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sceletaflores · 8 months ago

Text

slippin' and slidin' all over you!

pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 4k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, sweating, mutual masturbation, sweat licking (i don't know???), not-so-dry humping, p in v, JUST THE TIP RAHHH, creampie, fingering (fem!recieving), oral sex (fem!receiving), come swapping, come eating, literally over four thousand words of pure nasty smut, this is gross lowkey, idk i'm h*rny, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: very much not the winner or even an option of the poll i posted last week but...shhh don't hate me. it’s october and over 80 every single day, what the fuck is that? only good thing that came from this heat is thoughts of nasty sweaty sex with logan. once again shoutout to my wonderful husband @ebodebo for reading this over for me (i successfully changed her vendetta against sucking up some man sweat...which was the real point of this fic tbh) go give her fics some love if you're a slut for ghost! kisses!

logan forgot to fix the ac...

It's too hot out to be alive. 36°C and sunny.

One of the hottest days in recent memory for Alberta, and you're really feeling it.

"Remind me," you say slowly, the first words spoken in almost ten minutes. "How many times did I ask you to fix the air conditioner?"

"Don't start," Logan says from his spot across the room. His head is tipped back to rest on the couch cushion, eyes slipped shut.

You ignore him, lazily rolling your head to the side to look at him through squinted eyes, your brows furrowed in thought. "Was it ten? Or maybe thirteen?"

Logan huffs a breath, slow and heavy, but he doesn't move--doesn't even open his eyes. “I said don’t start,” he mutters again, though there’s the faintest edge of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Don't worry baby," you say, voice pitched lower in a terrible impersonation of Logan. "I'll get to it, promise. Won’t get too hot for another couple months."

Logan finally cracks an eye open, just enough to give you a sideways glance, his mouth twitching with amusement. "You done?"

You hum noncommittally, the sound lingering in the air like the lazy summer breeze doing nothing to cool the temperature outside. Your gaze slips down the side of his face to trace the jut of his jaw, then lower to the sweaty column of his neck.

Both you and Logan lost most of your clothes earlier in the day, too hot to bother wearing anything but underwear. You trudged around the house like zombies until you finally gave up on trying to be productive, you both ended up in the living room.

All the windows are cracked open, trying in vain to let in any cool air. You claimed the armchair closest to the fan, refusing to be anywhere near Logan and the massive heat wave he constantly gives off.

Logan’s on the couch, stripped down to the thinnest pair of sleep shorts you’ve ever seen. His chest is bare, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat that mats the dark hair dusted along his pecs to his skin.

You can’t help the way your eyes follow the drops of moisture that slide slowly down the contours of his abs. A low heat starting to swirl through your gut when it disappears into his happy trail.

It's funny. When you basically peeled yourself off your mattress this morning, sex was the absolute last thing on your mind.

Now, as your eyes glide over the strong expanse of Logan's body on full display, you're having second thoughts.

Maybe it just comes with the heat. That sort of slow, syrupy feeling that slides along your overheated skin to pulse pleasantly between your thighs.

A bead of sweat slides down the length of your spine slowly, falling until it soaks into the damp waistband of your panties. You try to not notice how Logan is halfway across the room, not touching you.

You fail.

“It’s just a shame, though,” you start, fingers idly toying with the hem of your tank top. “If it was cooler, I could come over there.”

You slide a leg up, letting it rest against the wooden rest, newly exposed skin gleaming under the sunlight filtering in.

The move isn't lost on Logan. You see his jaw clench slightly, the tiniest shift in his posture.

"Something you wanted?" Logan asks, his voice going low and teasing. "Looks like you've been gettin' yourself all worked up over there."

“Just thinking,” you reply, shifting slightly on the sticky leather of the chair.

Logan’s fingers twitch at his sides, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. His eyes slide the rest of the way open, his gaze heavy and lingering as it ventures down to where your thin shirt sticks to your skin, outlining every curve.

