hathay

[hathay]

roomates!pb&jj — au where peter, bob, joaquin and johnny share an apartment in new york

[hathay]

Creamy or Crunchy

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Bucky hovering; Bucky knowing his favorite people; little bit of protective!Bucky

Author’s Note: I don’t know what this is but I was in need of some silly fluff. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.

Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.

You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.

It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.

He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.

Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.

Still, you didn’t argue.

Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.

There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.

You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.

So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.

No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.

Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.

You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.

And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.

He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.

The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.

Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.

A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.

It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.

Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.

You grab a basket and move forward.

He follows without a word.

You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.

You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.

Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.

Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.

He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.

It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.

His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.

“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.

You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.

“What?” you ask softly.

His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.

“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”

He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.

For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.

Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”

Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.

You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.

Bucky watches.

He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.

His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.

He simply observes.

You step over to the plums.

Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

But you feel him.

The attention he gives you.

His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.

You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.

You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.

But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.

“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.

Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.

“S’ fine.”

But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.

So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.

Bucky doesn’t look away this time.

And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.

The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.

You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.

Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.

His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.

It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.

He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.

You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.

He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.

It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.

That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.

You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.

He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.

You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.

“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.

But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.

Something warm fills your chest.

You missed him, while you were gone.

He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.

You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.

You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.

He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.

It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.

He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.

You remember how he was when you left.

Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.

He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.

And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.

Maybe that’s why he came with you.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.

Maybe he missed you, too.

He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.

You can’t have that.

Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.

“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”

Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”

You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”

Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.

“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”

You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.

“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”

Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.

You glance up at him, arching your brow.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”

“Uh-huh.”

He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”

You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”

Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”

“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.

You plan on keeping him that way.

You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.

“Creamy or crunchy?”

Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”

You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”

There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

“You serious?”

“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”

Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.

“You’re wrong.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”

You snort.

Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.

You watch him.

The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.

Because you want more.

More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.

So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”

Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”

You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”

For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.

You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.

You wait, patiently.

Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”

You gin. “Yeah?”

He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.

You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.

“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”

Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.

His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

But there is no bite to it.

And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.

You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.

You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.

You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.

Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.

A soft thud.

Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.

Chocolate-covered almonds.

The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.

The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.

The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.

Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.

“Because you like them.”

Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.

Just a fact.

Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.

The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.

You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“How do you know that?”

The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.

Something about the fact that he’s been watching.

That he’s noticed.

That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.

His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.

He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.

“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.

You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.

Or if he just really is that observant.

That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.

So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.

“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”

Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.

“Don’t.”

“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”

- Walter Anderson

[hathay]

idk

redraw of this lol

[hathay]

Marked What's Mine

Pairings: husband!bucky barnes × wife!reader

Summary: You can hold your own—always have. But that doesn’t stop your husband from going full Winter Soldier mode when he sees someone laid a hand on you.

Warnings: Language, injuries, soft-but-intense husband!Bucky, protective behavior, possessiveness, comfort, fluff, violence mentioned (not graphic), "who did this to you?", lots of banter.

Word count: 1.3k+

A/n: this fic is from my poll where husband au and who did this to u prompt won. I will do the enemies to lovers in my next fic. Thank you for reading <3.

Divider credits: @saradika

Night- 1:47 AM

You turned the front doorknob with all the delicacy of a trained assassin—which, to be fair, you were.

No sound. Good.

You stepped inside, sliding your shoes off silently and tiptoeing like the floorboards might narc on you. You could practically hear your heartbeat in your ears.

He’d be asleep. He had to be.

You could get to the bathroom, clean up, hide the worst of it. He didn’t have to know. You didn’t want him to worry, to spiral. Not again.

You made it three steps down the hallway.

Then— “Don’t move.”

Shit.

His voice cut through the silence, low and lethal. It came from the living room.

You closed your eyes. "Hi, honey. I'm home."

A light flipped on.

Bucky stood by the couch, arms crossed, half in shadow. The sight of him—barefoot, hoodie loose over his broad chest, hair tousled from waiting up—would’ve been comforting, if not for the look in his eyes.

His gaze traveled from your face to your arms, your ribs, where blood had started to seep through your shirt.

He didn’t say a word.

You tried to play it off. “Before you say anything, it looks worse than it is—”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Who did this to you?”

You exhaled slowly. “Buck—”

“Don’t. Just…” His jaw clenched. “Stay right there.”

“Bucky, it’s fine. I dodn’t even need stitches—”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice trembled with something dangerous. “You’re limping. You snuck into your own damn house like a thief because you knew I’d lose it if I saw you like this. And guess what? You were right.”

He was in front of you in three long strides.

His hands—warm, shaking—came up to cup your face, careful to avoid the bruises.

“You weren’t supposed to see me like this,” you whispered. “You’d only worry.”

“I worry when you’re five minutes late for lunch. You think this is gonna lessen that?”

“I’m not made of glass—”

“You’re made of everything I live for.”

Your breath caught.

He scanned your injuries with haunted eyes. “Who did this?”

“It’s not important.”

“It is to me.”

You sighed. “I didn’t want you to spiral. Last time you saw me with a busted lip, you threatened to drown a guy in the Hudson.”

“I should’ve.”

“Bucky—”

“Tell me his name.”

You met his eyes. “If I do, you’ll find him.”

He didn’t deny it.

“And if I don’t?” you added.

“I’ll find him anyway.”

You groaned. “You are the most dramatic man I’ve ever met.”

He lifted you into his arms like it was nothing—like you didn’t have two working legs—and carried you down the hall.

“I’m intense,” he corrected. “Not dramatic.”

“You literally brooded in the dark waiting for me to get home.”

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice? Like my wife could come home hurt and I wouldn’t feel it in my chest?”

You let out a weak laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”

“You married me, doll. That’s on you.”

Twenty Minutes Later...

You sat on the bathroom counter while Bucky dabbed antiseptic over the cuts along your ribs, his brows furrowed like each mark physically hurt him more than it hurt you.

He hadn’t stopped touching you.

Even now, his thumb rubbed soft circles into your thigh as he worked.

“Doesn’t even sting,” you said.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, placing another bandage carefully. “You came home bleeding. You flinched when you took your shirt off. You snuck in.”

“I didn’t want to see your sad little kicked puppy face,” you teased.

He glared. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“No, you’re lucky I love you. You’re high maintenance.”

“Says the woman who took on a six-foot mercenary solo and got cracked in the jaw for it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t win?”

He paused. “Wait. You won?”

