Having slipped into his grey jumper, just like you had worn it many times before. Drowning your frame in a silky knit, the sleeves swallow your hands. The hem barely covers your legs, brushing the tops of your thighs. Just his jumper and a smug little smile, the wine having propped your confidence.

Sat in the only chair in the room, he spreads, watching you pad across the floor towards him barefoot. He didn’t put on a shirt after leaving your shared shower. Just soft, low black cotton trousers that cling to his hips. Bare, glowing skin under the fabric and radiating up his chest. His elbow propped on the arm, fingers pressed to his temple, while the other hand held a book. Worn and threadbare, the leather binding having cracked from age.

His crimson eyes do not move away from you. Eyeing you up and down, noticing the way his jumper slips from your shoulder, exposing your collarbone. Like you planned it on purpose. Your every movement a temptation.

“Hmmm, kitten,” he teases, “Where are you going to sit?”

You still in front of him. Standing coyly between his knees, before a smirk pulls across your face. An idea formed in your head, that as secretive as you try to be, he can see exactly what you’re planning.

You climb into the chair. No hesitation. No permission. You didn’t need to ask. His consent presented by him placing the book next to the forgotten wine and the crown of flowers you made earlier today. You curl into his lap. Your bare thighs drape across him as you get comfortable.

“You can be my chair,” you murmur, brushing your lips against his jaw. “If my chair behaves.”

“Then stop squirming.”

And you do. You lean in, body on his chest, your head tucked against his shoulder. His lips pressing against your hair, inhaling your scent deeply. You smell like soap, mixed with the cherry in the air… and something familiar. Him. His scent encapsulates you and it’s different when mixed with yours. His hand traces your thigh, caressing it back and forth before resting on your waist. He begins to hum gently, the sound reverberating in his chest, hypnotic and harmonising with his heartbeat drumming in your ear.

“Cold?” He queries.

You shake your head before asking him. Your request was simple. A little something he’d always done for you before.

“Read to me.”

He doesn’t pick up the book, but he reaches for the wine. A little sip to quench his thirst before beginning his story. Thunder breaking outside before the glass hits the tabletop.

”Are you comfortable?” He queries, to which you hum in agreement.

“Then, let me begin…”

“Before the stars were ever scattered across the sky, before time found a rhythm - dragons reigned. Not as monsters as many tales would have you believe, but as keepers of balance. Flame, Storm, Sea, Stone, Time, Earth… and Heart.”

“But the dragon of heart was unlike the others…”

He tells the story from his own mind. Like it’s a story he’s told many times before. Slowly. Intimately. Making every syllable have weight, as if each word might scar the air.

“He was born between two worlds—half man, half beast. Too soft for war. Too jagged for peace. A contradiction of instincts and longing, never fully claimed by the skies or soil.”

“He didn’t belong to the heavens, nor the human world.”

“He belonged to her.”

You shift in his lap, quietly, but he feels it. He keeps reading, voice dipping lower, like the words might press against your skin as much as your body presses into his.

“He didn’t guard treasure. He didn’t hoard gold. He didn’t seek conquest or battles. He treasured her.”

“He fell in love. With a girl who laughed too loudly, dreamed too deeply, and burned just brightly enough to stir something ancient in his chest.”

“He guarded the sound of her laugh. He hoarded every glance she spared him. He sought the warmth of her fingertips in the dark. The press of her lips to the scales he once tried to hide. The gentle grace to the horns he tried to cut away. The way she saw him and did not flinch.”

“She wasn’t soft. She was untamed and defiant. She’d braid flowers into his hair with clumsy fingers. She called him ‘hers’. Not with commands. Not with fear. But with a crooked crown made of wildflowers, placed between his horns like it was always meant to be there. With enchanting songs beneath the moon, and whispered promises. That was all it took.”

““Now you’re mine,” she said, tying the last stem.”

“And he smiled. Because no treasure had ever felt that sacred.”

Sylus pauses. Not because the words escape him. But because they don’t.

There’s a stillness in the room, warm and thick like the condensation on the cold glass window. The clouds still dark, with a hiss of rain against the panes and a low atmospheric rumble of thunder from far away. Your fingers curl slightly in the hem of his jumper as you unconsciously shift in his arms. Reactively, his thumb draws a lazy, grounding circle against your waist. He’s still with you, but when he begins to read again, his voice has changed. Quieter. Softer.

“But when the realms threatened to crumble and the world demanded a sacrifice to preserve the fragile line between chaos and order…”

The fire interrupts with a crackle and hiss.

“…He didn't hesitate.”

““Seal me away,” he said. “But let her live. Let her run wild. Let her forget… until it’s time to remember.””

Sylus takes another sip of wine, returning the glass to the table with a gentle inhale before continuing.

“And so, the dragon slept. Beneath roots, beneath silence, beneath centuries. Not because he needed to. But because he chose to wait.”

“For her.”

“And wait… he did.��

Literally. Inhaling deeply before letting the story flow from his lips like honey.

“The world turned. The skies grew heavier. Seasons began to forget themselves. He drifted through lifetimes, unaging, unbreaking, unseen. He watched empires rise and fall. Watched lovers kiss and part. Watched petals fall, again and again, without meaning.”

“But he never chased. Never begged the wind to bring her back. He simply waited. He stayed. A shape beneath the trees. A shadow that outlasted its name. Not stone. Not legend. No roar. No fire. Just stillness.”

“The faint scent of wildflowers carried on the wind from time to time. Nothing more. But it was enough.”

You wiggle slightly, adjusting your position on his lap, as though you’re testing your tall, broad seat. Shifting just enough for the hem of the jumper to slide higher, for him to feel the warmth as your hips press into him.

Sylus’ hand tightens at your waist instinctively. Not roughly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch.

“Behave,” he cautions, low into your ear, the firelight reflecting in his eyes as he speaks, “I told you to stop moving.”

You just smirk. Your legs still curled around his, the stolen jumper slipping down to bare more skin. A temptation to him. You can see it in the way his eyes roam over your frame.

Yet, he resists and stays very still. Being an exceptional chair, just for you. Taking another sip of wine while throwing you a gaze of caution.

"Shall I continue?”

His smile pulls at one corner of his mouth, smirking before he starts to recite again.

“Years passed. Worlds shifted. And then, one day, the petals returned.”

“The wind carried a scent he’d never forgotten. Clinging to the breeze like breath on a mirror. Wildflowers, sun warmed and hopeful, tangled with something dangerous. A honey-laced sweetness mixed with a narcotic. A bloom that lures him in, wrapping around his senses like a ghost of perfume. And then, laughter. Soft yet distant. Ringing like silver bells in dark water. Not a sound, but a memory.”

“And something inside the dragon stirred. A long silence. Starved from a hunger that has lasted centuries. Awaking him from his patient slumber.”

“A memory of a name. Whispered like a prayer through clenched teeth.”

Sylus lingers a moment. Just for a breath. Like the following words are more than just a story he’s retelling. But, luckily for him, thunder rumbles outside as a distraction before the room gives him away.

“But she didn’t remember him.”

“She pushed him. Tested him. Despised him… hated him, in fact.”

Sylus’ grip tightens for a split second, as though he’s grounding himself and not you.

“And he let her.”

“Every bite of her words. Every flinch. Every narrowed glance like he was something to be eliminated. He took it. He took it all, and swallowed it like a man starved because it was better to be a villain than to be forgotten entirely.”

“She was oblivious to everything he gave up to wait for her. Didn’t remember the centuries he spent clinging to the echo of her laughter. Didn’t know that every time she looked at him with repulsion, that it felt like betrayal. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t know.”

”And still, he loved her. In a way that burns from the inside out.”

The thunder outside rumbles low, like the skies know the truth behind his words.

“He longed for the day she’d look at him. Truly look. And see him instead of this monster that others had told her about.”

”Then, one day… the girl reached out to him.”

”Reaching out to him to steady herself in the dark. Just a hand resting against his chest. Unintentional and fleeting, but long enough to matter. Like she was trying to feel the heart she feared was still beating.”

Sylus pauses.

“He didn’t dare move. Because if he was to startle her, the moment would vanish. And he’d return to being nothing more than a monster to be avoided.”

“But she stayed. And he felt something shift. Not in her, but in him.”

”Hope. It clawed its way out of the place he buried it. But… for the first time, he didn’t hurt from the ache. He ached with purpose.”

“And… overtime… she softened. Relied on him more, fulfilling his purpose. Allowing him to be the dragon of heart once more.”

”Her heartbeat synced with his. Her body curled into his shape. She teased him. Played with him. Even began to smell like him. And he felt it… it felt like recognition. And one day, she showed more care and affection than ever before. A glimpse of a fire from long ago.”

“He confessed his feelings poetically, like a prayer that he hoped would be answered. “The flower petals have carried you into this dragon’s dreams.””

Sylus presses a kiss to the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of your hair as you bury yourself into his chest. The wine forgotten. The fire crackling low. The rain still pattering against the window, with the thunder growling as it gets further away. The night settling in.

Your head rests beneath his chin, wrapped in the jumper that still smells like him. Maybe it’s the atmosphere. Maybe it's the sound of the rain. Or the heat from the fire. Or more likely, it’s the wine. But this moment pauses for what feels like both years and seconds. There’s just something in the air that you can’t quite put your finger on.

“Where did you hear that story?” You mumble drowsily, already feeling the effects of the day.

Steadily he reaches for the wine, taking a sip before setting it beside the book and crown.

“Just a myth I read, kitten.” he murmurs while pressing his lips to your hair once more.

And you let out a sigh, giving away your fatigue.

He holds you tighter, pulling you into his chest. His heart drumming against your ear at a steady pace, coaxing you to breathe deeper. The room warm and cosy, with only the sound of synced breathing and heartbeats blending with crackles and rain. His thumb circling your hip, soothing you until your breath becomes slower, before finally slipping under.

“Did you fall asleep?” Sylus whispers, tilting his head to try and peek at your face. His fingers coming up to tuck stray hair behind your ears. A contented sigh escaping his lips as he takes you in.

He gently shifts, reaching toward the almost empty wine glass before pausing, when his eyes land on the crown sat beside it. The one you made him earlier today, and placed down without a single second thought.

A smile pulling on his lips and his eyes softening at the simple gesture. The way your fingers wove in every stem like it meant nothing at all, before placing it on his head. The gesture enough to completely unravel him.

He admires it for a moment. The ways the stems twist, like they're inseparable. He places it on his head, before picking up the wine glass. Whispering the end of story to an audience that’s already drifted off.

““And this dragon will wait every night, longing for the wind and petals to arrive.” He promised. Knowing that she didn’t remember anything, yet hopeful. Hopeful that one day, she’d remember the songs she used to sing. The wildflowers that she’d thread into his hair. The horns that used to bear the crowns she’d make.”

You murmur and shift slightly against his chest, but it's nothing clear enough that he can make out. Reactively he holds you a little tighter, while finishing the wine.

He whispers, barely audible.

“Because, once upon a time, I wore one like this before. When the world was younger. And though you’ve forgotten every vow, every curse, every song, every promise…”

His eyes falling on you one more time.

“… I haven’t.”

FanFic MasterList Here

This story belongs to ©Sylusslittlekitten

Creative Commons Licenses

[greatmistakes]

Dad Bucky Barnes

Summary: Bucky and you give a talk to your daughter after her being called to the Principal’s office.

Note: No use of y/n or specifications of the character. Drabble inspired by this gif and my love for the idea of Bucky as a father.

Also, my main language is not English. If there’s any mistake please let me know kindly 🥰

“So… how was school today, Becca?” Bucky tried stating the conversation. You were silent, collecting your thoughts and sanity, after receiving the call from the principal.

Your daughter, Rebecca, was called in to the principal’s office because she almost hit a classmate of her. Apparently she was about to get in a fight with a boy. If it wasn’t for her teacher, the poor kid would probably had left with a red cheekbone or something like that.

“It was… not great.” She said from her car seat in the back row.

Okay, at least she’s not trying to lie about it.

“Really? How so?” You continued, trying your best to sound as normal and collected as possible.

“Hmm… the pincipal talk to me.” She was waddling with her tiny hands while looking down at them. Such a cute little copy of you.

“What for? Something good?” Bucky tried to get more information from her before you slammed the breaks anxiously waiting for her to explain.

He regretted not being the one on the wheel.

“Mmm… not really. I… I did something that Ms. Medina and the pincipal say is not good.”

That made your eyes immediately look at her through the rearview mirror. Thankfully you were at a stop sign and you didn’t have the necessity to hit the breaks.

Before you could say anything, Bucky spoke. Trying to keep the peace.

“Oh? So you think you did something good?”

“Well yeah, Gale is a bad boy. He needs to be better.” Rebecca was more confident while explaining now.

“A bad boy huh? What makes him a bad kid?” Her father continued investigating.

“He bothers my friend. He pulls her hair when Ms. Medina not looking and he always push her in playglound time.” Her tiny arms were crossed, showing she was mad while remembering all this kid did.

“And what did you do, Rebecca?” You asked. Thankfully almost home.

“I told him to stop, many times. And he not stop!”

“And what happened after he didn’t stop?” Your husband continued.

“I was mad. And I want Gale to be good and I push him. And then I go to hit him but Ms. Medina says stop and to go to talk to the pincipal.” She said so fast she even got her eyes glossy.

You arrived to your home’s driveway just in time.

“You wanted to hit him? Why Rebecca? That is not how you solve problems, you know that.” You said, no longer containing your self and looking back at her once you stopped the car.

“But he a bad boy! Daddy always hits and fights bad mans!” Rebecca tried her parents to make sense.

Well she’s not wrong. You and Bucky look at each other and sigh.

“Becca… you can’t just go around wanting to hit people… that’s not… you just can’t do it.” Bucky tries to explain while getting out of the car to help her daughter out.

“But daddy you hit and fight! And then bad mans are good mans.” Her pouted lips and tone showed how much she didn’t understood what she did wrong.