“Oh yeah?” he prompts, his voice a little rougher now. “Thinkin’ about what, baby?”

“You,” you say easily, fingers slipping down to your thigh. You bring your other leg up, perching it against the opposite armrest. Your thighs spread wide enough that you know Logan has a full view of the wet spot growing along the gusset of your panties.

The hitch in Logan’s breath has you stifling a smug smile, taking your bottom lip between your teeth as you watch the way his chest starts rising faster.

"That's real sweet, sugar," he drawls, an unimpressed look on his face as he drags his eyes back up to your own. "But if you're tryin' to get me over there, you're gonna have to do better than that." His voice slides through the air heavy and warm like molasses.

You bite back a grin, enjoying the slow game that's unfolding between the two of you.

"Maybe I don’t want you to come over here," you let your fingers trail a little lower, just to the edge of your panties, teasing. “Maybe I like you right where you are.”

Logan’s brow raises, his thighs tensing before he spreads them just a touch wider. The fabric of his boxers goes taut over the strong muscle, riding up to expose even more hairy skin to your greedy eyes.

"You're playin' with fire, kid," he warns.

The tent in his shorts is obvious now, the hard length of his cock pressing against the fabric where it lays across his thigh. Your other hand twitches by your side at just the sight, your pussy throbbing with the sudden need to be filled.

"Am I?" you murmur, your fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, just enough to make sure he knows exactly where this is headed. ”It’s not like you’re going to do anything about it, you’re too busy pouting."

With a deliberate slowness, you slide your fingers lower, brushing against your clit with just enough pressure to let out a soft gasp at the contact. You arch your back slightly, relishing in the way the air feels against your skin, hot and sticky.

You want him to see how badly you need him—how his heat is the only thing that could truly satisfy the insatiable ache building between your legs.

Logan's nostrils flare, jaw tightening and eyes darkening at the sight of you teasing yourself. His restraint is slipping, and you can practically feel the tension building in the room, thick and stifling like the oppressive summer heat.

But he still doesn’t move, doesn’t rush over like you expect him to. Instead, he shifts his hips slightly, spreading his legs wider and letting his hand fall on his thigh.

You can’t help the way your breath quickens at the sight, the way his fingers drift dangerously close to his own growing bulge, teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him.

You tilt your head to the side, gazing at him through your lashes. “You're really just gonna leave me hanging?” you goad, fingers circling lazily around your sensitive clit. “Come on stud, whip it out.”

Logan chuckles low, a sound that sends shivers through you. "Is that what you want, baby?" he asks, voice thick and taunting, a smirk curling on his lips. “You want me to whip it out for you?”

“Yeah,” you murmur breathlessly, biting your lip as you maintain eye contact, your breath starting to come in short bursts. “I need to see you, Logan. Need to see how hard you are for me.”

“Need to, huh,” he muses slowly, fingers finally grazing over the hard length of his cock. “What’s in it for me?”

“How about this?” You slip your hand out from your ruined panties, fingers glistening with your own wetness as you hook your thumbs on either side and drag them down your legs.

You let the soaked cotton fall to the floor, leaving you completely exposed to him.

Logan’s pupils dilate, an inky black completely swallowing the warm hazel. He licks his lips slowly, the tip of his tongue running along his teeth like he wants to sink them into you. His cock twitches visibly beneath his shorts, the growing tension in the air between you thick enough to choke on.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice low and gravelly, more of a growl than a word.

You smile, shifting in the chair to give him an even better view, your legs spreading wider. "Yeah?" you purr, running your fingers over your slick inner thigh, feeling the heat radiating from your own skin. “You like what you see?”

Logan swallows hard, his hand finally slipping beneath the waistband of his shorts, palming his cock as he watches you. “You know I do,” he says, voice rougher than before.

You let your hand trail back down to your clit, rubbing it in slow, teasing circles as you hold his gaze. “Then show me, Logan,” you whisper, your voice almost a plea now. "I wanna see you."