“Cracked three of his ribs and made him cry.”

He stared.

Then—slowly—he grinned.

“That’s my girl.”

You tried not to bask in it, but you totally basked in it.

Still, he wasn’t done.

As he finished wrapping the final gauze, he stood between your legs and stared at you like you held gravity in your hands.“I breathe for you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “That’s it. That’s the only reason I get up in the morning.”

Your throat went tight. “Bucky—”

“You come home hurt, and it feels like the world’s off its axis. I can’t think. Can’t function. You’re not fragile, babe. You’re the strongest person I know. But the thought of losing you? I’d lose everything.”

God.

You buried your face in his chest, arms tight around him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Too late. You did. You always do.”

You looked up. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned and kissed your forehead.

Next Day – 2:00 PM

You woke up to an empty bed and a note on the pillow:

Had to step out. Be back soon. Don’t move too much or I’ll find out and carry you around like a baby until you learn your lesson. I love you more than oxygen.

—B <3

You rolled your eyes.

And sighed.

And smiled.

He came back at sunset. Calm. Too calm.

You didn’t even have to ask.

“You found him, didn’t you?”

He dropped his jacket. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“He’s not gonna be walking straight for a while.”

“Bucky…”

“And probably won’t be talking much either.”

You stared at him.

“He’ll live. Probably,” Bucky said with a shrug. “I was nice. For the first ten seconds.”

“Jesus—”

“He laid a hand on you. You really think I wasn’t gonna rearrange his face?”

You huffed, arms crossed, but you were secretly touched. And maybe a little turned on.

“You are so dramatic.”

“No. Dramatic is you sneaking past your literal super soldier husband with blood dripping down your shirt.”

“Fine,” you muttered, walking toward him. “You win.”

He caught you easily, arms pulling you in.

“I always win, doll,” he murmured, kissing your bruised temple. “Especially when it comes to you.”

The Next Morning – 9:07 AM

Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, painting golden stripes over the bed where you were curled up like a cat. One leg over the sheet. A little sore. A little achy. But warm.

Bucky stirred beside you, his metal arm slung protectively over your waist.

“You awake?” you mumbled.

“Was watching you breathe,” he rasped, voice still sleep-rough. “You twitch your nose when you’re dreaming.”

“You’re creepy.”

“You married me, sweetheart. This is your fault.”

You snorted, rolling to face him, wincing a little. He was already awake, already watching you with that look. Like you were sacred. Untouchable. His.

“You hurting?” he asked immediately, shifting to sit up. “Need painkillers? Water? I can carry you to the bath—”

“Bucky.”

He blinked.

“I’m okay. It’s just a bruise, not a broken limb. Stop hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re three seconds from spoon-feeding me cereal.”

“…Is that an option?”

You groaned and buried your face in his chest.

“You’re insufferable.”

He chuckled, warm and smug, tucking you tighter under his chin. You stayed like that for a while. Tangled limbs. Warm sheets. His fingers trailing soft patterns on your back like he couldn’t stand not touching you.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispered finally.

You didn’t pretend to not hear it. “Okay.”

“I know you’re strong. I know you can take care of yourself. But if something happens to you—I stop breathing. You get that?”

You swallowed hard. “I get it.”

“I love you so much it makes me a little insane.”

“Only a little?”

“I toned it down for your sake.”

You giggled. “You’re cute when you’re crazy.”

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

You looked up, brushed the hair from his forehead, kissed him slow.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[hathay]

going on a date with bucky barnes and it all goes so nicely, so sweetly, so smoothly. you both had so much fun, chemistry and a good time. he's charming, witty and he keeps flirting and complimenting you at every chance he gets. he held your hand all night long, neither of you even noticed it, it just happened naturally, your cheeks hurt from how much you're smiling and both of your hearts are at ease.. that's until the date comes to an end, it's time to pay and you ask him if he wants to go 50/50.

that would be the first time he lets go of your hand that night, it's unintentional just happened out of pure shock. "50... what.." the confusion on his face, you'd think he's an alien seeing earth the first time.

"you know.. 50/50.. we'll split the bill between us"

"split the bill?" he asks and you just nod, he'd blink at you, "50/50.. splitting the bill.. what is this about, i asked you on a date"

now it's your turn to be the alien seeing earth for the first time, "we are on a date, bucky. this is a date"

"no, it's not a date."

"it is a date"

"you're asking me to split the bill, this is not a date"

"oh my god sam was right, you can be such a drama queen." you laugh, he just stares at you, blankly. "it might've been a while since the last time you went on a date so let me break it down for you.. these days, people who go on dates split the bill, they go 50/50" you shrug, "it's normal"

"it's normal? you've done it before?"

you nod, "every date i've been on has been 50/50 yeah"

bucky nearly flips the table. bucky who spent all of his three dollars in the 1940's trying to win a teddybear for a girl he had a crush on, bucky who used to save up most of his income in an old shoe box underneath his bed so he can take his girl to a nice diner, bucky who went to the florist to get you a bouquet of roses and didn't even ask for the price just handed his credit card because to him your smile is priceless, bucky is about to have a stroke.

"you've never been on a date" he says, face still blank.

"yes i have"

"no you haven't. this is your first date." he says, "i'm your first time." he smirks and you blush at the possible implication. "50/50.." he scoffs under his breath, "what else are you gonna tell me next? i should walk on the inside of the sidewalk? keep my jacket on when you're cold? sleep further from the door? not open doors for you? jesus sweetheart what has the world come to?"

you hide your smile, you love it when he rambles like that, he's so calm yet so offended all at once somehow, it's funny and endearing. "what's wrong with walking on the inside of the sidewalk?" you joke and he rolls his eyes making you laugh, "so.. no 50/50? are you sure?" you ask one last time, hands on your purse on your lap.

he keeps his eyes on you as he pays the bill, glaring playfully, gets up and pulls out your chair before putting his black leather jacket on your shoulders, "no doll," he offers you his hand which you quickly hold, intertwining your fingers with his, and opens the door with his metal hand, "no 50/50."

[hathay]

there needs to be more lads fluff. sometimes a girl wants to be held by sylus not just FUCKED

[hathay]

“Logan uses bub as an insult” so what if I’m into that? now, what? what if I’m turned on? cuff me.

[hathay]

Jamil's Desk Neighbor...?