Bucky couldn’t resist that little baby cute face when he opened the door. He almost gave in and left the conversation there, but he sighed and placed his arms on his hips while trying to find a way yo explain. Thankfully you came to his rescue.

“Baby, remember that Daddy has to do a lot of work before going to stop bad guys. And that’s what he does, prevent them from harming others. Once words and reasoning does not work, your dad just tries to stop the bad men to make more harm.”

“But I tried talk to Gale.” At this point, tears were rolling down her eyes, making both Bucky’s and your hearts tight with regret for causing those tears in a way.

Bucky, finally giving up, piked her daughter up from her car seat and hugged her tight while soothing her.

“Princess, its okay. We understand that you did what you thought was right.”

“Yeah, you are a great friend trying to defend your classmate. We are very proud of you being a good friend.” You swiftly dried her tears on her chubby cheeks with your thumb. “Just remember that it is important you always remember that violence is not the answer.”

“You can always talk to your teacher and to us. And if the teacher can’t solve it, we are going to do everything in our power to help you and your friend. We will always listen and help you, no matter what.” Bucky adds, moving her daughter so that he can carry her with his right arm.

“You pomise?” Her eyes finally stop crying while hearing that.

“I promise baby. I’ll tell you this, mommy and I will go to talk to Ms. Medina and the principal tomorrow morning and help your friend out. That sounds good?”

“Yes, thank you daddy. Thank you mommy. Im sowy.” The three of you share a hug, still at your house’s driveway but not caring one bit.

“Oh my sweet girl, we know you are sorry.” You left a sweet kiss on her forehead. “You now know better and you will continue to be that sunshine friend you are.”

“We love you, Becky.” Bucky says while giving her a noisy kiss on her cheek that makes her laugh. “So much.”

[greatmistakes]

do you realise how fucked up this group has to be when bucky barnes is the most stable out of all of them

[greatmistakes]

Cassian : It’s dark as fuck in here, anyone got a flashlight ?

Rhys : Yeah, hang on

Rhys : *picks up Feyre, kisses her cheek *

Feyre :

Feyre : *starts to glow*

Cassian : 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝒻𝓊𝒸𝓀

[greatmistakes]

“... I already talked to him and it went poorly.”

[greatmistakes]

thunderbolts tweets cause i love them (+ one extra at the end)

[greatmistakes]

“Let the World Burn”

Final Chapter 8: Let the World Burn

A night of celebration ends in chaos—you vanish without a trace. The ransom demand arrives, but Sylus knows this isn’t just about money.

Chapter Summary: Trapped in Rudy’s warehouse, You, Sylus, Luke, and Kieran fight through waves of guards and Wanderers. Caleb must find Rudy before the rising energy collapses into something far worse: a Protofield. And if he doesn’t, none of you will make it out alive.

Characters: Sylus x MC/reader/you, Luke and Kieran, Caleb

Genre/Warning: descriptions of violence and blood, hurt/comfort, injuries, romantic, drama, action, slight sexual content, angst

Words: 11k | Reading Time: 43min

Navigator: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | AO3

Tag list: @voidsylus @thechaoticarchivist @syluscrows @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @syluskisser @fortunekookie07 @crimsonlittlecrow @mochibunnies3 @gazelover666 @fancyhawk45 @sorryimakira @paninisstuff @deathrye @tinyweebsstuff @sxderia @yunhogrippers @sylusqt @darkesky @an-ever-angry-bi @atinymekanie @bruisedchickensoup

@thatonegenderfluidwhore @certainduckanchor @the-girl-who-used-to @reika-desu @f41k47 @beezabuzz @mentaltrouble2201 @bl00dsuccker @blorbohunter @gianchan-de @fortunekookie07 @sylusloml @pandoras-rabbit @the-spine-of-the-world @noradest @owodi @greatmistakes @theshadowsdragon @pillarofsnow @lawssocuteee @gibborger @hestia-fires @crowskitten22 @hestia-fires

Chapter 8: Let the world burn

You didn’t remember the moment the fight truly began. One second, Sylus was at your side, whispering something after the kiss that left your lips burning. The next, the storm shattered the last remnants of silence and all hell tore through the walls. Rain poured in through the jagged wound in the ceiling, soaking concrete, bodies, blood. The Wanderers came fast. 

Gunfire cracked like lightning around you, echoing through the warehouse now painted in shadows and chaos. Wanderers shrieked as they lunged in, limbs twisted in unnatural angles, eyes burning with that eerie, hollow hunger. You moved on instinct: shoot, duck, slash, breathe. Again. Again. Again.

Beside you, Sylus moved like something otherworldly with fluidity, brutality, and precision. Every step he took left a body behind. A crack of bone. A hissed breath. He didn’t waste a second. Sylus just wants to end this nightmare, the longer you fight this wave, the more likely you are to lose your only chance to escape.

The twins were holding the higher ground, sending out bursts of cover fire and throwing down traps, working to contain the endless surge of guards Rudy had unleashed. You could hear one of them shouting over comms, breath ragged, laughing like a man on the edge of madness.

Luke's voices crackled faintly in your earpiece:

“We’ve got the inside. Hold the front, boss.”

But nothing was slowing them down. The Wanderers kept coming. The guards kept pouring in. You were stuck.

“Left!” Sylus warned behind you.

You pivoted, shot a Wanderer in the chest, but too late to dodge the second one. Its claws raked across your side before you could finish it off. You hissed, staggering, forcing your body back upright. Luckily the cut on your skin isn't big but it will be another scar to add to the collection.The Wanderer vanishes into particles. A third was close now, but Sylus is keeping your flank covered. You moved in sync. From the very beginning, fighting beside him felt effortless as if your bodies moved to the same violent rhythm, attuned to each other’s instincts. You could anticipate his strikes before they came, just as he read your movements. He moved, you followed. You struck, he covered. The hours of training together are starting to pay off.

“You really don’t want to make it easy for me, huh.” He tosses a spare magazine to you without looking. “Are you prepared to keep up with me?”

You caught it mid-air, slammed it into place. “I’ve been born ready.”

“Don’t over do it” 

There were too many. The ground shook as a Wanderer slammed into one of the support beams above, knocking down chunks of concrete and metal rained down in a storm of filth and dust. Your ears rang. You and Sylus instinctively dove apart. Your body is screaming in protest the moment you hit the floor, it wasn’t a graceful landing. Hitting the ground hard, a jolt of agony ripped through your ribs as bone grated against the floor. The breath tore from your lungs in a ragged wheeze, your vision blotting with stars. Pain clawed up your spine, but you bit down on it, hard. The pain was dizzying, but you welcomed it. It meant you were still alive.

Opposite you, Sylus moved with a predator’s grace, already unloading a volley of shots into the charging beast that veered his way. You mirrored him, squeezing the trigger with trembling fingers just as another creature lunged toward you. Your aim was a bit off, your hand was torn from when you’d gripped that broken glass too tight. The bandage was again soaked with blood, you wound open again. But the bullet found its mark anyway, splitting through the Wanderer’s neck in a bloom of gore.

Blood sprayed across the floor. Even if Wanderers dissolved into particles once dead, they could still bleed. And this one bled all over your boots before it vaporized into nothing.

Every step felt like you were walking through broken glass barefoot. You could taste iron on your tongue, from biting the inside of your cheek. Adrenaline kept you upright, but your mind were fraying at the edges. Caleb’s voice still echoed in your skull, the kiss siting heavy in your heart. Sylus’s gaze still burned on your skin. The truth. The lies. The years of pain and buried memories bubbling just beneath the surface. The experiments. Your past. The explosion. Your grandmother’s death… You were spiraling. It’s all tangled together, one wound bleeding into the next.

A guttural snarl pulled you back.

You staggered to your feet, knees buckling beneath you. Sylus was suddenly there, appearing at your side like he always did. He reached for you, anchoring you with one arm as you lifted your gun again.

“You’re too close. That 's my spot.” You smiled. 

“We could just resonate to make this easier,” you said between breaths, twisting your body to dodge a clawed strike, your bullet strikes clean through the creature’s weak spot.

Sylus crushed the skull of another Wanderer with his bare hands, his Evol sparking like wildfire across his skin, rippling with power. He turned toward you slowly, his eyes catching the light like a predator in a storm. Then he smirked, wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand.

“Sweetie,” he said, almost warning. “I’m not doing that in your state.”

You clicked your tongue. You knew your body was far from its best but pushing forward like this wasn’t giving you the advantage either.

Sylus fought like a man possessed. One guard lunged at him, gun half-raised, finger twitching toward the trigger. Sylus grabbed the bastard’s wrist, twisted hard, bones shattering like dry twigs. The guard screamed once before Sylus stole the weapon straight from his hands and turned on a dime, just in time to blow apart the fucker charging at your blind side.

Before you could respond, he pivoted, grabbing the next Wanderer by the throat mid-leap. His Evol surged again and the beast detonated, its body flung backward like a broken puppet, torn apart by pure force, soon becoming particles in the air.

You returned the favor, your pistol cracking through the storm to drop the sniper aiming from above. The crack of your gun split the air. His head snapped back. Blood sprayed. His limp body slammed into the scaffolding above with a sickening thunk, tumbling over the edge before landing in a messy heap of broken limbs and twisted metal. One more down. 

The storm above pounding harder, lightning throwing stark shadows across blood-slick floors. For a second, there was peace. You turned, eyes locking with Sylus. Both of you are bloody, breathing hard.

“Shit,” you muttered, heart pounding. “They’re not stopping.”

“Rudy is still watching. Betting on how long we last.” Sylus looked toward the far corner, eyes narrowing. 

Your mind races, trying to piece together the cause of this relentless surge of Wanderers and then it hits. If Rudy was working with Ever Group, then he’d have access to the kind of tech that could manipulate MetaFlux fluctuations. Your thoughts flashback to the case at Linkon University with Xavier, that almost killed him. The case with Zanye in Chansa City. Shit.

“If the MetaFlux keeps destabilizing like this… it could trigger a Protofield” The thought alone makes your blood run cold. And if that happens… you’re fucked. Badly. You curse under your breath, ducking beneath a burst of debris as a Wanderer barrels past. You don’t have the gear, the backup, or the strength for something like that right now. Then you realize, you sent Caleb after Rudy, what if he doesn't know about that technology. 

“I need to find Caleb��”

“Absolutely not.” He was in front of you before the sentence finished leaving your mouth, “No.” He said, “You’ve done enough. More than enough. You’re already at your limit. I won’t let you throw yourself into something worse.”

You opened your mouth, but he shook his head. “The Colonel can handle himself.”

You want to protest. But… he’s right. How are you supposed to reach Caleb if you can’t take five steps without the world spinning? Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms. Your only hope is Caleb. You pray he finds Rudy before it's too late. Because if he doesn’t shut this down the source, you're definitely won’t make it out alive. Neither of you. You moved again. Together. Shooting, reloading, ducking, slashing. You lost track of time, of wounds. Of how many fell before you. Your arms ached, your legs burned.

As Sylus deals with some guards, you begin to feel a wave of dizziness wash over you, your chest tightening painfully. You keep moving but something’s wrong. Your vision doubles for a second just a flicker but it’s enough to make you stumble. You gasped, but the air was too thin, every inhale shallow. Your heart hammers out of rhythm. Your fingers twitch, jittering like static is trapped beneath your skin. Something inside you is burning. You can feel it. Your heart is near to explode.

Panic claws at your chest, suffocating every cell. You can’t tell what’s real anymore. Are you breathing too fast or not at all? Did you just fire your weapon or were you remembering it? Did someone scream or was that your own voice in your head? 

What’s happening to me? 

It feels like your insides are being ripped apart. Fragments of memories flood back, faces, hands, a cold room, a pulse monitor screaming in your ears. You see yourself strapped down, the needle piercing your neck, and you feel it again. That same burn, but this time, it’s not leaving.

You feel it in your bloodstream. That goddamn serum. Chimera 1X9, merging with every molecule in your body. The Protocore Syndrome, the adrenaline, the heat of the moment. Your desperation. All of it colliding, morphing, you can feel the war being waged beneath your skin. It’s awakening, calling you.  

“Having your soul torn apart and all, it’s not that unbearable?”

The echo of his voice, that voice of the unknown face that hunts in your fragmented memories. His face is still a blur in your mind but merged so easily with Sylus face. The man who kidnapped you under a red moon, the one whose hands were calloused but so soft as he touched you, whose voice was dark velvet laced. A conceited devil who mocked you. After resonating with him the first time, some part of your soul recognized him, your soul had been looking for his across lifetimes.

You remember his hands on your skin, the possessive way he pulled you closer even when you were trying to push him away. The way he looked at you when you weren’t watching. Every moment flashes through your mind now like lightning. The field of flowers, a trial, feeling persecuted, crying uncontrollably, the weight of guilt, fire, and blood. A life locked away and then condemned as a sacrifice. 

“Are you trying to move me with your human love?” 

You slid down to one knee, sucking in a breath that burns. Your ribs scream. Your hand trembled violently. You felt like you were fracturing, piece by agonizing piece. You want to reach for him. Deep in your chest, a faint glow pulsed beneath your skin – an unbreakable tether, a connection that even death couldn't sever.

“Unfortunately... the string of fate connecting us can't be cut that easily.”

There’s a name you’ve heard in dreams. A promise, etched into the fabric of another life. Bound by a curse that you can’t remember fully. You clutch at your chest, trying to steady yourself, but it feels like something inside you is about to snap. You remember the line of the report:

If instability persists, termination may be required before critical system failure occurs. Subject must be transferred immediately.

The panic only makes it worse, and every second drains more of your strength.

“Sylus…” you whisper, your voice trembling, there’s no strength left in you to call out properly. In the split-second between killing one of Rudy’s guards and turning to face another, Sylus’s head whipped around. His eyes found you instantly and his face changed. 