Logan lets out a low, rumbling groan, his fingers making quick work of shoving his shorts down enough to free his cock. It springs free to slap lewdly against his stomach and you can’t help the moan that escapes your lips at the sight.

He strokes himself slowly to start, his eyes locked on you, watching your every reaction, feeding off the way your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths.

"Like this?" he asks, his tone taunting as he strokes himself from base to tip, his thumb swiping over the head with a low hiss. “That what you wanted?”

Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of him, straining and in his hand. The sight of his thumb brushing over the tip of his cock sends a hot, electric pulse through your body, your hand between your legs moving in time with his slow strokes.

"Yeah," you whisper, voice trembling with need. "Just like that."

You slip your hand lower, sliding two fingers inside yourself with a low moan. Logan groans like he’s the one being touched, his hand speeds up, eyes glued to where your fingers disappear in your slick heat.

His cock leaks pre-come over his knuckles each time his fist passes over the dripping head, the wet sound of it mixing with the low hum of the fan and your own breathy sighs.

"You look so fuckin' good like this honey," Logan groans, his voice rough, strained. "All spread out, playing with that pretty pussy for me."

You whimper at his words, your body aching for more than just your own touch. You need him, need the feel of his rough hands on your skin, his mouth, his cock—anything.

Your fingers move faster, slipping deeper inside with each pump, but it’s still not enough. The stretch is nothing compared to taking Logan, to the feeling of him carving a place for his thick cock inside your pussy, hitting that spot inside you that your fingers can’t quite reach.

Your hips buck up towards your hand, your back arching off the chair as your free hand clutches the armrest tightly.

Logan’s pace quickens, his fist pumping his cock with a new urgency, heavy balls bouncing with every rough tug.

“God, look at you, such a needy fuckin’ thing” he growls, chest heaving as his gaze flicks between your flushed face and the glistening mess you’re making of yourself like he can’t decide where to look. “You want it bad, don’t you?”

"Please," you whine, desperation creeping into your voice. Too keyed up to draw this out any longer. “I need you inside me, Logan. I can’t take it anymore.”

Logan groans, a sound that rumbles deep in his chest. His hand falters slightly on his cock, squeezing hard around the base as your words push him dangerously close to the edge. His jaw clenches, eyes raking over you, and with a growl, he stands.

The last threads of his restraint snapping.

He crosses the room in two long strides, towering over you where you sit. His cock swollen and hard, sways between his legs with every step, glistening with pre-come that drips to the floor. His eyes, hooded and burning, drink you in as he reaches down, yanking your hand away from your slick heat.

“Thought you said it was too hot to move,” you tease breathlessly, unable to quit egging him on even when your legs start to tremble with need, spreading wider to welcome him.

Logan ignores you, tugging your hand to his lips. Your breath catches in your chest, a weak moan escaping you as he takes your soaked fingers in his mouth. His tongue swirling along your skin to taste you, his eyes never leaving yours as he does.

“Changed my mind,” he growls, strong hands rough and possessive as they drop your wrist and haul you out of the chair so he can spin around, collapsing into it with you in his lap. The wood gives a warning creak beneath you but neither of you care.

Not when his mouth is on yours, hot and demanding as he slides his tongue past the seam of your lips. The heat radiating off his body is suffocating, but you welcome it—craving the weight of him on you.

You melt against him, feeling the hard planes of his body against yours, every inch of him alive and pulsating with need. Logan’s hands find their way to your hips, fingers digging in just enough to send a rush coursing through you.

It’s intoxicating, the way he devours you, his hands exploring every inch of your back, grasping and pulling you impossibly closer.

The hard jut of his cock presses against your thigh, a thick plane of heat that makes your pussy throb with need. You shift your hips, grinding down on him in messy circles.

“You feel that?” he growls, lips brushing against your ear. “That’s all for you, darlin’.”