[hathay]

small doodle of ace in his suitor suit card

trying to be in every twst topic lol

update :

why is it giving

[hathay]

Snuggled Together

Crossposted to A03

Paring: Sylus x Reader Rating: G Story Content: Just snuggling Sylus fluff Word Count: 414 A/N: This isn't a Choices We Make update (we haven't made it that far into the story yet), but @himbodruid 's SylusMC cuddle art has been living rent free in my head for a hot minute, and so I finally decided to finally write something for it! (Also that line from Catch-22 has been making me feral)

The chill of the evening was chased away by the thick duvet you had snuggled under in the large, king sized bed. Propped up by pillows, a book in hand - it was a perfect way to end your day.

"You're still awake?" The deep voice came from the doorway as Sylus slipped into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

"Mmhmm - it's a good part of the book, so I'm not - hey, Sy!"

The large man had flung the blanket off of you, the cold air causing goosebumps to rise on every visible surface of your skin. With a squeal, you were dragged partially down by your ankle, but before you could let out a complaint, Sylus was crawling over you, only to collapse down when his head reached your stomach.

A small 'umph' escaped you as his full weight settled on your lower half - large hands reaching around and resting on your back, locking you in place. His human pillow. A heavy sigh escaped him as he closed his eyes.

Without a second thought, your fingers slipped through his white tresses. "Bad day?"

His answer was no more than a grunt.

You continued the motion, only this time you stopped your hand at the back of his head and gently scratched at his scalp. A groan is what escaped him this time. "That feels…good."

The tension slipped out of his muscular frame inch by inch, sinking you both into the bed a little more. As minutes slipped past, Sylus' breathing slowed considerably and when gentle snores reached your ears, you knew he was finally asleep.

It was impressive he didn't wake while you struggled to reach toward the crumpled duvet, just managing to catch the edge in your fingertips to pull it back over both of you. Picking up your book, you held it in one hand, your other still slowly playing with the silky soft white hair of your partner.

Eventually, your own eyes started to droop and, after marking your spot, you set your novel down to the side of you and leaned forward, kissing the top of Sylus' head before whispering, "Sweet dreams, my love." And then you settled back into the pillows, missing the sleepy smile that appeared on the face below you.

Between the warmth of the two of you under the blanket, and the comforting weight on top of you, you fell asleep quickly. Both of you sleeping better than you had in a long while.

[hathay]

What's the Whole World

Sylus x gn!Reader

Wrote this when I was overstimulated and extra emotional from my period iykyk

Title from "What's the Whole World" by Warmer

Warnings: hurt/comfort, established relationship, cuddling, crying, swearing

Word Count: 1,395

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

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Your apartment building's hot water isn't working, so you take a freezing cold shower. Your bike doesn't start, so you have to take the bus. You forgot to eat breakfast, so you go to the vending machine, except the snack gets stuck against the glass. You don't get to eat lunch because you get sent on back to back missions. You have to stay late to finish the paperwork for said missions. The food you buy at a late night stall is too expensive and almost too overcooked to eat.

But through all of that, through every little thing the world does to spite you today, one thought kept you sane: Sylus. You don't have work for the next couple days and Sylus moved things around on his schedule to spend all of that time with you. Being able to spend time with him is the one thing holding you together right now.

Imagine your disappointment when you get to his base in the N109 zone, excited to see him after the ungodly public transport you had to take, only to be told by Luke and Kieran that he isn't there. Not only that, they're not sure when he'll be back, after he zipped off to meet up with someone for whatever business venture he's planning on branching off to next. They offer you a ride back to your place, but the thought of going back home, to your freezing water and cramped walls, only makes you feel worse.

So you do the next best thing: you curl up in Sylus's bed, hugging a Grumpy Crow plushie, and try really hard not to cry.

You feel hollow. A void in your chest, opening its maw wide to swallow your hope, optimism and joy, regurgitating loneliness and disappointment in its place. It shouldn't be that big of a deal. Things happen, stuff comes up. Especially when you're the leader of a giant illegal faction, and owner of god knows how many businesses. Just... why didn't he tell you about it?

Tears sting your eyes. You don't want to cry. Not here, not in Sylus's bed. Could anything be more pathetic? You should have just gone home. At least there you could drown yourself in a mountain of ice cream without having to worry about being seen making the trip to and from the kitchen.

The longer you suppress your emotions, the more your brain reminds you of the shit day you've just had.

The cold water meant taking an extremely quick 10 second shower. The bus ride was so cramped you were pressed up against so many other commuters. The only thing you've eaten today wasn't worth the price, leaving a hole in your stomach yet to be satisfied. Your whole body aches, from your arms and shoulders to your back and legs. You're tired, you're upset, and all you were asking for to compensate for all of that bullshit is a hug. Just one hug! A hug this plushie certainly wasn't providing.

You curl around the crow plushie, squeezing it with the remaining strength you have in your arms. You press your face into its soft head, the ruffle around its neck tickling you. You take a deep breath. And you cry. The worst kind of crying: deep heaving gasps for air, ragged sobs that grate at your throat, fat tears that have no end and soak deep into the fabric of the plushie and Sylus's pillow; body shaking, soul crushing, pathetic. You want the bed to open up and swallow you whole. You want Dr. Zayne to go in and remove your heart to spare you the pain. You just want this horrible feeling to go away, by any means possible.

God knows how long you cry for. It feels like hours. Your eyes burn, raw from all the moisture. Your cheeks are sore from the horrible grimace your face pulls with your sobs. The crow is completely soaked where your face is.

The bed shifts, slowly. Hesitantly. You choke up again, because you already know who it is.

A hand touches your arm. You automatically flinch out of its grasp. A bitter part of you wants to make him feel just as bad as you do. Wants to lie here crying while he's forced to watch. But, god, that one touch alone is like the sun after weeks of rain. It's like a splash of bright yellow against the dark, saturated hues that compose your sorry state. And when he doesn't touch you again, it's consumed once more by the darkness.

"What happened?" he asks. His voice is so soft, tinged with protectiveness. If someone hurt you, he'd take care of it. He'd do anything to take this heartache from you. All you would need to do is say the word. What, then, are you supposed to say if he's the one that hurt you?

Another sob wracks your body. You curl in impossibly tighter, as though you could shrink yourself down to the size of a pea to hide from his intense gaze on your back. Your throat hurts from crying so hard.

"Can I touch you?" he asks next, when you don't respond.

Your body and mind want two different things. Your mind wants to hold strong to your newfound loneliness, but your body yearns to crawl to him, to collapse in his arms, to finally, finally get that hug you were waiting for.