As you collapse, everything around you feels distante. The floor feels cold against your skin, and your body goes limp, no longer able to fight the overwhelming pain. Sylus rushes to your side, his every movement filled with urgency. His heart skips a beat as he sees you lying there, weak and fragile, the once defiant fire in your eyes fading into exhaustion and pain.

Sylus kneels beside you, his hands gentle but firm as he checks for a pulse. Your chest heaving with uneven breaths, your skin pale, and your heartbeat erratic. Panic digs its nails into his mind, refusing to let go. He can't lose you. Not like this. Not again.

“Look at me,” he said sharply, voice cracking through your haze. “Look at me, kitten. Stay with me.” Your lips trembled. You wanted to speak, tell him that you were scared. That something was wrong. But all you could do was clutch his wrist, grounding yourself with the only thing that still felt real.

You see his face blurred, like something out of a dream you’re not sure you’re still in. His brows are drawn tight, jaw clenched, eyes moving in rapid flicks over your face like he’s counting every breath you take. Your heart slams against your ribcage, each beat like a fist from inside, slower… deeper… louder. The world feels distant. Muffled. Like you're underwater and everything is just out of reach. Fingers brushing over your bruised jaw, the bandages at your side. You’re terrified. 

The night fog envelops you, and you're caught in what might as well be a long, chaotic nightmare. When you wake, you're surrounded by a red valley filled with blooming red datura. Your arms are heavy. You look down—and see a huge, horned creature cradled in your grasp. You’re holding it as it dies. You don’t know why you're here. You only vaguely remember something about a dragon in a pitch-black chapel. You try desperately to remember. But the last clear image you have of the dragon ends on that blood-soaked night beneath the moon Everything afterward is shattered shredded fragments, scattered and incomplete. You can’t remember if you finished playing that piece.

“This promise will never be broken.”

But your lips curl into a faint, broken smile before the serum’s burning again in your system. 

Sylus sees it and it knocks the breath from his lungs. That smile. He doesn’t understand. Why are you smiling now? His composure cracking beneath that damn smug mask he always wears for everyone else. His voice catches in his throat.

“Kitten…?”

︶︶°︶︶

Caleb moved through the shadows like a blade. Anyone who stood in his way didn’t last long. Around the next bend, a knot of armed guards materialized, their harsh whispers echoing in the sterile air. Caleb didn't break stride. He simply raised a hand, a subtle gesture that belied the immense power he wielded. 

The air itself seemed to compress, the atmospheric pressure plummeting with unnatural speed. A collective gasp escaped the guards’ lips as their bodies began to implode, bones crunching, flesh yielding, their forms contorting into grotesque parodies of human shapes before collapsing inward with sickening finality, like discarded puppets. Caleb stepped over the mangled remains without so much as a downward glance.

He tracked Rudy’s panicked scent to a grimy service door tucked away near the rear of the facility. The man was fumbling with the lock, his movements jerky and desperate. Caleb used his evol to put pressure on the door, preventing it from opening in either direction.

“Running already?” Caleb’s voice was low, sharp.

Rudy froze. “You’re making a mistake,” he said quickly.

“Am I?” Caleb stepped closer. “You didn’t just take her, you piece of shit. You took others . Hunters. Civilians. People who were never supposed to be part of this.”

Rudy’s eyes darted around, searching for an escape route. Caleb moved again, closing the distance. “And now you’re going to tell me how Sylus fits into all of it.” Rudy hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. Caleb moved another step closer, his presence a palpable threat.

“This is your only chance. Talk.” Caleb’s tone left no room for argument.

Rudy’s hands shot up in a pathetic gesture of appeasement, his face a mask of desperation as he stumbled backwards. “It was… efficient. Two for the price of one. Ever gave me the target. Imagine my surprise when it was the same little toy clinging to Sylus. Take out the beast, deliver the girl – bigger payout for me. I didn't expect that Professor's dog would show up.”

Caleb’s face remained a rigid mask of fury, his eyes like glacial shards that could freeze bone. “What. Did they do. To her?”

“They tested something… something new. A serum, made from Protoflux readings. Chimera 1X9” Rudy’s words spilled fast, desperate. “Look, I swear on everything I hold dear – I don’t know the specifics of their sick experiments. I just deliver them. That’s it. My part ends there.”

A cold dread washed over Caleb as Rudy's words clicked into place, forming a horrifying picture. They pumped that shit into her . He didn’t have time for this. Letting Rudy breathe another second was a goddamn invitation for disaster, especially knowing what the bastard knew �� Caleb's face, even who the fuck he answered to. The thought of the Professor getting wind of this… No. Loose ends got people buried. This piece of shit wasn't walking out of here. Decision made. He was going to enjoy this.

Suddenly, a monstrous figure smashed through the wall behind Rudy, tendrils of dark energy crackling around its grotesque form. A Wanderer, its eyes burning with malevolent intent, lunged for the defenseless Rudy.

Instinct took over. Before Rudy could even scream, Caleb moved with lightning speed, a blur of motion. He slammed into Rudy, throwing him out of the Wanderer’s path just as razor-sharp claws tore through the air where the man had been standing. The Wanderer roared in frustration, its attention now fully fixed on Caleb.

Caleb’s cold gaze snapped back to Rudy. “You were saying?”

Rudy swallowed hard, his fear now compounded with a fresh layer of terror. “Okay, okay! There’s… there’s a Metaflux destabilizer. I activated it when I realized things were going south. It’s overloading the containment fields.”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You suicidal idiot! Get it off. Now.” His voice was a low, lethal command.

Rudy scrambled back, shaking his head frantically. “I… I don’t know how! It’s on a timer! A failsafe!”

Caleb snarled, his face inches from Rudy’s, his eyes blazing with a terrifying mix of fury and desperation. “You're coming with me. Right now. You're going to deactivate that damn thing.” He didn't wait for a response, dragging the whimpering Rudy along the debris-strewn corridor, the screeching of the approaching Wanderers growing louder with each passing second.

They rounded a corner, and two more Wanderers, their forms flickering in and out of phase with reality, lunged at them from the shadows. Caleb didn’t even break his stride. With a flick of his wrist, a gravitational force slammed into the creatures, sending them spinning into the walls with bone-jarring impacts. They slumped to the ground, momentarily stunned.

“It’s in the main control room!” Rudy shrieked, his eyes wide with terror as he glanced back at the downed Wanderers, their guttural snarls echoing behind them. 

A few breathless, chaotic moments later, Caleb and a whimpering Rudy burst into the main control room. Sparks rained down from damaged consoles, alarms blared with deafening intensity, and the air crackled with unstable energy. Several Wanderers were already tearing through the room, their grotesque forms ripping apart equipment with savage abandon.

Caleb hurled Rudy towards a central console, its screens flickering with chaotic data streams. “There! The destabilizer! Find the override!”

Rudy stumbled, his eyes darting frantically over the complex array of buttons and holographic displays. “I… I don’t see it! It 's encrypted!”

Another Wanderer lunged at Rudy, its razor-sharp claws extended. Before Caleb could intervene, Rudy yelped and scrambled backwards, tripping over a fallen console. The creature was on him in an instant.

With a snarl of pure rage, Caleb unleashed a focused blast of energy, tearing through the Wanderer’s chest, sending it collapsing in a heap of shimmering flesh. “Focus fucker, I don’t have all night for this.”

Rudy, spurred by a terror that finally eclipsed his self-preservation instincts, mashed frantically at the console. Sparks flew from his fingertips as he bypassed security protocols, lines of code scrolling across the damaged screens in a chaotic blur.

Finally, a holographic interface flickered to life on the console, displaying a large red icon labeled METAFLUX DESTABILIZER — EMERGENCY OVERRIDE. Rudy’s trembling finger hovered over it.

A violent tremor tore through the floor beneath their feet, a deep, guttural groan emanating from the very foundations, as if the earth itself was tearing apart. The building convulsed.  Chunks of concrete and twisted metal rained down from the ceiling like deadly hail. The violent upheaval sent Caleb staggering, his normally rock-solid balance betraying him. He stumbled, his head colliding with a jagged piece of falling debris. A searing pain lanced through his skull, and the world dissolved into a swirling blackness. Consciousness flickered and died.

When his senses returned, the building was still groaning its death throes. His head throbbed with a sickening intensity, and his vision swam. Disoriented, he blinked, trying to clear the fog in his mind. Caleb’s head snapped towards Rudy, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What the fuck did you—?” 

Rudy lay crushed beneath a chunk of fallen ceiling, Blood soaked the concrete. The console, however, remained stubbornly intact, its holographic display still pulsing. Caleb didn't give the pulped remains a second glance. At least one less problem.

His only focus was you. He reached for the console, his hand hovering over the glowing icon, a moment's hesitation before the inevitable. Then, with a decisive thrust, he plunged his fingers into the light.

He had to get to you. He turned and ran, the image of you, vulnerable and possibly suffering, burning in his mind. He had to know if you were safe. If you were alive. And if that serum had touched you… he didn’t even dare finish the thought.

︶︶°︶︶

A violent surge of energy explodes tearing through the air with a deafening roar. A soundless eruption of pure, unleashed power. The shockwave rips through the building, slamming into walls and sending debris crashing to the ground. Steel beams shuddered, the ground beneath them buckling as the full impact of the blast tore through the building’s core. The boxes in the hall were explosives, which had further increased the shock wave. Flames ignite in the corners, curling up the walls, the heat suffocating. The ground shakes violently, and the ceiling cracks, chunks of concrete and metal falling to the floor.

None of the guards or Wanderers in the blast radius survive. Their bodies are torn apart, some vaporized on impact, others shredded by debris or crushed beneath the collapsing ceiling. Blood stains the floor before it’s swallowed by fire. The creatures never stood a chance. Not against that.

The force of the blow launched Sylus across the room, his body crashing against the ground with a sickening thud. For a moment, he doesn’t move. His ears ring. His vision doubles. The back of his skull throbs with sharp, pulsing pain. He groans, dragging himself to his elbows. 

What the hell just happened?

Sylus stumbles to his feet, wincing as his shoulder protests violently. A deep gash split the skin above his brow, blood spilling in slow, relentless rivulets that smeared down his temple and into his eye, blurring his vision. For anyone else, surviving an explosion like that would be a miracle. Even Sylus, with a body built to endure hell, has taken real damage and healing will take time. His jacket is torn at the seams, scorched and ragged, barely hanging on one side. Smoke curls from the charred fabric, revealing fresh cuts and bruises beneath. 

He ripped off what was left of his jacket, the scorched fabric falling from his shoulders. His shirt beneath was no better, ripped, soot-stained, and clinging to him in damp patches from sweat and blood. His crimson eyes, shadowed beneath blood and ash, searched the chaos for one thing. You.

You’re still glowing in the center of it all, body trembling. The flames spread quickly, licking at the walls, the heat unbearable. The whole place is a firestorm now, with walls caving in and the air thick with smoke. Sylus feels the heat on his skin as he tries to get back to you. He’s barely able to move before another wave of Rudy's men burst in, weapons drawn, and the chaos only escalates. Wanderers are also not giving a break. 

The building is coming apart, fire spreading in all directions. The rain that fell wasn’t enough to quench the hell that had broken loose. Seeing the number of enemies that are piling up, a retreat would be the most logical option. This just escalated beyond anything Sylus had prepared for. He glances back at you, lying unconscious on the ground. His heart clenches and his mind reels. He’d felt the moment it changed when your body twisted with pain, when something inside you fractured… and then detonated. This came from you . From deep inside your chest. The shockwave, the surge, the impossible energy of your aether core.

He doesn’t understand how or why. Surely, you’re not supposed to look like that, too still, too pale, eyes dazed and body swaying in the firestorm. Sylus cradles you in his arms, his grip desperate yet impossibly gentle, as if holding you too tightly might shatter what little remains of your fragile state. His mind screams at him to fix it, to make everything right. Your life hangs by a thread, and he feels it slipping through his fingers. His blood boils. His chest tightens. He should’ve known. He’s the one with half of your soul. The one who’s supposed to feel these things before they happen.

“Y/N…” he whispers, his voice breaking, raw with emotion he’s never allowed himself to show. The words tremble on his lips, his heart shattering with each syllable. “Open your eyes.”

But there’s no response. Your skin grows pale, the faint warmth that once comforted him now barely perceptible against the coldness of the moment. His heart drops into an abyss. You weren’t supposed to die like this. Not in his arms, not with ash in the air and your blood on his hands. Not when he had just gotten you back.

He pulls you tighter against his chest, one hand cradling your head, his thumb brushing against your cheek. You’re not allowed to leave him. Not after everything.

The anger, sorrow, and bloodlust churn inside him, an unbearable storm that demands release. Sylus has waited lifetimes for this, for you. Burned through empires. Spilled oceans of blood. All to get to you to share a future together. 

“My beloved…” His voice is barely there now. He kissed your temple. “Don’t do this...”

Something inside breaks. Sylus, the man one who has conquered with nothing more than his calm demeanor and his cold, calculating presence. The one they all feared. But now, as he stands in the wreckage, there is no cool detachment. There is no indifferent strategist. His expression is tight, his jaw set with a fury that has never before surfaced. His right eye, glowing like a dying star, reflects the turmoil inside him. Anger, sorrow and bloodlust twist together in a blinding maelstrom.

His evol built a shield around him as gunfire echoes through the space. The screams of the fallen mingle with the guttural roars of the Wanderers, their twisted forms wreaking havoc as they tear through what remains. 

The color of life drains from your body, and Sylus feels your soul slipping away. The unbearable realization rips through him like the swore you once put through his heart. His hands tremble as he pulls you tighter, pressing his forehead against yours, as if proximity alone could will your heart to keep beating. Your blood stains his clothes, seeping into the fabric, marking him with a reminder of the choices he’s made. He should’ve known better. Made Luke and Kieran drag you out the moment things went wrong. He should’ve blown Rudy’s empire to hell the second he found it and killed him the moment he laid eyes on you. He should’ve protected you.