“Need you,” you whimper, grinding down against him faster, desperate for the friction that sends pleasure rippling through you. “Please, Logan, I need you inside me now.”

“Hold on, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, sending sparks all up your spine.

He dips his head, capturing your lips again, while his hands roam hungrily down your sides, fingers curling around your thighs to urge your legs open wider. “You wanna tease me, you’re gonna have to get off just like this.”

Logan angles his hips so that his cock slips between your drenched folds the next time you roll your own down.

The hot, slick glide sends electric shocks of pleasure racing through you, your body responding instinctively to his touch. You gasp against his lips, fingers tangling in his hair as you push down, desperate for more.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ wet,” he growls, his voice dripping with lust as he watches your movements with hungry eyes. “Just for me, huh? She’s droolin’ just for me.”

You nod breathlessly, chasing the friction, craving the feel of him so close. You lift your hips and rock back down again, the blunt head of his cock brushing against your swollen clit, and you feel your body pulse in response.

“More,” you plead, leaning in to nibble at his lower lip. “I need it.”

Logan pulls away, shaking his head with a wicked grin. “Come on, tough shot,” he says, giving your ass a quick smack and kneading the tender flesh in his hand roughly. “You’re gonna come like this, you can do it baby.”

You whine, dropping your chin to your chest. Your hands find his shoulders, nails digging crescent moons into the strong muscle. Your chest slips slickly against his, the front of your tank almost entirely soaked with sweat.

Yours or his, it doesn't matter. The white cotton turned transparent enough that your breasts are on full display, nipples hard and visible.

You watch a single bead of sweat make its way down the length of his throat. It trickles down and down and down until it dips between the pronounced muscles of his chest.

You duck your head, dragging your tongue up the valley of his pecs. A deep moan bursts from your lips, pussy drooling more slick over Logan’s cock at the coarse feel of his thick hair on your tongue, at the heady taste of his sweat filling your senses.

Logan groans, hands tightening their hold on your waist. The dull ache his strength leaves behind is enough to let you know that two hand shaped bruises will be blooming over your skin by tomorrow morning.

“Come on, girly,” he encourages, nipping at the sweaty column of your throat, the sharp points of his teeth scraping along the sensitive skin deliciously. “Fuck me, give it to me good.”

Your hips speed up, his hard cock sliding through the slick folds of your cunt faster. The tip bumps against your clit deliciously with every move, smearing pre-come along the way to add even more to the mess between your legs.

“Gonna fuckin’ fill you up,” he groans, breath puffing warm and hot agasint the slick skin of your lips. “Pump you so full of my come you’ll be leakin’ for a goddamn week.”

He shifts underneath you, the tip of his cock catching on your entrance just enough for it to push inside on the next grind of your hips.

The barely there fullness has you coming with a sharp cry, nails roughly dragging down Logan’s back hard enough to leave red welts that heal as you go.

The pain mixing with the pleasure of finally getting to feel the warm, wet suction of your pussy has Logan coming with a rough shout of your name. He throws his head back, hands tightening their grip on your hips enough to have your bones grinding together as he pumps you full of his come.

“Logan…” you mewl, your pussy fluttering over the tip of his cock, greedy little clenches like you're trying to suck him the rest of the way in. Drunk on the way his release paints your insides, how you can feel each thick spray coating your walls to claim you in the rawest way.

Logan pulls back just far enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and smoldering as he watches you squirm in his lap.

"You’re not tapping out on me already, are you?" he teases, his voice rough and gravelly. "I thought you were tougher than that."

A weak, breathy laugh escapes you, but it’s cut short when he applies just a little more pressure, making your thighs quiver. "Not tapping out," you manage between shallow breaths, your head falling back against the chair. "But you’re—fuck—you’re insatiable."

Logan smirks, leaning in to nip at the sensitive skin of your throat, his teeth scraping just enough to send shivers coursing through you.