It's your body that wins out, in the end, but you refuse to give in completely to its desires. So instead of seeking him out, you just nod and wait for him to come to you.

He does, almost right away. He touches your arm again. When you don't pull away, he closes the space left between you. His chest presses against your back, legs tucked right up to yours. His arms wrap around your body, securely keeping you against him. He presses his face to the back of your neck. Like this, he feels every tremor and shiver of every gasp and sob. Like this, you feel encapsulated in his warmth and comfort. It's almost overwhelming. It almost suffocates you with how amazing it feels to finally be held by him.

He kisses the fine hairs on your neck in a delicate peck, silently telling you how badly he wants to help. "Will you tell me what happened, sweetie?"

You dig your fingers into the Grumpy Crow's plush body. They tremble with emotion. "You weren't h-here," you whimper out. Your voice is awful. "'N y-you didn't say a-anything about it."

"I didn't...?" One of his arms slips away. He digs his phone out of his pocket and taps quickly at the screen, before dropping it to the bed behind him with a sigh. His arm returns to its rightful place around you, squeezing you slightly tighter. "It didn't go through, kitten. I'm sorry."

That text was meant to get to you hours ago. Unfortunately, he must have lost service before it could go through. So for hours, you were left in the dark, literally and metaphorically, with no idea where he was or what he was doing.

He kisses your neck again. "How can I make it up to you? Name anything - it's yours."

Anything? There's only one thing you want. And now that you know his radio silence wasn't intentional, your mind loses the reins holding your body back.

You push the crow plushie away. It rolls sadly across the bed, dark fabric stained darker with tears and fluff rearranged so he's squished into an odd shape. Sylus lets go when you squirm in his hold. You turn around and immediately cling onto him. You hide your face in his neck and he cradles the back of your head to keep you there. His cologne floods your senses, accompanied by his body wash, warming you in a way the lingering scent on his pillow and bedsheets never could.

"Just want you." You grip the back of his shirt in your fists, squeezing him as tightly as you can, just like you'd done to the plushie. Except he's solid, and he squeezes you back just the same. "Please don't go."

"I'm not going anywhere," he promises. "We'll stay here for as long as you want."

"Forever."

"Okay, sweetie." He kisses your head. "We'll stay here forever."

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko 

[hathay]

The Wolf and pears

[hathay]

── DID MY LOVE AID AND ABET YOU?

(book 7 spoilers!)

ace trappola. hearts bared and dreams unveiled, you come to terms with something that has festered in the boy you love.

"You're the most selfish person I know."

It's horrifyingly bare, Ace realises, the way he lays still beneath you. Your weight rests upon his torso, legs straddling him on either side. Both of you are clothed, of course, Deuce would be horrified to see anything else if he stirred awake from where he was still recuperating on the bed across the room.

But there is something about it. Naked, not like two lovers in sex, but as if you have dug your fingers through the hollow skin of his sternum to peel it apart, baring his heart where it thumps erratically against the cage of his ribs. He lays prone beneath you, simply staring at the visage of your face (dream-like, though certainly not a dream. Not anymore. He's woken up now, thanks to you, but by doing so, you have unearthed his deepest insecurities.)

He wonders if you’d be selfish enough to dig in deeper, to unfurl the twisting cage of his ribs to bare his heart, which has always been yours for the taking.

"More than yourself?" Ace challenges. It's delivered in a light tone, easily heard as a quip to others— but you have known him long enough to recognise a challenge, to know that he sees you too in this sense.

(The question is easy for you to translate. Are you not selfish as well? Will you not try to pry me open like a gilded treasure trove of secrets, see how much more I will give to you? You've had a taste of my true heart now, and you want more. Greedy little thing.

Ace sees it in the light furrow of your brow when you stare at him. You're still figuring out the answer that Ace already knows.

He would give anything to you if you fought him hard enough for it.)

"Takes one to know one," Ace goes on when you don't answer. He dares to reach out, brushes his fingers over the light curve of your cheekbone. "'sides, is it so bad? Being selfish, I mean. Can't imagine you've got any complaints."

"I'm not talking about your dream," you huff, hands braced on his chest. Sleep rests heavy upon your eyelids, calls for you to curl up in his bloody ribs and rest there forever. It is the sleepiness that lets you both indulge in this quiet intimacy, especially in the wake of battle.

"What, you just calling me selfish in general then?" Ace snorts, pinching your hip. You scowl, swatting him slightly.

"Yes. Yes. You're a selfish man, Ace Trappola."

"Takes one to know one," Ace echoes his prior words.

His hand trails from your face to your hip, squeezing the curve of it in his palm. You are warm and heavy and real in his hands, and he can't help the way his touch wanders like a curious child. The remnants of Malleus's magic still linger in his bones, in the deep crevices of his mind, and the way you're sitting on top of him doesn't help in the question still sitting in the back of his mind.

Is he still dreaming?

"Selfish," you say again, like a broken record.

Ace stares at your face. There's the furrow of your brow and the light downturn to your lips, the plump of the bottom jutting out slightly, as if you're about to cry. You say that you're not talking about his dream, but Ace knows better. He knows that it lingers in your mind, the thought of how he loves you enough to let you go home. The thought of how he loves you enough to let you live your own life while he learns to live without you in his.

(But he is still selfish. The line between dream and nightmare is drawn where he is sure that you would return to him, because of course you would return to him. Of course he would only accept your departure if he knew that you could somehow acquire a return ticket. You know this too.)

"Don't leave me," Ace whispers. He tries to make it sound less of a plea, less than a beg. He knows he is failing.

You swallow. "You're so selfish."

But Ace knows that you're more selfish. You are, perhaps, the most selfish one of all. It is in the searing warmth of your body, nearly burning through your clothes as you lean over him; in the cruelty of the way you press your lips against his like a prince rousing his princess from an eternal sleep, as if the two of you would ever have the blessing of living together happily forever after.

If this is a dream, Ace wishes that you would never wake him up.

[hathay]

sylus x "sweetheart"

He rolls over in the middle of the night, his arm reaching across the bed into empty, cool sheets. "Sweetheart?" He mumbles softly into the quiet room, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he half-raises his head off the pillow, searching the darkness for you with bleary focus. He hears the light flick on in the bathroom and his muscles relax as he snuggles back under the covers, trying hard to fight off sleep so he can welcome you back into his arms once you return to bed.