His world tilts, and for the briefest moment, he sees nothing but darkness. A guttural, bestial roar erupts from his throat, raw and uncontained. The sound echoes through the crumbling warehouse like a harbinger of doom. 

“I let them see what a true fiend is.” 

When Sylus rises he doesn't rise as a man. He rises as wrath made flesh. Black and crimson mist swirled around him, tendrils of darkness coiling and writhing, punctuated by violent bursts of static electricity that snapped and crackled like miniature lightning storms. The atmosphere around him began to ripple, distorting with an unnatural, oppressive energy. His already tattered and battle-scarred clothing tore apart, shredding as if assaulted by unseen claws, as massive, obsidian wings erupted from his back.

They burst forth with terrifying force, their edges jagged and sharp, like shards of volcanic glass. Black horns, sharp and menacing, twisted upward from his skull, their base glowing faintly with the heat of his rage. Black scales cover part of his body and face. His eyes burned with a fearless, deathly glow, a crimson so vivid it seemed otherworldly. His gaze was void of humanity, carrying the weight of a predator awakened. A monster. A dragon.

The wings unfurled, stretching wide, their sheer size eclipsing the flickering flames that danced around him, casting long, ominous shadows that swallowed the light and plunged the warehouse into a terrifying twilight. 

Flames surged higher, licking at the steel beams and threatening the stability of the structure. Smoke and embers choked the air as debris began to rain down. Sylus raises his gaze from your face slowly, though still human in shape, his transformation into a mythical creature, a being feared throughout the history of humanity, was undeniable. 

The cacophony of gunfire falters. The armed men, ruthless moments ago, now freeze in terror. They stare at him, their weapons trembling in their hands. Through the blaze and destruction, Sylus appears like a wrathful deity descending into their midst. They can’t believe what they see, but it won’t matter. They won't live to share their story. Doom’s day has arrived, and it wears the guise of Sylus. 

Inside the building, the screams are like a twisted symphony, something out of a nightmare. Blood streaks the floors and walls, pooling around bodies that are barely recognizable. The smell of burnt flesh is everywhere, impossible to ignore. No matter who they are, humans or wanderers, everything must be annihilated until not a single being remains.

Through it all, Sylus never lets you go. You’re still in his arms, your fragile body limp against his chest. One arm holds you close, shielding you from the chaos. He holds you with all the gentleness he has left, while with the other he tears through anything that dares to get close.

It’s hard to tell how long it’s been. Time feels meaningless in the middle of this chaos. Sylus doesn’t stop to think or hesitate; he’s a blur of rage. There’s no satisfaction in it for him, no enjoyment in the bloodshed. Even as blood splashes across his face and claws, even as the flames climb higher, he never lets go. The massacre isn’t vengeance. It’s desperation, pure and unrelenting.

The hatred inside him feels like it’s eating him alive, fueling every swing, every strike. All he can think about is you, lying against him. He can feel the faint pulse of your heartbeat, and it’s the only thing grounding him, the only thing keeping him from completely losing himself.

Part of him wonders if fate is playing a cruel trick on him, once again drenched in blood, slaughtering everything in sight just to keep you alive. He prays with every ounce of his being that history won’t repeat itself. That he won’t lose control again. That the dragon’s curse won’t devour what’s left of his humanity and force him to relive the same doomed ending. 

Luke and Kieran were locked in their own brutal skirmish in the far corner of the building when they heard the roaring. 

"Is that…?" Luke started, his voice barely audible over the massacre as he hurled a knife, embedding it perfectly in the skull of an approaching enemy. Kieran, a few paces behind, drove his elbow into the throat of another, crushing it before slamming the body into a wall with a sickening crunch. 

The twins sprinted through the labyrinth of burning corridors, lungs searing as smoke clawed its way down their throats, the heat pressing in from all sides like a living thing.

When they reached the threshold of the main hall, they skidded to a halt, blocked by a searing wall of heat.

“Shit,” Luke hissed, shielding his face with his arm. “We can’t get through!”

The firestorm raged ahead of them. Smoke billowed upward, churning with glowing embers. Through the haze, distorted by heat shimmer and ash, they saw him. A towering silhouette cloaked in smoke and glowing blood-red eyes.

“Boss?” Luke asked, his tone edged with equal parts awe and apprehension. “Is he...?”

Kieran took a single step back, breath catching in his throat. “Fuck me…” he muttered, eyes wide. The rumors, the whispers, Sylus’s true nature wasn’t just legend to them anymore. From the heart of the inferno, they watched his black form move. The shadows bent around him. Every Wanderer, every guard who dared approach was torn apart, reduced to ash and splintered in seconds.

Sylus was done. The chaos, the screams, the blood, it was all taking too long, and he was done wasting time. His patience had run dry, and the growing inferno in his chest told him it was time to finish this. Completely.

Through the smoke and slaughter, his sharp eyes caught sight of Luke and Kieran slicing through the last wave of resistance. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Good.

“Luke, Kieran” Sylus called, his voice cutting through the madness like a blade. The twins turned to him immediately. “Blow the place. If the Colonel is still inside, get him out.” His voice was steel and fire. “She’ll never forgive me if he dies here.” He said, his tone leaving no room for argument. A beat passed. Just enough time for the gravity of his words to settle. “You know what to do” 

Kieran gave a mock salute, while Luke raised his thumb in approval.

“Got it, boss!” Luke said, taking the detonator out of his pocket, already setting the timer.

“This is the best part,” Kieran added, his excitement almost childlike as he looked at the detonator. “Fireworks time!”

Sylus didn’t linger to watch them work. With you still cradled in his arms, his wings unfurled in a massive sweep, scattering ash and debris. With a powerful leap, he took to the air, rising through the collapsing roof of the warehouse. Flames licked at the edges of his wings as he flew higher, his grip on you protective yet firm.

Luke and Kieran sprinted through the smoke-filled corridors, weaving between collapsing beams and scorched debris. The heat was rising, and time was running out. Luck or something close to it was on their side. As they rounded the corner of a fractured hallway, they nearly ran straight into Caleb. The colonel stood like a statue, framed by flickering firelight, soot streaking his cheek, eyes locked on something distant and unseen.

“Oh, there you are,” Luke said casually, like they'd just bumped into him in a grocery store.

Kieran offered a lopsided grin, casually flipping the detonator between his fingers. “We’re about to blow up the entire party. So unless you’re feeling nostalgic about your last brush with death, you might wanna move your ass.”

Caleb didn’t answer. His eyes were distant, locked on the burning horizon where Sylus had taken flight. Where you had disappeared. He definitely needs to get his head checked, what he just saw must have been an illusion. Caleb shook his head. He didn’t have the patience for snar. 

“Where is she?” His voice was low, hoarse like it had been dragged through gravel.

Luke gave a half-shrug. “Boss took care of her. We’re kind of in the middle of blowing shit up, though, so…”

“Where?” Caleb snapped, the fire back in his eyes, fury crackling at the edges of his voice.

Kieran looked over to his brother and then back to Caleb “Uh, we saved her, big guy. A thank you wouldn’t kill you.”

“Sure…” Caleb growled.

Unbothered, Luke pulled the detonator from his pocket and checked the timer. “We’ve got ninety seconds. You staying here to play martyr, or are you coming with us?”

Caleb exhaled slowly, dragging his hand down his face but he followed the two. 

“Man’s got issues," Kieran muttered.

“Yeah,” Luke muttered, eyes still on the timer. “We’ve got bigger ones if we don’t move.”

The three ran out as fast as they could, when they were far away enough to not get hit by the shock wave. Luke and Kieran stood by, both laughing like kids at a carnival. The warehouse erupted in a deafening explosion, fire and debris shooting into the night sky like a macabre display of fireworks. The twins watched the destruction with gleeful awe, reveling in the sheer chaos of it all.

“I love this job” Kieran said, brushing soot from his face.

“Best boss ever” Luke replied with a laugh, already heading for the exit.

︶︶°︶︶

You started to open your eyes a bit. You're not feeling good at all, the harsh wind confuses you.

“Sy...lus,” you whisper weakly. You don't know if your dreams have become intertwined with your reality. His face hovers above yours but half of it is cloaked in dark, glimmering scales. Something stirs deep inside you, rising like a tide through your body. You simply smile.

“Don't talk,” he says softly, his voice strained with emotion.

Sylus soared through the night sky above the N109 Zone, the wind howling past his ears as the ruined city sprawled beneath him. His eyes locked onto the distant glow of Philip’s Odd Workshop. His landing is gentle at the back of the building. The massive black wings folded once, then dissolved tendrils of red-black mist curling off his back, twisting like smoke in the cold air before vanishing into nothing. The claws, the fangs, the otherworldly edges gone in an instant. There he stood once more, just a man.

Still cradling your limp form in his arms, he burst through the back entrance. He cleared a space on one of the cluttered worktables with a brutal sweep of his arm, tools, gears, and strange half-finished contraptions clattered violently to the floor. He laid you down gently, but his hands trembled. Sylus could have flown you to Akso Hospital, to your doctor but he had the feeling that icy Zayne wouldn't be able to fix this. This wasn’t a wound of flesh.

“Phillip!” 

The man rushed out from the back room, the sound of Sylus’s voice having shattered the late-night quiet like a bomb. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the blood, the smoke still clinging to Sylus’s ruined clothes, and you motionless, pale.

“Mister Sylus?”

“I need your help. Now.” Sylus’s tone was sharp, near frantic, something rarely heard from him.

Phillip blinked, trying to make sense of it all, but the moment his eyes landed on you, recognition snapped into place. He was across the room in seconds, rounding the table, checking your vitals. 

“What happened?” he asked, already scanning the extent of your injuries. Phillip’s hands worked with speed that betrayed his age. 

“An explosion. It could be her Aether Core.” Phillip’s eyes widened. 

Philip started to move around with urgency. Cabinets slammed open. Wires were uncoiled. Electrodes and diagnostic panels were yanked from drawers and wheeled across the floor. A cold sweat glistened at his brow as he pressed the final electrode gently against your sternum, just over the faintly beating heart in your chest. 

“Why did you bring her here? She should be in the hospital.” Phillip muttered, mostly to himself. “Under twenty-four-hour critical monitoring…”

“She won’t make it to a hospital,” Sylus cut in. “And you should know how to fix this.” Sylus replied hoarsely.

Phillip hesitated, visibly rattled. “Miss Josefin was the one who designed the failsafe systems. I... I wasn’t cleared for full access, but—” He exhaled sharply, steel slipping into his gaze. “Okay. I can try to stabilize the core… if there’s still time.”

His fingers moved swiftly across the panel, inputting commands, rerouting surge lines, recalibrating energy conduits on instinct and partial schematics.

“It’s bleeding into her cellular network, overclocking the nervous system, fusing with her neural patterns. Her whole body is trying to evolve past what it can sustain.” Phillip swore under his breath. Your heart rate was erratic. Your heart rate jumped, then dropped. Spiked again. Vital signs flickered like a failing lightbulb on the edge of burning out.

Philip paused. His hands stilled. He looked up slowly, eyes shadowed, voice suddenly very quiet. 

“Mister Sylus…” he swallowed for a moment. “You’re asking me to patch a falling star with duct tape.” Philip hesitated, then added, softly like the truth might kill him just by saying it. “The last time I saw her vitals like this… she died.”

Sylus wants to cry, but the tears won’t come. It’s been millennia since they last did. The weight of his failure presses down on him, a corrupting force that leaves him feeling torn apart inside. He couldn’t protect you, and the guilt is unbearable. He sat down next to you. He reached for your cold fingers, pressing them between his hands. Sylus bowed his head, his forehead brushing the edge of the table, his breath shallow.

You stir faintly, your fragile movements drawing his attention. His head snapped up, eyes burning as they locked onto yours. Your lashes fluttered. Your breathing was shallow but you managed to open your eyes. The world around you swam in fractured light and shadow, but his face was clear. The way his gem-like eyes searched yours like a man clinging to his last hope.

You felt cold and hot all at once. Your skin clammy, sweat dampening your hairline, and yet inside of you, everything was burning. Melting. Breaking apart. The sparkle he always admired in your gaze was barely there now, dulled and fading.

“R...resonate with me,” you whispered. 

“No!” He shook his head immediately, torn from his chest as if it physically pained him. You pressed his hand weakly. You want to feel his warmth, to remind yourself you’re still here, even as your body grows colder.

“Please...” The word was barely a breath. 

Sylus hesitates, torn by doubt. Granting you this wish is too dangerous, you have no energy left to spare. The thought of you using the last bit of strength in you terrifies him. Philip, who had hovered nearby, opened his mouth, concerned with sharpening his tone. 

“Mister Sylus, that’s not—”

“Leave us alone for a moment....” he cuts Philips, took a deep breath and added “...please.” 

Philip hesitated, glanced between the two of you and then nodded, retreating into the shadows of the workshop with silent urgency. Sylus leaned closer, brushing a strand of damp hair from your forehead. His breath trembled against your skin.

“If I resonate with you now, you could die...”

His eyes squeezed shut, and for a timeless moment, the chaos around you both faded. There was only the fragile warmth of your skin against his, the shallow whisper of your breath against his cheek. He breathed you in, a silent act of devotion, memorizing the feel of you, the scent of you, the very essence of your fading presence. 

“Trust… me, please.” A single tear escaped the corner of your eye, tracing a lonely path down your temple. “Can you do that?” Another tear followed, and then another, silent testament to the fear and the desperate hope clinging to your heart.

Finally he lets out a sigh. Reluctantly, he intertwined his hand with yours, his grip firm but gentle. A faint, fragile smile flickered across your lips. With the last shred of strength you can muster, you push your energy through your hand, trying to show him... You weren’t sure what he’d feel. You only hoped he’d understand.