"When it comes to you, baby?" he murmurs against your skin, the heat of his breath fanning over your pulse point. "Fuckin’ always."

A lazily smile takes over your lips as you tighten your core and push, the rest of Logan’s come leaking out over his fingers. Logan groans, pressing his forehead to your shoulder to try and ground himself.

His cock throbs where it sways heavily between his thighs, still hard and ready to go even after he just came. His hand slips down your body, thick fingers running through the creamy mess of come and slick to messily push it back inside you.

“Fuckin’ shit, honey,” he groans lowly, pressing his thumb to your clit. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Before you can respond, he stands again, gently placing your trembling form back into the chair and dropping to his knees in front of you.

Your breath hitches, legs widening despite the way your pussy shakes with overstimulation, like you can’t help but spread your legs for Logan anytime he wants.

Logan smirks up at you from between your legs, his lips already ghosting over the inside of your thigh. "Look at you," he growls, voice low and filled with lust. "Still so needy."

The slick heat of his tongue runs along your folds, lapping at the mess he just made of you. You let out a sharp gasp, thighs trembling as your fingers weave into his hair, tugging him closer.

The sensation is overwhelming—the rough, demanding pace of his tongue as it swirls around your clit, teasing you, while his hands grip your thighs with bruising force. Keeping you exactly where he wants you, keeping you spread open for his tongue.

Your body arches off the chair with a loud cry, every nerve alight with raw pleasure as he feasts on you, his growls vibrating against your sensitive skin.

"Fuck! Logan," you moan breathlessly, head falling back as you try to keep up with the sensations he's pulling from you.

The heat that was pooling low in your belly reignites, stoked by the way his tongue flicks faster against your clit, each stroke sending you higher.

Logan doesn’t let up, his tongue delving deeper, drinking in every moan, every shaky gasp as he drives you closer to the edge. He moans into your pussy, his own arousal clear in the way his hips buck into the air, seeking any kind of friction.

You tug on his hair harder, desperate for more, for release. "Logan, please," you whimper, your voice barely above a whisper, thick with need.

"Atta’ girl," he rasps, his voice thick with desire as he watches your face contort with pleasure. "So fuckin’ pretty like this. You gonna give me another one, baby? Gonna come for me again?"

Every lick, every rough squeeze to your thighs, every teasing stroke sends you spiraling closer to that edge you’re dying to reach again. You can feel the heat radiating off him, his breath hot against your soaked skin and driving you wild.

“Logan, I—” You gasp, fingers tightening in his hair, urging him closer, closer, closer. “I’m so close—”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, nose and jaw glistening in your juices.

"Give it to me," he growls, the rough rasp of his voice sending a shiver through your overheated body. "I wanna feel you come on my tongue."

It’s all the encouragement you need. With a strangled cry, your body tenses, thighs quaking as the orgasm crashes over you.

Logan keeps his mouth on you, tongue working you through every pulse, drawing it out until you’re trembling and gasping, your body boneless in the chair.

When you finally come down, panting and spent, Logan pulls away. With one last kiss pressed over your clit, he makes his way up your body, not dropping eye contact as he settles over you.

His hand comes up to your face, thumbs meanly hooking into either side of your cheeks to gently force your mouth open. You part your lips willingly, the heat still radiating between you, a mix of lingering pleasure.

Logan leans in, and the intoxicating scent of sweat and sex surrounds you as he spits what he collected from between your legs back into your own mouth.

Your cheeks burn with shame, a broken moan ringing through the space between you. Your glassy eyes stare into Logan’s, his own gaze so intense and all consuming you fight the urge to squirm.

"Swallow," he commands, unwavering.

You hesitate for just a moment, caught off guard by the pure audacity, but the way his eyes darken with hunger makes your resolve crumble. With a breathless whimper, you obey, tasting the remnants of your own pleasure mingling with his, the act both humiliating and intensely arousing.