"Sweetheart..." he draws out each syllable playfully as he leans agains the front door with a bemused expression. a smirk playing across his lips as he watches your frantic movements. "We're gonna be late." You're scrambling around the foyer looking for your keys. He thinks to himself for a moment, and then his smirk deepens. "did you leave them in the lock again?" He lets out a soft chuckle as an embarrassed, knowing flush rises to your cheeks, already pulling open the door to check. sure enough— stuck straight in the lock. "You've really got to stop doing that."

You're walking down the busy sidewalk alone, tote bag over your shoulder as Sylus' voice echoes through your earbuds. "Hey, sweetheart. you look nice today." "Huh? I haven't even seen you today." "That's true. but I'm pretty sure I'm seeing you right now." You whirl around, searching the crowd, until you see the the familiar silhouette of a sleek black car slowly creeping down the street, matching your pace. Sylus rolls the window down, just enough for you to see the tops of his fingers as he gives a casual, flirtatious wave. a car honks in irritation behind him. He murmurs into the receiver. "You gonna make me hold up traffic like this much longer? This guy behind me's about to start seeing red."

"Sweetheart," he says in that husky low voice that makes you weak in the knees as he's pulling the strap of your nightdress down, inching it lower and lower on your shoulder as the movie plays in the background. His fingers are rough, his hands slightly calloused, but the motion of the touch itself is somehow silk-soft. "You're so warm," he whispers, his breath ghosting over the sharp ledge of your collarbone, fingers momentarily moving to trace its edge. "You sure you don't wanna keep watching?" You almost roll your eyes at the ridiculous question. "Fuck no, not when you're looking at me like that."

[hathay]

Hi there! For the valentines event can I request Ace with romantic implications with the song "30 Second Love Story" by PEGGY with inspired by these specific lyrics? "There are millions of people, and millions of lifetimes And maybe in one of them, I found my voice And I told you I liked you, and then came for coffee In five years we're married, a house and a family" I know you said you are getting a lot of Ace requests but the brain rot is real if you're getting Ace-fatigue you can go with Sebek instead!

"I spent my whole life in a moment with you" || Ace Trappola

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: 30 Second Love Story by PEGGY

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 890

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Pining, Confessions

Ace is in love with you.

Painfully, irreversibly, hopelessly in love with you.

It hits him in flashes, in moments so ordinary they shouldn't feel life-changing—but they do. Like when you pass him a drink without him asking, already knowing what he likes. Like when you shoot him a grin after winning a game against him, smug and shining. Like when you nudge him with your shoulder while walking side by side, laughing, your warmth so close yet so far.

It happens when you hold his hand casually, fingers laced without a second thought, as if you don’t notice the way his heart hammers against his ribs. It happens when you lean into him during a movie, your weight comfortable and trusting, completely unaware that his pulse is racing.

He thinks about a future where this is normal—not just fleeting touches and teasing words, but something real. Something that lasts.

Mornings where he wakes up to you tangled in his sheets, sunlight catching in your hair. Breakfasts where he sneaks up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as you make coffee, pressing his face into the crook of your neck just to hear you laugh.

Lazy afternoons spent wrapped in each other on the couch, sharing popcorn and complaints about a bad movie. Evenings where he watches you from across the dinner table and still thinks, Damn, I love you.

A life with you. A future where he’s yours, and you’re his.

He dreams about it more than he should, and every time, he tells himself to stop.

He can’t ruin this. You’re his best friend. If he messes up—if he confesses and you don’t feel the same—then what? He’d lose everything.

So he stays quiet, keeps it locked inside his chest, lets himself drown in his own longing.

Until the day he doesn’t.

It’s a golden afternoon, the kind where the sun paints everything in its soft warmth, and you’re sitting next to him, talking animatedly about something—Ace isn’t even sure what, because all he can focus on is you.

The way your eyes light up when you get excited. The way your hand moves, expressive and unguarded. The way your fingers are wrapped around his, absently squeezing like it’s second nature.

And that’s when it happens.

His heart stutters, skips a beat, and suddenly, everything makes sense.

Why is he waiting? Why is he so scared?

You are his best friend. The one who laughs at his stupid jokes. The one who sticks by him even when he’s being a pain in the ass. The one who makes life better just by existing in it.

How could he not love you?

And how could he keep pretending that he doesn’t?

Before he can think, before doubt can creep in, he moves.

His free hand reaches for your face, cupping your cheek gently. You blink at him, startled, lips parting—ready to ask something, maybe—but he doesn’t give you the chance.

He leans in and kisses you.

It’s soft at first, tentative, his breath catching as he waits for you to pull away. But you don’t. You freeze for only a second before melting into him, fingers tightening around his.

The moment you respond—when your lips move against his, when you kiss him back with just as much warmth—it feels like something inside him clicks into place.

He’s never believed in fate, but this—this feels damn close to it.

When he pulls back, his heart is pounding, his stomach twisting in nervous anticipation. But the way you look at him, stunned and breathless and smiling—it’s everything he needs.

You don’t say anything. You just squeeze his hand, as if to say, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

And that’s all he needs to know.

Ace wakes up to the weight of you in his arms.

Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the sheets, and he takes a moment to just—breathe. It's been five years, and he still can't believe this is real.

Your head is tucked beneath his chin, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. Your warmth is familiar now, expected, like it’s always meant to be there.

He shifts slightly, his fingers tracing absent patterns along your back, and you stir with a sleepy hum.

“Mm… Ace?” Your voice is drowsy, muffled against his chest.

“Morning,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You tilt your face up to look at him, eyes still heavy with sleep, and he thinks, I’ll never get tired of this.

Never get tired of the way your nose scrunches slightly when you wake up. Never get tired of how soft you are against him, how safe you make him feel. Never get tired of the matching rings on your fingers, the quiet proof of the promise you made to each other.

“Five more minutes,” you mumble, nuzzling into him.

Ace huffs a laugh. “You say that every morning."

“And yet, I still get five more minutes every time.”

He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he pulls you closer, burying his face in your hair.

This is it.

The life he dreamed of—the one he was once too scared to reach for—is now his reality.

And as he kisses you awake, slow and sweet, he knows he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[hathay]

Hi!

Can I request a fic where the reader starts realizing they have feelings for Sylus and gets so nervous around him that they can’t resonate anymore?

And Sylus thinks that the reader is scared/disgusted by him again so the reader is forced to confess their feelings to not create a bigger misunderstanding

Thanks!