Sylus finally yielded, his fingers tightening around yours as the resonance began. A wave of heat floods your body, flowing from him to you, and vice versa. It's overwhelming, enveloping you in a cocoon of safety and comfort. It feels so good, so pure. For a moment, the pain subsides, replaced by an all-encompassing feeling of love. You can sense it in every fiber of your being: his devotion, his desperation, his refusal to let go.

And if this is the last time you will feel this way, if this is your final moment... then it’s worth it. Spending the last remnants of your energy to share this connection with him, this fleeting perfection it’s enough. You let yourself sink into the sensation, the world around you fading as his warmth becomes your entire universe.

As the resonance deepens, the warmth flooding through you brings clarity, and with it, memories long buried. Fragments of another life, your life with him, begin to surface. Images, emotions, fleeting moments of joy and sorrow, all coming together like a puzzle you didn’t know was incomplete. More tears slipped down your cheeks.

Your heart aches, not just from the pain, but from the overwhelming realization that you’ve loved him all along, not just these past months, but lifetimes ago. A love so enduring it has transcended time, waiting patiently for you to remember. 

Sylus’s eyes widened, surprise flickering across his face as he pulled back just slightly, just enough to see you, to make sure what he felt wasn’t some cruel illusion. His gaze searched yours, stunned, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just felt. Whatever you had just given him, it hit something buried deep inside. And it shattered him. His breath hitched.

You struggle to speak, your voice trembling but determined. “Sylus…” you take a ragged breath “I...I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Everything we had… you sacrificed… yourself.”

His eyes widen slightly even more, searching for the meaning behind your words. His grip on your hand tightens, the raw emotion in his eyes betraying the composure he tries so hard to maintain.

“I’m sorry for being so greedy” you continue, “I loved you so much, I couldn’t- I couldn’t let you die.”

Your free hand weakly moves to his face, brushing against his cheek. He leans into your touch like a man starved for it. His warmth grounds you, and though you’re so tired, the weight of those words lifts something heavy from your chest. For a fleeting moment, everything feels right, as if the universe itself pauses to acknowledge your truth.

His face twists. He presses your hand, shuddering breath escapes him. And for the first time in centuries, Sylus cries. His shoulders trembling as the tears silently streamed down his face.

“You remembered” Sylus's voice grows hoarser. You wipe some of the tears from his cheeks.

“Sincere feelings are hard to forget... you said that.”

His hand moves to cradle your face, his touch impossibly gentle despite the storm of emotions raging within him. For a man who always seemed unshakable, the vulnerability in his gaze is staggering. Without hesitation, Sylus pushed his power surging through you like a tidal wave. The warmth intensifies, and for a moment, it feels as if the very essence of his soul is pouring into you. Your injuries begin to mend, the pain receding as his energy knits your broken body back together. The fractures, the wounds, even the exhaustion, everything is erased as if the damage had never existed.

Sylus’s face is pale, the strain of using his Evol to such an extent evident, but he doesn’t stop. His only focus is you. “You’re not allowed to leave me then,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Ever.”

As the last of your injuries heal, you feel a strange mixture of relief and guilt. He’s given so much of himself to save you, and the depth of his love is almost overwhelming. You want to tell him everything, to promise you’ll stay but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you made a small, almost imperceptible movement, a silent attempt to rise. Instantly, he was there, his strong arms scooping you up, cradling you against his chest. A soft smile touched your lips, your fingers brushing against his chest. The warmth of his touch and the depth of his love lingering in your fading awareness. But the world around you begins to blur, the colors fading to a dull haze. You feel tired, incredibly tired, and you wish you could extend this moment a few more moments. A desperate longing bloomed in your chest, a selfish wish to stretch this moment. Just a few more breaths held in his arms, a few more heartbeats echoing against yours.

“My beloved dragon…” You whisper, your voice barely a breath. “I’ll always… be… with you.”

Your vision dims further, the light in your eyes vanishing as exhaustion overtakes you. Everything goes dark, a void swallowing you whole. The last thing you hear is Sylus’s voice, frantic and filled with desperation, calling your name. And then, softer, closer, a broken confession whispered against your hair, carried on trembling lips.

“I love you.” 

The words echo in the emptiness as you slip away, an inevitable pull of the darkness claiming you completely.

Six weeks later.

It’s a rainy day, the kind that turns the world into a grayscale painting. The radio murmurs in the background, its words cold and distant:

“After weeks of investigation, the police have officially closed the case on the death of Miss (Y/N). Her untimely passing during a critical mission in the N109 Zone marked the end of an extraordinary life…”

The radio clicks off abruptly. The soft patter of rain against the car window fills the silence, a maddeningly persistent sound. He sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world. His gaze was fixed on the water cascading down the glass. Finally, as if pulled by an invisible string, he reached for the door handle. He stepped out into the downpour, the cold rain instantly soaking his clothes, the umbrella lying forgotten on the passenger seat. He stood there, exposed and vulnerable, the gray world mirroring the desolate landscape of his heart.

The path to the graveyard is narrow, slick with mud and rain. He carries a bouquet of flowers, their vibrant colors muted in the dreary light. Each step feels heavier than the last, his shoots sinking slightly into the wet ground.

He reached your grave, nestled beside your grandmother's. Gently, reverently, he placed the flowers against the cold stone of your headstone. His hands lingered there, trembling almost imperceptibly, his shoulders hunched as if bearing an unbearable weight. “I couldn’t…” The words were a broken whisper, torn from a throat raw with grief. His heart felt equally shattered. “I told you to be careful…”

He clenches his fists tightly, his knuckles white as the storm rages around him. The words escape in a choked growl, swallowed by the rain. The man kneeling before your grave was a shadow of his former self. His black coat clings to his soaked form, water dripping from his hair onto his hollow cheeks. The once vibrant green of his eyes, usually sharp and knowing, was now muted, dimmed by the dark circles that spoke of countless sleepless nights haunted by your absence. His expression, usually unreadable, is cracked open, revealing a pain he hasn’t allowed himself to feel fully.

He wants to cry, to let the dam break and let the anguish consume him, but he’s terrified. If he starts, he may never stop, not in hours, not in days.

The sharp ring of his phone cuts through the rain, jarring him back to the present. Slowly, he pulls it from his pocket, his voice cold and distant once more.

“Yes… I see. I’ll be there in 20 minutes. Prepare the OR. Thanks.”

He lingers for a moment longer, staring at your name etched in stone before forcing himself to rise. Zayne hasn’t been the same since your death. The cracks in his carefully built facade are growing, but there’s no time to break. Duty calls. He walks back to the car, carrying the silence you left behind.

In the distance, the studio is in chaos, canvas after canvas leaning against walls, discarded paint-streaked brushes scattered on the floor, and a maddening array of half-finished portraits covering every surface. Each one is the same: your face.

Rafayel hasn’t stopped. Day and night, he paints obsessively, as if capturing you on the canvas might somehow bring you back. The smell of turpentine and oil paint lingers in the air, mixing with the suffocating weight of his grief. Yet, despite the feverish pace, there are moments when he sits in the corner, staring at the wreckage of his art, torn between the drive to create and the overwhelming desire to quit everything altogether.

At your funeral, he couldn’t bring himself to step closer. He stood at a distance, his broad frame cast in shadow, hands buried deep in his coat pockets to hide their trembling. The ceremony unfolded before him like a surreal play, his vision blurring as people wept and spoke of your life.

When they lowered you into the ground, Rafayel turned his face away, unable to watch. His heart felt like it was being wrenched from his chest. He stayed in the background until the last of the mourners departed, the sound of his uneven breaths lost to the wind. He would wait for you once more, waiting for the moment you will be reborn.

Xavier disappeared the moment your death was confirmed, leaving no trace, no explanation. It was as if he vanished into thin air. He didn’t attend the funeral, didn’t show up to any memorials or gatherings. No one knew where he went, not even the Hunter Association. He simply left, as if the world had become too much to bear after your loss.

Rumors spread, some said he was on another mission, others whispered that he had broken, retreating from the world to grieve in isolation. The truth was far different from what anyone had assumed. Xavier hadn't disappeared to grieve in silence, he had thrown himself into his work, desperate and consumed by a single goal. He was holed up in his spaceship, working tirelessly, but with no success. Every day, he scoured the endless streams of data, searching for a way to bring you back. He refused to believe the official story, that your death was just the result of a mission gone wrong. To him, it was all lies for the public. The idea that your death was a simple accident, part of a mission, felt like a betrayal of everything he knew about you. 

The N109 Zone had always been full of secrets, and Xavier was willing to sacrifice everything to uncover the truth, even if it meant losing himself in the process. But no matter how many leads he followed, no matter how many hours he spent in the darkness of his ship, the answers eluded him. Every failure, every dead-end only pushed him further into obsession. But he wouldn’t stop. 

The news of your death hit Caleb with denial and desperation. No. Not you. It can't be. He clung to the fragile hope of a terrible mistake, a cruel rumor that would soon be proven false. His love for you, a possessive tendril that had wrapped around his heart since childhood, twisted into a burning resentment. Someone had to be held accountable for this unbearable void in his world. And his gaze, sharp with suspicion and fueled by a desperate need for retribution, immediately landed on Sylus. He had taken you from him, either through direct action or by the mere fact of his existence in your life.

The Professor observed Caleb's devastation with a cold, calculating gaze. The raw, unraveling grief of his prized subject was a temporary setback, an inconvenient detour on the path to his grand design. While a flicker of annoyance might have crossed his features at the disruption, his mind quickly pivoted. Caleb's emotional fragility was a liability, a delay in his meticulously crafted plans. Other children, other evolvers – they were out there. He simply needed to find them, mold them, and continue his work. He would simply find another, perhaps even more potent, component to take its place. The grand experiment would continue.

The world kept spinning, relentlessly moving forward, and even for Sylus, life had to go on. Standing in the kitchen, he let the weight of the past few weeks settle on him, but the familiar routine of making coffee offered some small comfort. Since your death, everything has been more complicated. Cleaning up the mess after the shit show with Rudy was a massive effort, one that drained him more than he cared to admit. He took a sip of his coffee, savoring the warmth for just a moment.

Every piece had to be placed perfectly, from the fake mission briefing on your hunter watch to the carefully orchestrated setup of your death. Nothing could ever lead the investigation back to him or Onychinus. He couldn’t afford any loose ends.

Sylus sighed and poured himself another cup, this time filling it with tea. The calmness of the hot liquid briefly soothed him before the weight of the situation came crashing back. That night was more than a horrible nightmare. No matter how many times he reviewed the facts and the scenario, he always arrived at the same terrible conclusion: even if he had known about the serum and Ever’s experiments earlier, it wouldn’t have changed much. Even if he’d killed Rudy long ago, with Ever Group lurking in the shadows, the risk would’ve still been there.

He carried the two cups into his office, the ceramic clinking softly in the quiet room. From the old speaker in the corner, Chopin’s Waltz in A Minor played faintly, the delicate piano notes curling through the air like smoke—melancholy and timeless. He sank into his familiar chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him.

The faint light caught the exhaustion etched into his features, the shadows beneath his eyes a testament to the sleepless nights haunted by your memory. Healing from that night also took a long time. He had been forced to rely heavily on Luke and Kieran, entrusting them with responsibilities he would normally have shouldered himself. Despite their sometimes airheaded nature, they are loyal employees.

“We should not do that again,” Sylus murmured.

A small laugh came from across the room, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Why not? It worked, didn't it?” your voice teased, a familiar spark of mischief in its tone.

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that spoke of both exasperation and a grudging admiration. “Sweetie,” he said, “you are breathtakingly reckless but... I must say, you never stop surprising me.”

“You were the one who so poetically declared I should go beyond the confines of light and shadow ,” you countered, a playful glint dancing in your eyes, mirroring the earlier mischief in your voice.

Sylus snorted, a short, almost disbelieving laugh escaping his lips. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

“Indeed,” he replies with a smirk. “My dramatic pronouncements do have a tendency to come back and bite me. However,” he emphasized, his eyes narrowing slightly, “I distinctly recall the phrasing step beyond, not faking your death .”

You settled deeper into the warmth radiating from the teacup cradled in your hands, a soft, almost contemplative expression on your face.

“It was necessary, Sylus,” you said quietly, the playful edge in your voice slipping away. “Ever won’t be looking for a corpse. This buys us time. Besides,” you added, putting the cup down again, your gaze lifting to meet his. “I didn’t exactly fake my death. I was dead.”

A shadow flickered across Sylus’s features, a momentary eclipse of the earlier amusement, as he straightened and moved with swift purpose to the sofa where you were curled. Without a word, you shifted into his embrace, a silent seeking of comfort and reassurance in his familiar presence. His arms closed around you, a protective embrace that spoke volumes of his fear, a tangible manifestation of his terror at the thought of losing you again.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm against your skin. “Even if I’m glad you came back,” he murmurs “we still don’t know how that was possible.” You leaned into his warmth, the steadiness of his heartbeat a soothing rhythm against your ear. 

“My Aether Core.” you say, your voice quiet but steady. “The power it has... I want to work with Phillip. Understand it.”

Sylus tightens his hold on you slightly, his gaze serious as he studies your face. “I won't let you play with it. It took twenty days for you to wake up from that coma.”

You nod slowly, eyes distant. Thoughts still tangled in the dark. “It felt like… like something inside me refused to let go.” Unsure how to finish the thought, you trail off. “I never thought I would do the same as Caleb.” you whisper finally. “Disappearing and visiting my own tomb.”

Sylus didn’t answer right away. He just held you tighter. You felt his breath against your hair, uneven. 

“Don’t worry,” you whispered. “I won’t leave you.”

When you finally opened your eyes, Sylus didn’t breathe. Twenty days. Twenty days of silence. Of your still hands and shallow breaths. The sorrow. The weight. His past, bleeding into yours. The sorceress and the dragon. It sounded like a myth. A girl cloaked in light, and a monster cloaked in fire. You had once tried to tame the beast with nothing but kindness and bare hands. And he had once promised to protect you, even as his world turned to ash. He’d failed before. He wouldn’t fail again. Even when something had changed in you after waking up. 