Logan watches you closely, his gaze never straying as you swallow, a dirty smirk creeping onto his lips. “That's my girl,” he praises, his tone thick with satisfaction.

As the taste lingers on your tongue, you can feel the weight of Logan’s stare like a physical touch.

“Think you can handle another round?” he teases, his voice low and sultry. “I don’t plan on letting you off that easy, kid. Not with all that mouthing off earlier.”

You catch your breath, shaking your head in exasperation. “You’re relentless,” you whisper, a hint of laughter in your voice, though your body betrays you, already craving more.

“Only for you, baby” he replies, brushing the strands of hair plastered to your sweaty forehead behind your ear. “Only for you.”

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mini nat's note: i started my period today chickens...that explains it...

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the-moons-tears · 3 months ago

Text

His siren

Brant x f!siren!reader (spicy but not full nsfw) Wuwa

Evening! This was the top voted prompt from the poll sorry it took so long I had many tests to take and study for 🫠

I’m so ready to pull for him omgggg

Preview: he continued, “I must believe it to be true, as I can’t stop thinking about whether you feel soft to hold, to kiss…”

Scales shimmered in the moonlight, jingling on a rope from the rhythm of waves that jostled the ship. “Siren” scales, so the old man that sold them claimed to the curious sailor. They were so enchanting where they hung in the corner of a large bay window in Brant’s quarters. The light reflected off them, casting the scale’s color along the walls and other items that captured his interest. A myth, he told himself, but ended up paying for the trinket anyway. Sometimes he could swear a certain jostle would cause the scales to create a melody as they touched. The sounds would return in his dreams, so much so that the urge to search for this “myth” became too much. It wouldn’t hurt to look, as the sea often hid many secrets. Glancing again at the scales, drink in hand, he thought of an idea. If he wanted to find something in the sea, he’d have to offer something in return.

You cursed as you stared at your reflection from atop the rock. The waves weren’t the best source of a mirror, but you could still tell where the healing wound was on your beautiful but not so flawless anymore tail. You were missing more than seven scales. Seven! They took ages to grow back, and they were missing all in one spot from a fisherman’s spear throw that happened to strike true. The embarrassment you felt was huge, although there were no other sirens around to make fun of you for it. The worst part was that you couldn’t find your missing scales. You liked to keep them, make jewelry from your own beauty by putting it in your hair, on your ears, or to your breast coverings, but after scraping the sea floor and coming up empty handed, you gave up on looking.

It frustrated you. Clearly you underestimated the old man’s sight as you swam closer than usual under a boat. You guess he had seen your shadow and immediately thrown his weapon. It hurt of course, and you panicked, swimming quickly downward and out of sight, bleeding from your tail as seven precious scales floated up to the surface.

Sighing, you turned away from the water, resting your head on your palm. The air was nice, something you couldn’t feel under water. The small retractable gills under your jaw helped filter oxygen through water, but having another set of lungs allowed you to breathe air like a human above the sea. Often you’d think about the human’s and their activities on the ocean. Pirates were the most interesting to you. You’d heard that in the distant past, pirates used to hunt for your kind, keeping them as treasures among their hoards of wealth. Crazy as it might have sounded, you were curious about their treasures. Pirates seemed to have the same taste in all things that glittered under the sun as you did. Would it be so bad to be a pirate’s beloved treasure that they tended to be so possessive over?

In exploring the shipwrecks that had sunken to the depths, you always found the captain, clad in gold and shimmering gems that were still in those skeletal hands. They all seemed to love their treasure, dying covered in it with their ship. A fascinating attachment to their material things you thought. Some even had gems embedded in their teeth, many of those teeth hanging around your neck as decor now.

Your fingers ran over the sensitive barred flesh where your scales were missing, annoyed at the absence of the hard sheen that coated the entirety of your tail. The beautiful fins attached to your back and tail end flopped on the rock, much like an annoyed cat thumped its own tail on the ground to let it be known they were frustrated.