- 🌻

The moment I got this request I was like HELLO— sunflower anon, you just get me 😌 Anyway! Am back from my break and I hope everyone’s ready for some Vulnerable Sylus™️, because I have got him hot to go!!!

A Gentle Touch

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: You really can’t let Sylus into your head this time— he’s living there rent-free already.

Genre: Angst + Fluff (& some Luke and Kieran shenanigans because they were not feeling the angst)

Warnings/Additional Tags: f!reader, injury detail, mentions of possible trauma, humour, some intimacy at the end 😘, Luke and Kieran are having the time of their lives

| Word count: 3.2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

If you asked, Sylus would tell you.

You catch glimpses: dark, sharp flickers of something monstrous, maybe even infernal. Blood, everywhere— thick in your mouth and your nose. All over your hands. You feel it, too: a yearning, so intense, and you couldn’t say whom it belongs to. Then there’s death. Searing white. Bottomless black. In the middle of all of it— crimson eyes like dying stars.

Every time you resonate, it envelops you, is laid out bare before you: a nightmare you’re caught in the centre of but forced to watch from outside. An other, a spectator. It’s a show, just for you, but it isn’t quite ready yet; someone’s still rehearsing their lines.

If you asked, Sylus would let you see it. It’s a power you have over him, a constant, self-sacrificial: you want it? It’s yours. So you don’t ask. You never ask. Like words mumbled in a haze of wine or sleep, you let him hold onto it. His hands are open, yes, but you don’t have to take.  

Besides, you have your own, world-changing little secret, and he’s going to see it too.

He’s slumped in front of you, blood sheeting down from two bullet wounds just below his shoulder. He catches his breath— one, two— before he peeks over this desk you’ve overturned for cover. You should be peeking over as well: should be counting your enemies, scouting your next move.

Instead, you’re looking at him and holding back. One minute ago you had no idea where he was, how he was, and it’d been eating away at you from the moment you got separated. Now he’s with you— he found you— and the relief is desperate, gushing; it has to escape somehow. It drips: forbidden daydreams, one after the other, like…

How you want to hold his face and urge him to speak so you can just hear his voice.

How you want to press a hand to his heart and feel the beat of it beneath your palm.

How you want to kiss him, want to taste the blood on his split lip, because this is your story, isn’t it? Messy. Violent. Defiant.

He looks at you, that same blood carving a thin line through the pale of his chin. It drops down onto his silk shirt. “What are you thinking about, kitten?” he grins. His best guess: “This is a fine mess we’ve gotten ourselves into, hmm?”

It’s a fine mess he got you into. “Yeah.” You make yourself look away from him, glancing over the desk to assess how much worse the situation is getting. The answer? Significantly. 

Sylus chuckles, drawing your eyes back as he reloads his gun. “Don’t say I never treat you to anything, sweetie.” He fires a few rounds towards the encroaching danger.

Voices go up across the room. Gunshots ring out, louder. Sylus slinks back down, wincing, holding his shoulder, and his fingers turn red. He deftly undoes the first few buttons on his shirt, peeling it back so he can examine his wounds. His jaw clenches; the punctures aren’t closing over fast enough. It’s too much blood, too quick, and he’ll—

He catches you staring. There’s a sheepish sincerity in the way he smiles, as honest and vulnerable as the holes in his shoulder. He holds out his hand. “Time for an energy storm, don’t you think?”

“No,” you snap. “Save your energy. We might need it later.”

“Oh?” An eyebrow perks up in interest, and it’s just like him to spot a double entendre in the midst of all this chaos.

But you’re staring at his chest through his open shirt and you’re such a hypocrite. “Things might get worse,” you explain.

“Worse?” he repeats as bullets fly over your heads, striking the wall across from you and scattering plaster over the floor. He watches it crumble. “Paint me a picture, kitten— what would worse look like?”

Even Rafayel might struggle with that particular creative prompt.

“Come on,” Sylus insists, using the excuse of your silence to push his hand closer to you. “Now’s not the time to play coy.”

“Sylus, I really don’t—”

He grasps your hand, his fingers locking with yours and squeezing tight. Your heart jumps at the touch. It strangles the protests in your throat and stays there, strung up by anticipation and dread.

You’re feeling so much that it takes you too long to realise nothing is happening.

Sylus’s eyes are fixed on your connected palms. He’s squinting, concentrating, and when that doesn’t work— when your hand is paling in the vice of his— he loosens his grip, his thumb feathering over yours as he mumbles a quick: “forgive me.”

He doesn’t let you go. You can still feel him, all of him, imploring to just let him in.

You don’t, and his eyes meet yours, for a moment— like another bullet has bitten through his flesh. Your mouth drops in fake surprise; you’re always so innocent when you pull a trigger on him.

This time, there’s no wound you can push your hands against in a guilty effort to staunch the bleeding. You have to apologise. Have to stitch it up with every word you’ve been guarding, saving, and it isn’t supposed to be like this. “Sylus, it’s not what you think. I—”

Something metal clatters across the floor behind you, bounces like a failing, stuttering heartbeat, then explodes.

…

“Good news, boss! We figured it out!”

Sylus groans, looking up from a report he’s not really been reading as two figures crash into his room. Not good, he thinks, as Kieran flings himself into the nearest armchair. Whatever this is, it’s not good. Luke settles on its arm.

With a sigh, Sylus removes his reading glasses. They stay, hooked on a finger, as he pushes his hair back like he can feel a headache coming on. His eyes flutter closed, and when they open, the twins are both leaning forward, bristling with excitement.

“Ask us,” Luke whispers in a way that makes Sylus think he might not realise he’s speaking out loud.

Another sigh. “What did you figure out?”

Kieran whips out a tired-looking notepad from behind his back. He clears his throat— “ahem!”— then starts to read: “Reasons why Miss Hunter was not able to resonate with you. Number one...”

“How did you find out about—”

“Sshhhh,” Kieran interrupts, putting a finger to where his lips should be. Sylus’s eyes widen in indignation, and Luke comes to his twin’s rescue, silently indicating Mephisto with a few tips of his head. The crow shrinks down on his perch.

“Number one,” Kieran repeats, matter-of-factly. “Your height.”

“My… height?”

Luke nods solemnly as Kieran continues: “humanityandconquer.com/power-dynamics describes tallness as a ‘natural advantage when trying to dominate a smaller individual.’ You are very tall. Try crouching when you speak to Miss Hunter.” He glances over the top of his notepad. “If you approach her at her level, she’ll know you mean no—”

“Nope. Next,” Sylus dismisses, waving his hand in a fast-forward motion. That headache is coming on.