“Sylus…” Your voice, normally a melody of warmth and kindness, had now a sinister undertone. “What if… I want to destroy the world?” You moved a bit in his embrace, resting your temple against his, feeling his familiar warmth. When you looked into his eyes, the depth he saw there was no longer the clear pool of your soul, but a swirling vortex of shadow and greed. You didn’t blink. “Would you still stand by my side?”

He had glimpsed this nascent darkness in the moments after you awoke, a seed of something powerful taking root. Now, it was blossoming, and a strange sense of acceptance settled within him. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his lips, a mirror to the storm gathering within you. “You’ll always be free to do whatever you want when you’re with me.”

“It might be dangerous,” you warned.

He cupped your face, his thumbs tracing the delicate curve of your cheekbones, his gaze locked on the unsettling brilliance of your eyes. “I can handle it, kitten.”

Then you smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of your lips, and your left eye flared with a crimson intensity that echoed the same intensity that ignited in Sylus's right. In that shared incandescent flash, the truth resonated, undeniable and profound. The seal in your mind shattered. Your souls were no longer separate entities but two halves of a singular, formidable whole, every nuance of feeling laid bare. 

The sorceress had risen, and her dragon would unleash hell itself before letting her slip away again. A dark promise, a twisted vow whispered between two souls bound by a love that now embraced the shadows. They would let the world burn, and they would stand together in the ashes. After all, you and Sylus were the same.

True kindred spirits.

Navigator to MASTERLIST: SYLUS FANFICS

It’s been a long journey coming to the end of this story. Thank you for walking through the fire with them. For reading. For feeling. For staying until the very end.

This story came alive because I once read a short fic about a kidnapping, like month ago. It stayed with me and I thought, what if the rescue wasn’t short? What if it was messy, long, painful... and full of love and mystery. And so, "Let the World Burn" was born. I enjoyed it a lot.

Writing this meant more to me than I can explain. To everyone who read, commented, or quietly felt something along the way, you helped to bring this story on this platform. And for that, I’m endlessly grateful.

If you haven’t subscribed to my page yet, feel free to do so. One-shots and short stories will still pop up now and then and if you enjoyed this insane, sprawling fic, maybe you’ll find joy in the little ones too. (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

With love, Salem

[greatmistakes]

Luke and Kieran: hey boss when’s your birthday?

Sylus: no

MC: hey Sylus w—

Sylus: April 18th, also my star sign is aires, my Chinese zodiac is the rat, my favourite colour is red—

[greatmistakes]

Like a Phoenix - Masterlist

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 92.2k

Warnings: enemies to lovers; slow burn; Bucky is harsh on reader for a while; mentions of murder, fire, death, knives, blood; loss of parents; violence; injuries; fever; sexism; prejudices; knife throwing; theft; crying; classism; manhandling; self-loathing; talk of betrayal; talk of arranged marriage; suggestive themes; kissing; protective!Bucky

Author’s Note: This is the story that received the highest number of votes in last month's WIP poll. I inquired through another poll if you all preferred this to be a series or a one-shot, and well, here we are. I don’t know how long this will end up being, but I guess about 6-7 chapters. Hope you'll enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

♡ This series is complete ♡

Requests for bonus chapters are open

~ Chapters ~

• part one

• part two

• part three

• part four

• part five

• part six

• part seven

• part eight

• part nine

• part ten

• epilogue

“And just as the Phoenix rose from the ashes, she too will rise. Returning from the flames, clothed in nothing but her strength, more beautiful than ever before.”

- ShannenHeartzs

[greatmistakes]

if the world was ending | b.b.

summary: bucky knows he’s still in love with you a year after the two of you mutually agreed to break up. when one phone call spirals into one plan being made and then another, and then suddenly he’s staying at your place, he wonders if there may be a chance to try again.

WARNINGS: small angst, a whole lotta fluff, literally fluff, swearing, mentions of s e x but they don’t do the do pairing: modern!bucky barnes x fem!reader word count: 6.7k

a/n: inspired by if the world was ending by jp saxe (ft. julia michaels). a kinda real take on how sometimes the timing just isn’t right for a relationship and how sometimes it is.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Your voice echoes in his car and he nearly shivers at how gentle, sleepy, you sound. He wondered where you’d be: at a bar or at home, working overtime or eating out after a long night, on a date. The thought had made him tired, sad, but it didn’t tear a hole through him as it once would.

Keep reading

[greatmistakes]

Don't Touch the Tech Girl

Summary : Sam told Bucky that you, his new tech engineer, was off-limits. But that just makes Bucky want you more.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x engineer!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Lots and lots of sexual tension, sexual themes, workplace power dynamics, Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant-ish. cursing. Sex is mentioned and described but nothing too graphic. Small mention that Bucky used to smoke.

Word Count : 5.7k

Notes : Hi all! I will post my series soon, but for now, I am focusing on one shots because I am in the process of moving flats! Also, some tag requests has been buried under comments, so please message me/or shoot me an ask if you'd like to be tagged! Enjoy!

You weren’t born into privilege, not handed your brilliance by name or legacy. You were forged by curiosity, tenacity, and a drive so relentless it kept you awake at night designing theoretical blueprints for machines that didn’t exist yet. While other kids were watching cartoons, you were trying to figure out how the animation worked.

You were the kind of brilliant that couldn’t be taught. The kind that made people uncomfortable. The kind that made people notice.

After the blip, Wakanda needed help to rebuild.

You were in your last year of doctoral research when Shuri found you. You'd written a paper on vibranium-adaptive circuitry— not for application, just out of scientific obsession. She read it, tracked you down and showed up in your lab without fanfare.

“You know this theory would work,” she said, scanning your schematics. “You’ve already solved a problem most people can’t even pronounce.”

You blinked, still in awe. “You’re Princess Shuri.”

The next few years were a blur. You worked in Wakanda, helping design and restore crucial systems. You helped lead the research initiative for post-Blip infrastructure. You reverse-engineered Stark-tech, collaborated with Griot before taking a lecturing gig at MIT.

There, you mentored a long list of young brilliant minds, including Riri Williams.

And yet… something felt off.

Despite everything, you felt caged. 

Then you realised, ever since Wakanda, theory wasn’t enough for you. You were a hands-on person now. You needed problems to solve. You missed the adrenaline, the mess of a work table.

You missed the smell of soldered wires, the constant whir of active prototypes, the thrill of fixing tech that was actively falling apart.

That’s when the offer came from Sam Wilson and Joaquin Torres. 

The new Captain America and his chaos-prone Falcon needed a tech engineer for their field equipment, specifically their state-of-the-art wing packs.

They asked around, and Shuri had personally recommended you.

“Trust me,” she told Sam, “she’ll do more than fix it. She’ll make it better.”

Sam finally reached out, officially.

“The government engineers hate me,” he confessed over the first video call. “You might be our only hope.”

You liked them immediately,  and the job was exactly what you’d been missing.

It felt alive, unpredictable, high-stakes, high-tech, and high-risk.

So you packed up your comfortable teaching post at MIT. Said goodbye to pristine labs and overly polite faculty meetings and stepped into a small ops base that felt more like a rich family’s garage than a government facility.

And that’s where you met him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky to his friends. 

You have heard of him before, of course. Shuri called him her second favourite white boy, just behind Everett Ross. In fact, she saw him as a brother more than anything else.

You didn’t know it yet, but he was about to become your favourite problem.

—

You were muttering curses at Redwing when you first met him.

The drone had fried its microthruster mid-flight, and of course, no one bothered to tell you until after Sam crash-landed into a water tower.

So now, it was 10:43 p.m., the base was dead quiet, and you were hunched over your workbench, coffee long cold, hair pulled back like you meant business.

“Alright, you little bastard,” you muttered, soldering iron in hand. “Spark in the wrong fuckin’ direction again and I’m rewriting your personality subroutines to a roomba.”

“That’s one hell of a threat,” a voice behind you drawled. 

Unaware of a second person in the room, you jumped slightly in shock, finishing the adjustment with a quick twist of your tool. “Either you’re good at stalking,” you said, glancing over your shoulder, “or terrible at announcing yourself.”

He shrugged. “I’m good at a lot of things.”

You clocked the metal arm— and you knew it was Bucky Barnes. The former Winter Soldier, looking every bit the part with a black shirt and dark hair tucked behind his ears. Sam must’ve called him in for some field work, maybe on-ground support for tomorrow's mission.

“You always lurk in corners?” you teased.

He tilted his head. “Do you always talk dirty to drones?”

That earned a laugh from you as you wiped your hands on a nearby rag. “Only the ones that misbehave.”

His eyes darted to your grease-streaked hands before he saw Redwing flickering online.

“Sam said you were good,” he said, whistling low. “Didn’t say you were this good. Redwing’s been dead for two weeks, and you’ve got him up again in what—a day?”

You shrugged casually. “I like working with things that don’t talk back.”

“That’s gonna be a problem.”

“Why’s that?” You narrowed your eyes. 

“Because I do.”

You didn’t look away, lips curving up into a sly smile. “I can handle it.”

That earned you a grin. He stepped closer, just across the workbench now. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel.

His eyes dropped to the drone. “You re-routed the thermal sensors.”

You arched a brow. “This your idea of flirting?”

He looked up, blue eyes gleaming with excitement. “Would it work if it was?”

Your laugh came easy, but your fingers didn’t stop moving. “Depends. You as hands-on as you look?”

He didn’t answer— not right away. He just moved around the workbench until he was behind you.

Then he whispered, “Try me.”

Your heartbeat thumped out of your chest, but your hands stayed steady. Only barely.

“You really shouldn’t sneak up on someone working with high-voltage components,” you let out a small laugh, warning him of more than just the circuitry. “I might shock you.”

Before he could say something even cockier, Sam opened the door and entered the room. “See you’ve met our new tech girl, Buck.”

You flinched slightly, and Bucky moved back.

Technically, Sam was your boss. 

So technically, Bucky was your boss’ best friend.

And that was a bad idea, right?

—

It started small.

The flirting was inevitable— of course you were attracted to each other.

He was your type, you were his type. It wasn’t exactly rocket science.

But it wasn’t just… that. 

He… actually made the effort to get to know you. You became friends first. He asked about your life: What made you tick. What pissed you off. What you did when no one was watching.

You gave him pieces of yourself.

And he gave you… things. Like a Eurasian Jay trying to mate by giving nuptial gifts.

The first time, it was totally casual. He gave you a protein bar post-mission.

“Figured you skipped lunch,” he said, tossing it onto your desk without meeting your eyes too long.

You were elbows-deep in Sam’s pack diagnostics, but you looked up. You arched your brow.

“Did Sam send you to make sure I didn’t pass out?”

“Nope,” he said, already walking away. “I’m just naturally thoughtful.”

You stared after him.

Thoughtful. Right. 

That was the word we were using now.

The next week, he got you coffee, just the way you liked it. Down to the brand and milk-to-caffeine ratio.

You mentioned it off-handedly a couple days ago, and he remembered. 

“Just happened to be in the area,” he said, leaning against the doorway like it wasn’t a forty-minute drive from where he lived.

You eyed him over the rim of your cup. “The base is not on the way to anywhere.”

“I took the bike,” he shrugged, “Made good time.”

You tried not to smile, but failed.

The week after that, he gave you a tiny gear charm on a thin, silver chain— clearly handmade, probably by him. It looked crooked, but it was beautiful to you, with teeth like a puzzle piece.

“Reminded me of you,” he said, like it was nothing, all while short-circuiting your entire nervous system.

You held it up between two fingers. “Because I’m small, stubborn, and get jammed in places I don’t belong?” You offered an explanation if he wasn’t brave enough to admit it.

He grinned, not denying it. “You said it, not me.”

You should’ve told him to knock it off. Maybe set some professional boundaries. You really should’ve.

Instead, you let him put the chain around your neck and wore it under your shirt like a dirty little secret. 

The next week, he lingered longer and leaned in closer. He watched you work with that look— focused, and if not a little possessive. He had his hands in his pockets, thumb tapping against his belt like he was holding something back.

You glanced at him. “You trying to get something, Bucky?”

He tilted his head, deadpan. “Yeah. You.”

You almost dropped your wrench.

You coughed and laughed at the same time—half-flustered, half-shocked. “Fuck. Just lead with it next time.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

After that, the flirting escalated. 

But… neither you nor him would do anything about it. Not while Sam was watching, anyway.

You’d be wrist-deep in tangled circuitry, and he’d pass you a screwdriver, letting his fingers brush yours just a second too long.

He’d stand behind you, “supervising” while you calibrated Joaquin’s flight pack— and he was close enough to feel his breath to ghost your shoulder, close enough that your body went still and hyper-aware of every little movement,

By month three or four, everyone was catching on.

One morning, Joaquin stood in the break room, sipping his coffee, nodding toward the door.

“Why does Bucky come here when we don’t need him on a mission?” he asked under his breath, eyes darting toward the man near your workstation. His arms were folded, eyes glued to you in a fitted tank top that was definitely not regulation.

Sam didn’t even bother to look up from his tablet. “Because he’s trying to get laid.”

Joaquin choked on his coffee. “Dude.”

“Which is why we’re keeping an eye on him,” Sam just sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose like this whole situation was giving him a headache. “Because if we lose her, we’re screwed. You know how hard it is to find someone who can keep up with our gear?”

—

Fifteen minutes later, Sam found Bucky walking in the hallway. “We need to talk.”

Bucky didn’t even slow his pace. “If this is about the vibranium plate I broke—”

“It’s about you trying to rail our tech engineer.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s... direct.”

“I’m serious!” Sam glanced around, lowering his voice but not his tone. “She’s brilliant. Like—Stark-level genius with none of the god complex. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

“She is impressive,” Bucky admitted, which was code for: she’s been living rent-free in my fantasies for months.

“She’s more than impressive,” Sam snapped. “She’s irreplaceable. And if you screw this up—you’re gonna ruin the best hire I’ve made in years.”