What could you do to lift your spirits? Spirits?…drinks…Sometimes when rummaging through sunken pirate treasure, you’d find closely sealed bottles that hadn’t broken under the pressure of the water, containing some dark colored liquid that made you feel hot and funny. You really liked those when you drank them on your rock, and since they were pretty hard to find, you usually kept them for rare occasions. This seemed like a very important occasion you reasoned with yourself, and quickly retreated back into the depths to gather a bottle to bring back up.

After several minutes of turning your fingers red trying to get the damn cork off, the bottle popped, little drops of the liquid flying out. The tang of it hit your tongue nicely, and soon the bottle was almost gone. You kind of forgot about your scale dilemma, singing to yourself your favorite songs that the sea had taught you.

In the middle of your one siren performance, you heard a familiar chime. It was too distant to come from your own scale made trinkets, but you knew the sound well. They were yours. Shaking your head from the heat of the drink, you set down the now empty bottle haphazardly. You were going to get those scales back. The sound of your body crashing into the water was muffled by the waves bashing up on cliffs and rocks, your water dynamic form cruising through the deep. You could hear the sounds underwater, the uncanny magic of your own scales calling out to you. There, they were hanging from a string above a ship. Swimming closer to the surface, you noticed other shimmering items beside your scales, glittering like the gold and jewels found on pirate captain remains. Your eyes gleamed with want, so quickly you dive deep before dashing upward with your tail, preparing to make the leap above.

Brant wasn’t planning on making contact with a siren, even seeing the shadow of one drawn by the sound of what was hopefully its scales would be enough to satiate his curiosity. The last thing he wanted to do was take a mythical creature captive for his own gain. Holding out the scales on a string, he let the wind do its work, moving the shards against each other to create the sound that haunted his dreams. The myths seemed to lead him to believe that siren’s were quite possessive over their things, often vain with carefully put together visages to attract sailors. Brant didn’t know if it was true, all he knew was that the song enchanted him, though no voice came from the scales.

Looking down in the waters, he saw it, a human-fish like shadow that moved fluidly. It disappeared just as quickly, retreating to the depths. A smile spread on his face, and his hand almost went to drop the scales, returning them to their owner, but before his fingers could fully loosen, a giant splash of water came from below. The sound prompted him to look quickly, quickly enough to see you, a beautiful real creature coming up to him, eyes locked with the string that had the same colors as your tail. Your momentum sent you tumbling into his, your giant tail over his legs with you on top of his chest.

The human’s chest had a very strange mark along it, and touching it let your fingers feel a bit of a hum, like the sensation of a current. The skin was soft and warm, but what attracted you most were the sparkling trinkets adorning him. There were shining circles that punctured his ears, and a big square like piece on his waist. Your hands went to fiddle with it, to which the man made an embarrassed yelp, trying to slide away. The weight of you on top held him down, your tail a bigger weight due to your years in the sea. Before you messed with it more, you heard a slight clink on the deck right beside his shoulders. Quickly your hand shot out to grab the string of scales, your scales.

“Beautiful siren, do you speak?” The human man below you voiced, a wide incredulous smile gracing his handsome features, like this encounter was the most magical thing that ever happened to him. Holding your scales close, you eyed him up and down narrowly. This man was not the one that attacked you, so how did he have them? In the end, you thought, it didn’t matter as long as you got them back. Your movements caused the many decor pieces on you to jingle, catching light on your already graceful form. His eyes sparkled, widening when you respond,

“I am familiar with many human languages.” You brought your hands up, adjusting your wet hair now that you were above water. When he looked as if to carry a conversation, you turned sharply, hearing whispers. The pirate under you was cautious, telling the crewman and others who were attracted to the strange sight to back up as you sat there unhappy at the people interrupting your time with your handsome new fascination. A short girl with pink and violet hair shooed the crowd away with the help of a box, knowing a creature like you probably didn’t want that kind of distraction when you were focused on the thing, or man, of your interest. Mythical creatures deserved respect. The annoyance faded quickly, as your attention returned to the man you had below you. Leaning down, your chests touched as your hand fidgeted with one of his earrings. “Do you have many of these shining things? I want to see them.”