“Reason two,” Kieran acquiesces, gaze falling, “your eyes.”

“Oh, for gods’ sake—”

“They’re red,” the twin pushes on, “and red means danger. In fiction, red eyes are symony—” he stops, spells it out— “synonymous with the supernatural. Vampires especially. Plus, lots of bad stuff is red.” He’s going off-script. “Blood. Fire. Sunburns.”

“Sunburns are pink,” Luke muses.

“No, like, bad sunburns, y’know?”

“Oh right, yeah.” There’s a shrug of agreement.

Sylus’s will to live is hanging by a thread, and they really don’t have a care in the world, do they? It must be nice. “Thank you,” he murmurs, “for your little investigation. If that’s all, I would—”

“Reason three!” Luke chirps, wiggling the same number of fingers, and Sylus’s head lolls back against the sofa.

“Miss Hunter is struggling to separate this version of you from your first impression,” Kieran says.

Sylus looks up. “What?”

Luke is rubbing his hands together eagerly, like they’ve finally gotten to the good stuff. “Well, you remember how you and Miss Hunter met,” his twin explains.

Words won’t do it justice, apparently, because the man begins to act it out. He reaches to grip Luke by the throat and Luke pretends to choke, fingers clawing at the grasp. Then Kieran stands up— throws Luke down into the chair and pins him there with his foot before snatching up his hand.

“See what I mean?” Kieran asks over his shoulder. “I mean, it must have been pretty traumatic. You kinda tore her away from everything she knew. Forced her to use her power, et cetera, et cetera.”

Sylus has gone quiet. He’s vaguely aware that the twins are moving, saying more, but he can’t hear it. He feels sick. Then he feels something different: someone poking at his arm. A hand is waved in front of his face, but he doesn’t react.

“Oh, we so got it,” Luke whispers conspiratorially behind him.

“Hell yeah we did!” Kieran whispers back.

There’s the sound of them high-fiving, and it spurs Sylus into action. He’s up out of his seat, out of their shadows, and then the door as well— long before they can stop him. He needs to breathe. He needs the cold night air and the quiet, and his strides drive him towards it, but not fast enough.

He’s about to use his Evol. To let himself evaporate so he can be whole again somewhere else, somewhere easier, but then he stops. He’s by an open door, glancing in at a decadent living room, where you’re sprawled over a black leather couch. This isn’t easier. This hurts, and it hurts more as he forces himself to close the distance between you.

You’re still asleep. You’ve been unconscious ever since that grenade went off, and it’s for the best, really; getting out of that place was… messy. Sylus’s shoulder still aches, the blood on his shirt now crusty and dark. Some of it’s his. Some of it’s yours.

He’s not sure why he’s still wearing it.

The twins did a pretty good job of patching you up, but— looking over you— he would have done better. It was his role, after all. His duty to you, or maybe just a reason to get close to you. He couldn’t do it today. Couldn’t touch you, no matter how noble the intention. And a little part of him was glad for the excuse; his hands always shake.

A blanket is half on your legs, half on the floor, and Sylus stoops to collect the edge of it. He draws it over your shoulder, adjusting it around your arms— at rest by your face. He’s close, now, and he…

He can’t help himself. When has he ever been able to help himself? He lifts his hand slowly; he wants to kiss you. Even though your blood is still drying on his shirt and it’s all his fault.

…

Someone’s hand is on your face.

The touch draws you back into consciousness, tender, careful, then suddenly sharp. “Ah,” you hiss. “Sylus?” Always first on your mind and your lips.

“Not even close,” quips the shadow above you.

“Kieran?”

“Bingo.”  

You use your hand to block some of the room’s light as you open your eyes— a birdlike silhouette taking shape through the gaps in your fingers. “Where’s Sylus?” you ask, teeth clenching as the twin applies a thin strip of surgical tape to a cut on your cheek. “Is he ok?”

“Sheesh, relax. He’s fine,” Kieran tuts, then seems to reconsider, “well…”

“He’s brooding,” chimes a voice from behind you. “Out on the balcony.” Luke.

You rub at your eyes, still drowsy with sleep. “Why’s he brooding? What did you do?”

“Told him he traumatised you,” they speak in unison.

“What?! Why would you say something like that?”

“Because it’s true,” Kieran shrugs. “That’s why you and boss couldn’t, you know…” He twinkles his fingers.

Resonate? Ugh. You slide your feet onto the floor, sitting up straight for a solid second before you bury your face in your hands, omitting a few, pained whines. This is such a mess, and it only got worse while you were asleep. First that stupid grenade, now the twins.

A hand pats at your back. “There, there,” Luke soothes.

You turn to glare at him. His hand retreats.

Forget it; you have to find Sylus.

…

You step out onto the balcony, head full of apologies you’ve had all of a minute to prepare, and it isn’t enough. It felt fitting, in the middle of a shootout— everything was allowed to be frantic and from the heart. Here it’s calm, and if you ruin something— break anything— it’s going to be obvious. There’s no other violence to blame.

Sylus must hear you join him, but he doesn’t turn. He’s leant forwards against the rail, one arm folded upon it, the other outstretched: sporting a glass of liquor that hangs from the tips of his fingers and that he swirls gently, his gaze far away.

The twins really weren’t kidding.

“Hey,” you greet, and it’s sort of pathetic, but you don’t know what else to say.

“Hey,” Sylus returns, “are you—” he looks back at you over his shoulder— “are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you smile warmly. “I mean, the twins are giving me a headache, but that’s, like, standard.”  

He smiles back: a courtesy. You’ve seen him grin through almost every type of pain imaginable, but this one is new. Think about what Luke and Kieran said. What he must be thinking. “Sylus, I—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he stops you, turning his body towards you. “Honestly, I’d… rather you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he chuckles, masking a deeper hurt as he lifts his glass to his lips. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

You are; you hold his gaze as he takes a deliberately slow sip of his drink. He smirks, surrenders at once and admits: “I’m really not that strong, sweetie. That’s why.”

“What if I want to explain?”

The smirk falters, and his eyes make their own, sad, silent confession. If you want to explain? He’ll let you. He’ll stand here, listening patiently while you call him a thing of nightmares. While you break him, bit by tortuous bit, by reminding him just how frightening he is.

He turns back to the view, shrugs, but none of the tension leaves his shoulders. “Go on, then.”

“Sylus?”