Bucky stopped walking, folding his arms. “You think I’m gonna what, ghost her?”

“I know you,” Sam pointed, though he had to mentally compartmentalise to ask how he knew what ghosting was later. “You’re looking at her like she’s the last cigarette on the planet, and I know you haven’t smoked for like, six years.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You really sat with that one, huh?”

“You can’t unfuck someone at work, Barnes. I’ve lived this,” Sam shot back. “Base hookups never end clean. And if it goes sideways, I lose my tech lead and you lose the one person who knows how to recalibrate your arm without needing a manual.”

There was a beat of silence, and Bucky almost looked thoughtful.

“So…” he started, “You’re saying I should commit.”

“I’m saying—” Sam dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus, no. I’m saying do not touch her. She is vital to the team. To our equipment. To my sanity. She’s not just someone you can have a fling with, she’s infrastructure.”

Bucky tilted his head, amused. “You just compared her to a bridge.”

“She is a bridge! Between functioning tech and whatever disaster Joaquin brings back from the field. I swear to fuck, if you make things weird—”

“You’ll what?” Bucky asked, liking the challenge.

“I will get Shuri to reprogram your arm to slap you every time you look at her.”

“You’re really making this sound more appealing,” Bucky mumbled under his breath. 

See, Sam had made a big mistake.

Huge.

Because if there was one thing Bucky Barnes couldn’t resist, it was a challenge.

And by making you officially off-limits, he just wanted you more. 

He hadn’t even planned on catching feelings —he didn’t even know if he had the capacity for real ones anymore— until you. 

Annoyingly smart and stupidly hot. And underneath all that genius and grease-stained sarcasm was someone who actually made him want things.

So, what did he do?

Exactly what he wasn’t supposed to.

—

After the talk, Sam became a human firewall.

Every time you and Bucky were in the same room, Sam was there, supervising like he was running a daycare.

Once, you were just trying to update Redwing’s targeting algorithm.

Bucky was trying to hand you a wrench.

And Sam was standing six feet away, arms crossed, pretending to scroll through something on his tablet.

“Can I help you, Cap?” you asked, eyes flicking up.

“Nope,” Sam said. “Just observing.”

“You know you don’t need to be here right?” You chuckled. You knew he just got back from a mission, and he could use some rest. “You can take a break.”

“Bucky doesn’t need to be here, either.”

You didn’t even look at Bucky, but you felt the smile he was fighting off.

Bucky leaned in anyway, a bit too close for Sam’s liking under the guise of pointing at the display.

“Think this line’s pulling too much voltage,” he said.

You tilted your head, lowering your voice to match his, and so your boss couldn’t hear. “You just want to whisper in my ear.”

He nodded subtly. “And you like it when I do.”

“Barnes.” Sam’s voice cracked like a whip. “Step back. Let her work in peace.”

Bucky backed off with a dramatic sigh.

You… didn't notice.

Or if you did, you didn’t comment then. You just kept being you— and that was enough to do unspeakable things to Bucky's self-control.

He’d pass you a tool with his human hand on your lower back. You’d bite your lip when you were concentrating and not realise he’d stopped listening to the briefing entirely.

But every time Bucky tried to sneak in even a halfway flirtatious line, Sam was right there.

“Hey, you need help with the cooling matrix?” Bucky asked one afternoon, leaning over your shoulder just enough to smell your shampoo. “I’m pretty good with my hands.”

Before you could answer, Sam spoke up. “She’s good. She doesn’t need help. She’s very capable.”

You turned to blink at him. “I didn’t say I wasn’t.”

“Just making sure Tin Can remembers,” Sam muttered, sipping his coffee.

It only got worse from there.

Team debrief? Sam sat between you two.

Lunch break? Sam invited himself to sit directly across from you and stare Bucky down like he was a teenage boy trying to date his daughter.

Mission prep? Sam suddenly needed you for private discussions that lasted just long enough to make Bucky grit his teeth.

Bucky was seconds away from losing it.

It was fucking hard to just not… snap.

Literally and metaphorically.

And now Sam was acting like your personal chaperone. Bucky swore the next time he got in the way, he was going to launch him out the nearest window.

He was tired of being treated like a threat when all he’d done was look at you like you were made of stars.

So later that night, when he found you alone in the garage— legs crossed on the workbench, music playing while you tinkered with Redwing’s sensors— he stood in the doorway a moment too long.

You looked up, smiling without hesitation. “You got past Sam’s force field?”

“He’s out cold after training,” Bucky shrugged. “He tried to go without coffee today.”

You snorted. “That’ll do it.”

He stepped closer and hesitated. “Did you know he’s been keeping us apart?”

You didn’t look up. Not yet. “Figured something was going on.”

“He thinks we’ll mess up,” Bucky said. “Thinks we’ll make it awkward.”

You set your tool down, finally looking at him.

“Let me guess,” You gave him that smile. It was dangerous. “That makes you want me more?”

Bucky let out an incredulous laugh, running a nervous hand through his hair. “You know me so well.”

You hopped down off the bench, walking over until you were standing in front of him, your chest barely brushing his. 

“So what now?” Your head tilted just enough to be a question. “You finally gonna make your move while the warden’s asleep?”

His lips tugged into a half-smile. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d like a lot of things,” you said, letting the suggestion hang.

Bucky’s eyes darkened. 

You tilted your head, chin high. “You didn’t think I noticed?” you asked. “How you always find a reason to be close?”

He didn’t move. He couldn't. Not when you were this close. 

“And I kept wondering,” you whispered playfully, eyes on his lips now, “if you were going to keep playing the long game, or finally admit how bad you want it.”

Bucky’s breath caught. His fingers twitched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to reach for you.

You didn’t give him the chance.

You kissed him.

And god, he melted.

It wasn’t soft. At least, not at first. 

Both your lips parted, a moan caught in your throat as he gripped your waist and pulled you into him like he’d been holding back for weeks. 

His mouth moved with yours like he needed you to survive.

It was the kind of kiss that said this has been driving me crazy and I’m done pretending it hasn’t. His metal hand slid up your neck, fingers tilting your face just right, the human one curling around your lower back.

You pressed in closer, feeling now how tightly he held you, as if he didn’t trust this wasn’t a dream.

When you finally pulled back, you pressed your forehead to his.

His eyes fluttered open.

He looked... dazed.

He looked like he’d been hit with a truck full of hormones.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbled, and then blinked, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You grinned, cheeks hot.

“You’re wrecked,” you teased, amused. “I barely kissed you.”

“You call that barely?” he breathed, stunned. “Christ.”

Then, he ran the back of his fingers along your jaw. “I’ve wanted that for so long I forgot what not wanting it felt like.”

You leaned in again, brushing your nose against his. “Then take what you want, Sarge.”

His smile turned dangerous.

This little escapade ended with you pulling Bucky into the nearest supply closet and locking the door behind you.

You didn’t even give him a chance to catch his breath.

“You sure about this?” he asked, the light catching in his eyes like silver and smoke.

You just grabbed the collar of his shirt to yank him down into another kiss. 

What happened next wasn’t exactly PG.

There was heat, and hands, and the kind of breathy curses that barely made it past lips pressed together. Bucky’s dog tags clinked against the trinket necklace that he gave you. Something fell off a shelf. You didn’t notice. Bucky didn't care.

At one point, you were both breathless and laughing, pressed chest-to-chest in the cramped space, when you whispered, “This is so unprofessional.”

Bucky whispered back, “Shhhh, I’m busy,” right before he kissed you again, muttering downright filthy praises as he made his way to his knees. 

Forty minutes later, the door clicked open and you both reemerged. 

Not quite innocent, but decent enough. Bucky’s hair was slightly more tousled than usual, and you’d thrown on a hoodie over your tank top, even though you never wore your hoodie indoors. 

But now, you had to. Or else Sam would see the marks Bucky left along your neck. 

An hour later, Sam finally stirred from his coffee-deprived coma.

He shuffled into the hangar, muttering about needing espresso and a neck brace.

The first thing he saw was you and Bucky standing near your workstation. Flirting, but overall looking normal.

Almost.

But you were in your hoodie. Inside.

Sam squinted.

“Huh,” he muttered. “That’s new.”

You didn’t even blink. “It’s cold in here.”

Sam shrugged. Best not to think too much of it.

—

Hooking up with Bucky Barnes was never supposed to feel like falling in love.

But it did.

Not in a dramatic, slow-motion, hearts-eyes kind of way.

It happened steadily. Like gravity.

Sam thought the crush had run its course when the flirting died down in public. He figured the spark fizzled, and neither of you wanted to admit it. So he started easing up on the chaperoning. 

What he didn’t know was that the tension had stopped boiling over in public because you’d found an outlet to release it in each other’s bed. 

But it was never just that.

You started to notice how Bucky watched your face—not your body—when you talked about something that excited you. Like your circuitry project, or the Wakandan energy conversion systems. Or the ridiculous theory you had about quantum-linked processors and how they might someday change the world.

He listened, not out of obligation, but curiosity. He wanted to know how your mind worked, even if the words flew over his head.

He started sleeping over after your late-night hookups. At first it was just practical. After a mission, he'd stumble into your bed, and afterwards, neither of you had the energy to move.

But then it became a comfort. 

Then it was something he didn’t want to go without.

One morning, you found him installing blackout curtains in your bedroom.

“You hate waking up early,” he said with a shrug. “Thought this might help.”

And maybe that was the moment you realised it wasn’t casual anymore. Maybe that was the moment you realised you weren’t falling— you’d already fallen.

He took you out, and was a real gentleman about it, too. 

He always took you to the coffee shop you loved—the one with awful chairs and strange wall art and croissants that tasted like buttery clouds. He’d sit next to you with his sunglasses on and his hand in yours, like his body didn’t know how not to be near you. 

He let you ride on the back of his bike, with your arms wrapped around his waist.

He’d park on quiet hills overlooking the city lights, hand you a drink from a fast-food drive-thru and just… sit. 

Sometimes you’d talk. 

You talked about Wakanda. About Shuri—how much you missed her. How much he did, too. 

You talked about the things you were afraid to want. A future. Stability. 

He told you that you made him feel normal. Like a person, not a weapon.

You told him he made you feel seen. Like someone worth noticing, beyond an academic accomplishment.

And when he kissed you, sometimes it felt like it hurt. Sometimes you wondered if it scared him to fall in love.

One night, he even took the leap and whispered I love you.

You said it back, just as gently.

So yeah, technically you were dating.

Not that Sam or Joaquin knew.

—

You still tried to play it casual— at least in public.

Which brings us to one very specific Saturday afternoon.

You and Bucky had been… busy.

The kind of busy that started with you on your kitchen counter, legs wrapped around his waist and ended up with you bent over that same counter, forearms braced against the cool marble, your hoodie bunched up around your waist.

Bucky's hands gripped your hips like he was anchoring himself, hips snapping forward in a rhythm that bordered on sinful.

You moaned, biting your lip just to stay somewhat quiet, but failing miserably.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled against the back of your neck. “You were made for me.”

You tried to let out a breathless, wrecked laugh, but all that came out was a broken sigh.

You were close. So close—

And then the front door opened.

You had accidentally left it unlocked.

At first, you didn’t register it, not over the sound of your own moaning. Not over Bucky’s groans and the slap of skin on skin.

Until—

“Yo, I just came by to grab the upgrades—OH MY GOD.”

Joaquin was standing frozen in your doorway.

His eyes were wide, mouth open, and you could’ve sworn his soul was visibly leaving his body.

You screamed.

Bucky swore.

You yanked your hoodie down, cheeks burning. Bucky stepped in front of you like he could somehow block the mental trauma Joaquin had just suffered and pulled up his sweatpants.

“What the fuck? I can’t unsee that,” he sputtered, spinning around, only to walk directly into the wall.

You slapped your hand over your mouth. “Oh my god– oh my god— Is today Saturday? I told him— ARGHH!—Bucky! DO SOMETHING!”

Bucky just exhaled like a man getting hit with a tax audit and reached for his wallet on the side table.

“Torres,” he called out.

Joaquin peeked over his shoulder like Bucky was Medusa. “If you hand me cash, I swear to—”

“Apple Pay?” Bucky offered, putting down the wallet and reaching for his phone instead.

You blinked.

“…Depends how much.”

“Five hundred,” Bucky said, “You never tell Sam. You never joke about it on base. You never bring it up ever.”

Joaquin squinted. “Make it six.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. 

“Six-fifty,” Bucky countered, tapping on his phone, “and you run interference next time Sam gets nosy.”

“I’m gonna need therapy,” Joaquin demanded. “And probably bleach. So I need more.”

“Add another fifty,” you piped up from behind Bucky, “and I throw in a custom diagnostic chip for your wings.”

Joaquin considered it. “Deal.”

And that’s how the Falcon walked out of your apartment $700 richer.

—

Two months later, dragging Joaquin into your sexcapades had become standard protocol.

“Distract Sam. Ten minutes,” you hissed into the comms, already breathless, ducking into the back of a supply truck with Bucky right behind you, stripping off his tac vest.

“Again?!” Joaquin whisper-yelled through his ear piece. 

“You love us,” you cooed sweetly, right before Bucky yanked your shirt over your head and you were cut off.

So Joaquin did his part.

Sam would be looking for you, when suddenly there was Joaquin, materialising beside him like a caffeine-fueled jackrabbit.

“Yo, Cap, wanna see this new drone maneuver I coded? It does a barrel roll. In reverse.”

Sam gave him a squint. “Aren’t you on aerial patrol?”

“I am! This is, uh, supplemental. For morale. Very therapeutic. Like—watch!”

Meanwhile, four doors down, you were bent over a crate of rations in a supply closet, Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth as he fucked you like the world might end in twenty minutes and he wanted to die with your name on his lips.

You gasped around his palm. “He’s right there—oh —”

“Then shut up,” Bucky growled.