“Mmm?”

“You don’t scare me, you know.”

His hand tightens around his glass. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Pity me,” he grimaces. “I don’t need it. I know what I am. I’d just… forgotten what I was to you.”

Your captor. Your monster. Except that was a lifetime ago and he’s been so many more things to you since then. Tell him. “Sylus…”

“I felt it,” he snaps, because your voice is still so reluctant, and he’s going to save you the trouble. “When we tried to resonate, I felt it— your fear— just as deep as it used to be. I heard that same voice in your head, the one saying you wouldn’t let me in, couldn’t let me in, so don’t tell me I don’t scare you, sweetie.” The term of endearment tastes sour, you can tell. “I know how you feel. I know—”

“I like you, Sylus.”

“…What?”

You couldn’t take it anymore. “I like you,” you say again, and your heart is beating too quickly for eloquence, so you just have simplicity. “You don’t scare me at all, Sy. I care about you. A lot.”

Sylus stares at you, his eyes wide. There’s no confidence. No smile or drawn-out breath of relief. He sets his glass aside on the railing, gaze leaving yours for a moment, and you get the feeling he needs that moment as much as he needed the drink itself.

Then he looks at you again. Asks in a way that makes you ache: “do you mean it?”

Look at him. Your throat stings. “Of course I mean it.”

“Say it again.”

“I mean it, Sylus. I care about—”

His lips are on yours and the rest of your words are lost in his mouth. You, you say with the way you kiss him back, soft and slow, like you’re relishing something that might slip away. You, you insist— your hand finding his face, his hair, as he kisses you deeper, and you, you, you, when he doesn’t stop.

“Is this alright?” he murmurs, his fingers around your chin and his thumb tugging at your bottom lip.

“Mmm,” you confirm, equally breathless.

He laughs as he withdraws a little, still caressing your face like you’re something of a dream. “You’re not making this easy, kitten.”

“Worried you might traumatise me again?”    

It's a low blow. He scoffs. “Luke and Kieran said—”

“Luke and Kieran once bought arts-and-crafts feathers for Mephisto because they thought the colours would make him, and I quote: more aerodynamic.” You pinch his ear playfully. “I can’t believe you let them get to you.”

“I know,” he groans, lifting your hand so he can press chaste kisses along the line of your knuckles. “Not my finest moment.” He guides your palm to his cheek— leans into it as he leans into an idea. “They said you hated my eyes,” he pouts.

You can’t help giggling. He frowns. “I mean— aww, no,” you scramble, but you’re still laughing. You can’t stop. “Your eyes are… yeah. So pretty.”

“You had to think about it?”

“There were just too many adjectives, y’know? I was struggling to—”

He kisses you again, saving you: crushing your laughter with his own, lightheaded smile. His hand finds yours as his lips move against you, your fingers interlocking as you resonate— chasing an instinct, a need to be impossibly closer— and you let him see everything. Feel everything.

It’s a mad tangle of opposites. Heaven. Hell. Life. Death. You don’t know what any of it means, but it’s yours and it’s his and it doesn’t scare you half as much as it should. Sylus breaks your kiss. He pushes his forehead against your own with a sigh of contentment, and it doesn’t scare him, either.  

Savour each second. Think of some better adjectives, while you still have the time.

He’s going to earn every single one.

…

✨Epilogue✨

Inside, staring out through the floor-to-ceiling windows that separate the room from the balcony, Luke and Kieran stand, looking awfully smug.   

“Mission accomplished,” Kieran nods, flipping closed his notepad, aptly titled: 101 Ways To Get Boss Laid! (There are only, currently, fifty-two.)

Luke’s arms are folded. “We’re like, the best wingmen ever.”

Kieran is silent. He repeats carefully: “Wingmen. Wingmen.”

The beaks of the crow masks gradually turn to face one-another. There’s a mutual epiphany, and both twins almost fall over laughing.

[hathay]

Ace does card tricks for you when you’re down. Flipping cards from finger to finger, shuffling a deck as swiftly as he can, hoping that you don’t notice his fingers are trembling. You… look so sad. It’s messing with his focus, seriously. Look, he can’t exactly promise to get how ya feel, but looking at you like this… is making his own damn heart hurt, so cut it out already!

Pick a damn card, any card.

Don’t let him see it. Put it back into the deck, anywhere you wanna.

Alright, now he’s gonna shuffle it. Look closely… aw, how can you look when your eyes are all wet as hell? Man, just stop crying already. Here, he’ll wipe it for you, hold still.

Yeah, that’s it. Sob all over his hoodie, it’s fine. Come on, your nose is dripping, he’ll wipe it for ya… huh, it’s gross? These are your own tears, just suck it up and let him wipe it for ya. Either way, this hoodie’s going into the wash.

Like the material? It’s boyfriend material- ow, hey! Don’t hit him like that, it’s true!

Yeah, yeah, feeling kinda better now, huh? Taking out your rage on someone who’s trying to help you… you’re such a jerk.

You’re lucky you’re a cute jerk though.

Alright, watch closely. He’s going to shuffle the cards real nice and slow just for ya to watch. Like this… and like that… and now, is this your card?

It’s not the queen of hearts, is it?

Or the two of spades?

Perhaps it’s the three of clovers?

Maybe the four of diamonds?

Nah, who’s Ace kidding? He’s gonna reach just right behind your ear… oh, what’s this? A card, straight from your ear? Man, you should really clean there sometimes, crusty.

Hey, he’s just kidding! Chill out! Right, stop hitting him, and let him show ya the card he pulled out.

It’s going to blow your tears right out of your eyes, baby, because this man knows his magic. Drumroll, please! He’s going to flip the cards real nice and slow…. And ta-dah!

It’s the Ace of Hearts!

Y’know who else is the ace of hearts? That’s right, yours truly, the master of winning over hearts himself, Ace Trappola! He’s got babes hanging off his arms left and right-

Hey, why are ya laughing? It’s true!

Honestly, the disrespect… but hey, at least you’re laughing now. Ace likes that a lot better than your crying. So he’s going to push this card into your hand. Hold onto it.

Y’know why he could magic it right out beside you? B… because… man, this is such a stupid, cheesy line. Hey, can Ace take that back? He doesn’t wanna say that anymore-

Huh? He should just say whatever the heck he was gonna say? Man… you really like making him suffer, dontcha?

You’ll always find the Ace of Hearts around you.

Because Ace is always going to be right beside you. So don’t cry anymore, alright?