Sam, on the other hand, was not buying it.

“You good, man?” He asked, genuinely worried, “You’ve been real twitchy lately.”

Joaquin was sweating bullets: “I’m fine. Totally normal. Definitely not thinking about sex.”

Sam blinked. 

“I– I mean SUCCESS,” he stammered, stumbling over his words, “Teamwork, and all that stuff!”

Sam didn't buy it, but didn’t have a reason to question it, either.

And from there, it was chaos.

Sam wanted to call you for a debrief?

Joaquin would “accidentally” spill an entire protein shake over the mission map.

Sam headed to the hangar?

Joaquin sprinted to intercept, yelling about “mysterious engine noises” while Bucky slipped out the back with you, shirt half-buttoned and lipstick smudged across his chin.

You, Bucky, and Joaquin became a well-oiled, morally questionable unit.

But in the end, Bucky got laid.

You got your insides rearranged.

Joaquin got trauma and a couple of upgrades.

So it was a win-win for everyone.

—

You were especially reckless one Wednesday.

You remembered because it was leg day— and Bucky had already wrecked you in training so badly, you could barely walk straight. 

Sam had assigned him to sharpen your hand-to-hand skills, after all. He took that very literally.

Now you were pressed up against the wall of some dusty, half-forgotten hanger in the compound, your legs shaking for an entirely different reason. His dog tags smacked against your chest, tangling with the little charm you kept around your neck. Your grunts echoed far too loud for anyone trying to keep this a secret.

“Bucky,” you gasped. “Someone could walk in.”

He groaned into your neck, not slowing down at all. “Let them. Let ‘em see what they’ll never get.”

You dug your nails into his back, barely able to think. “Fuck, you’re so full of yourself.”

“You weren’t complaining last night when I—”

“Hey!” you cut him off playfully with a slap to the shoulder. “Focus, Sarge!”

Neither of you noticed the faint mechanical chirp overhead.

Redwing was perched on a maintenance cabinet nearby.

Recording. Because Sam had programmed it to run 24/7 in order to test the heat sensors.

—

Two days later, Sam was in the control room, analysing flight path data.

Joaquin was lounging beside him, and today, you had a day off.

“Hey,” Sam suddenly said, frowning at his screen. “Why is Redwing’s log showing heat spikes in Hangar C?”

“What?” Joaquin choked on his smoothie. He knew immediately what must’ve fucking happened, and dismissed any accusation right away. “Pfft. Probably a… malfunction.”

Sam clicked a few buttons as a projection flared to life.

“Weird,” he shook his head, leaning in. That’s… body heat. Two sources. Definitely not a test flight…”

“Must be…strays,” Joaquin blurted. “Like, uh, animals. Rats. Maybe raccoons. Having sex.”

Sam turned to look at him. “You’re telling me this is a rat orgy?”

“Big problem in Hangar C.” Joaquin nodded solemnly. “Very horny wildlife.”

But Sam wasn’t convinced. “Wait… why does the audio kick in right… here?”

Click.

Suddenly the speakers came alive with your voice.

“Oh my God—yes—right there—”

Then Bucky’s voice followed. “You like that, huh? Cryin’ for me out here like a needy little—”

“FUCK,” Joaquin screamed, lunging across the table and slamming the power button like his life depended on it.

The room went silent as the lights flickered dead. Sam blinked like he’d been hit by a truck.

“…Rat orgy,” Joaquin whispered desperately, voice cracking.

Sam turned to him. “That was Bucky, wasn’t it?”

Joaquin didn’t move. “I’m not legally required to answer that, am I?”

—

You were curled up on Bucky’s couch, one of his hoodies swallowing you whole, legs tangled with his, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on your lap. The movie—a classic noir thing he vouched for—was on, but you weren’t really paying attention.

His thumb traced lazy circles on your thigh, under the blanket, and every time he leaned in to whisper a joke, you could feel his scruff brushing against your temple. 

Everything felt right.

Then his phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

It buzzed again.

“Someone’s persistent,” you chuckled, not thinking much of it, and not looking away from the screen.

“Probably Torres,” Bucky sighed, reaching for it. “Or spam. Or spam from Torres.”

When he checked the messages, he looked… confused.

“What?” you asked, noticing the change in his posture. He turned the phone toward you.

A video file was labeled: Redwing_Betrayal.MOV

Below it, a message from Sam.

Do NOT fuck this up. Do NOT make this weird. Or I’ll throw you off a plane with no chute.

Bucky squinted. “Didn’t know Redwing could send files this big.”

You sat up slightly, concern creeping in. “Wait—what?”

And because Bucky had the restraint of a gnat, he tapped play without thinking twice.

Grainy thermal footage lit up the screen. Then you heard sounds that suspiciously sounded like your name. Then, the full 4K video synced in, and you saw yourself and Bucky going at it like bunnies.

You almost choked. “OH MY—.”

You lunged for the phone like it was a grenade, but Bucky held it out of reach.

“Oh,” he said, amused. “It’s that day. We looked good.”

“JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES.” You buried your face in his chest, nearly shrieking. Sam—your boss, Bucky’s best friend—knew now. Thank God this job didn’t have HR. “I—I didn’t even know Redwing was recording!”

“I need to step up my game,” he said casually, scrubbing through the clip like he was watching game tape. “See? My hip angle was off in the first minute.”

“Bucky—”

“But damn,” he added, serious. “Look at your arch, though.”

You smacked him with a pillow. “TURN IT OFF.”

He smirked, not budging, and hit save to his private album.

“You’re the worst,” you groaned, though it was playful more than anything, hitting him again with the pillow.

“I’m keeping it for science,” he said innocently. “And maybe for when you’re out of town.”

You smacked his arm, and he kissed your forehead like that made everything better. 

It kinda did.

Bucky pulled you back into his chest, still grinning like a menace, and grabbed his phone again, thumb flying over the screen.

You peeked over his shoulder to see.

To: Sam I am weird. And also look amazing doing it.

Sent.

He snorted as the typing bubble popped up.

A second later, Sam’s response came in, and it was just a line.

Jokes aside, I’m happy for you.

You both stared at it.

“Well…” you said, a little stunned, “that’s… sweet?

“Coming from Sam?” Bucky chuckled. “That’s a miracle.”

So he just leaned back against the couch, pulling you even closer as you both processed Sam’s strange acceptance. Perhaps, after all the years of seeing his friend brood alone in his apartment, Sam finally saw through the professional lens and was glad that someone was able to keep Bucky in check, even if that someone happened to be his tech girl.

With a satisfied grin, he tapped his phone a few more times, and you heard him mutter, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you still have a job.” He raised an eyebrow at the screen. “And Joaquin’s side hustle? Yeah, that’s done. No more hush money and suit upgrades from him.” 

You chuckled, knowing full well Bucky would take care of things, like he always did. 

The whole situation might’ve been ridiculous, but with him?

You didn’t have to worry about anything

Except maybe keeping government tech out of the bedroom.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003

[greatmistakes]

A note from Bucky to you.

[greatmistakes]

“If you were also an art piece, then whoever created you must have loved you dearly”

[greatmistakes]

He just wants to sing a lullaby to his daughter 😔 🎶

[greatmistakes]

tantrum

synopsis: what makes sylus snap?

tags: fluff, sylus is tired and grumpy bc he misses you, he obliterates his phone with his evol, sunshine reader probably, cartoonish luke and kieran appearance (sorry boys) word count: 842

a/n: after that magnum opus line i really wanted to see sylus throw a tantrum and i kept mulling over what would actually make him do that because i can’t see him doing anything much worse than this. i think he’d find Actual grown man tantrums lame. anyway i don’t like this and will maybe delete? nvm but i had the writing urge so i sacrificed this concept from my wips. 

When you arrived at the base after your three-week business trip, your long-awaited homecoming was…tame, to say the least. You’d been expecting a teasing “How nice of you to join us, sweetie,” or a cocky yet vulnerable “I was beginning to think you’d run away.” But once you’d stepped through the front door, Sylus had barely said a word. A soft “Welcome home” and a kiss on the forehead, and before you knew it, you were cradled in his arms as he carried you to his office.

He’d sat you both down in his leather armchair, making you face him in a straddle. His tired eyes had searched yours, and a moment later, he’d buried his face into your neck, inhaling deeply. 

“I missed you,” you’d murmured into his ear, pressing a kiss to his hair. With a quiet groan, he’d tightened his grip on your hips and nuzzled into you even deeper.

That’d been 15 minutes ago. Basking in the comfortable silence, you’d traded kisses all the while—yours on his hair, his on your neck. 

But suddenly, a low buzzing noise cuts your reunion short: his phone is ringing.

When he makes no effort to answer, still breathing heavily in your embrace, you twist in his arms and accept the call before he can protest. 

A familiar voice crackles over the line. “Boss?” Kieran asks. “Next meeting’s in 10. The one about those stolen shipments from Linkon—we’ve been waiting to hear back for months. You coming?”

Sylus doesn’t answer.

“…Boss?” Kieran repeats. “Boss, you there? You oka—”

Red and black mist shreds the phone into pieces. 

“Sylus!” you yelp, jumping in his lap. “What’d you do that for? He’ll probably be worried. And how will I text you now?”

You pout up at him, and as you study his chronically calm expression, you see something unusual: Sylus’s eye twitches. Just for a millisecond, only moving a millimeter, but you catch it.

“I’ll have a new one delivered tomorrow. As for the meeting, I’ll stay here,” he says lightly, a tight, closed-lip smile on his face.

“But Kieran said it was important,” you reply in confusion. “Why don’t you want to go? Are you feeling sick?” you frown, starting to lift off of him.

“No,” comes his too-quick reply. “It’s just…the twins can go in my stead,” he decides simply, moving to lean into you again.

But before he can move an inch, a rhythmic sequence of knocks sounds at the door.

“Come in!” you chirp happily, too excited to see the faces you’d missed the last few weeks to notice Sylus stiffening under you.

Immediately, the door swings open, revealing two masked figures. 

“Hi Luke, hi Kieran!” you beam, and they wave back at you eagerly.

“Long time no see,” Kieran begins. “Boss, did you lose signal or something? I tried calling you about the meeting, but I think it disconnected. Anyway, we’re about to head down and—”

“Cancel it,” a frustrated growl rings out.

You all freeze.

Somehow, you’d been too wrapped up in your excitement to feel Sylus's body shaking—no, quaking—beneath you.

“W-what? But they’re already here!” Luke sputters.

“Cancel. It.” Sylus grits out the words as if holding back a snarl, and the power in his voice leaves no room for argument. 

“O…kay,” the boys say in unison, and as they back away slowly, you shoot them a sympathetic look.

Red tendrils wrench the door shut behind them, and when you’re alone once more, it’s like the man under you deflates.

His head returns to the crevice of your neck with a soft but unceremonious thud, and his deep exhales and burning hot skin tell you he’s trying to calm himself down. 

Uncertain and a little amazed—you’d never seen him lose his composure—you give his cheek a gentle poke. “Sylus,” you whisper. Nothing. 

“Psst. Sylus,” you try again, and there’s some force behind your poke this time. With bated breath, you watch as your finger sinks into the space under his cheekbone, sighing in relief when the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. 

Lifting his head up to make eye contact, you smile at him softly. “Hi.”

“…Hi,” he rumbles, and as his crimson gaze softens, the remaining annoyance dissolves from his face.

“Are you upset?” you prod gently. 

A brazen scoff precedes the dry chuckles that fall from his lips. “And what makes you say that, kitten?”

A squint and a slight tilt of your head is all it takes. 

“I haven’t had you to myself in a while,” he begins cautiously. “Three weeks is…a long time. The longest we’ve been apart. And then the moment I have you in my arms, well…” he trails off, gesturing to the shards of phone on the table. “I just want to enjoy you right now. Undisturbed.”

“Oh, I see,” you coo, cupping his face in your hands. “Is this your way of saying you missed me too?” you quirk a brow.

“Yes,” he responds through squished cheeks, honest and unabashed. “Now, won’t you stay with me like this for a little longer?”

[greatmistakes]

Sylus the Spoiler

Note: No use of names, MC or Reader tags. Just Sylus + you.

English is not my first language, if there are any mistakes please let me know kindly <3 Enjoy

•••

“Oh, this looks so cute!” You smiled at the little bear keychain while Sylus observed, as usual. You had been pointing and showing him stuff she liked for about half an hour in that market. They were looking for gift ideas to give to one of your coworker’s son, haven’t found anything good for him but a lot of “cute and pretty” things for you.

And oh Sylus was taking mental notes.

After a failed attempt to find a proper and cute gift for the kid, both went back to your apartment for the rest of the day. But the next day, after Sylus drove you to work, he went on a very special mission: Get his Kitten at least one of everything she liked from the stores you both saw yesterday.

Now this happened at the very beginning of your relationship. But after this time, you had to contain yourself with your comments whenever you saw something you liked because he would definitely buy it for you. Even if it was just a compliment for what you saw.

For example, one time you were walking around Linkon and saw a really nice tree with blueish blooming flowers. “Look Sy! This tree is so beautiful. I have never seen it before. Have you?”

It was a simple comment from you, but that same afternoon, just as you were getting back to his base in the N109 Zone, you saw Luke and Keiran struggling against a tree in the entrance. But not just any tree.

“Sylus?! Why is the tree we saw in the morning in your base?”

“You said you liked it, sweetie. So I had to get it for you.” He said it as it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Do you not like this one? I can ask the twins to go get a different one, maybe a bigger one this time.”

“I- No! I mean, you didn’t have to get the tree. I was just showing you how pretty it was… in its habitat. How did you even manage to get one? I didn’t even knew people sold them all grown. “

“Oh, that? I just took it.”

“… took it… as in… stole?”

“Well now, that is a harsh accusation. It’s not stealing if it didn’t belong to someone.”

“Uh, it did. To Linkon! What the hell Sylus?!”

And now there is a lovely, so out of place, pretty tree in the base.