“Yes, our fool’s troupe has many wonders! I…never expected they would grace the sight of a mythical siren. Captain Brant at your service miss…” He paused, allowing you to tell your name. you told him, the origin sounding foreign to the rinascitan man. The captain seemed theatrical, a fiery personality that you hoped kept some shiny treasures. Your hand left his earring to reach for his hat, holding it up and inspecting it. You didn’t know what it was, but copied how he wore it. Brant laughed lightly in disbelief at your curious behavior, but you were getting a little impatient. You wanted to see the hoards of pirate treasure that must have been stowed away somewhere.

As Brant sat up carefully, you threw your arms over him, causing him to steady you both a little awkwardly, one of his hands supporting your side. His warmth was very attractive to you, a contrast to the waters that were often very cold where there wasn’t much sun. “Do siren’s drink?” The captain sounded surprised, the smell of alcohol defined now that you were so close. You couldn’t tell what he meant, too focused on the strange anatomy of the man below you, and how his warm hand felt on your hip.

The gills on your neck had retracted into your skin to suit your lungs breathing in oxygen outside of water. Brant’s clothes were soaked, sticking to him from where you landed on him, which was almost his whole body. Accounting for tail length, you would have beaten his height by many inches if you laid side by side to compare. Brant took a breath before speaking to let you know he was going to lift you up. “Alright, let’s get you up then.”

Brant adjusted his hand on your waist, the other hand coming under your tail to position you more in his lap. With your arms around him as added support, he lifted you up before using his long legs to get a stance on the deck. Your shimmering tail hang low with the lustrous fins almost touching the wood deck, but the pirate captain made it seem like no big deal. His expression was curious, the texture of your tail certainly something new to him. The hat on your head was still secure as he walked down stairs in the giant ship, briefly pausing to put his back to the doors to his quarters.

The smell of the sea was still present even in the room. Jeweled trinkets hung from different places, and different vases had gold almost woven into the ceramic. There were chests, open and full of necklaces and fabrics. Closest to you, was a little moving creature. It looked like the other ceramic things, but it was filled with water, and gave a little bark like an animal when you were carried in.

“I figured you can’t be out of water too long, so I had one of my crewmates bring a tubpup down full of seawater. You don’t mind if I set you in it do you?”

You nodded, still taking in the different aspects of the room, eyes landing on the bed like structure covered in intricately designed pillows and metalwork of the frame. You also noticed several bottles laying around, asking, “are those bottles that have the dark liquid? They make you feel warm.” Brant glanced at them as he lowered you into the water, hands slipping away from you.

“So you do drink wine! Where would you get things like that in the sea?”

“Many sunken ships have tightly sealed chests which have ‘wine, and they are quite good, although the pressure makes most of them break, making them a rare find.” Watching closely, your eyes followed Brant’s movements to grab two glass cups and the bottle of what you now knew as wine. He brought them over, setting them down before pulling a chest full of gems over. Your finger went in quickly, pulling out a handful of sparkly things. A jeweled necklace with rubies like his eyes, earrings that were wire wrapped around polished peridot gems, and a silver cup with embedded citrine gemstones.

Coins fell from your handfull into the tub, metal reflecting off your scales while Brant poured the dark wine into the two glasses. The shimmer caught Brant’s eyes, and he moved closer to look. Your tail hung out of the tub a bit, too long for the whole tub to fit, but it wasn’t uncomfortable for you. His eyes sparkled with curiosity about your scales, the glistening seeming to entrance him the same way when he had your string of scales. Handing you a glass full of your favorite drink, he took a sip of his own and rested his arm on the top of the tub, simply looking at your tail and uniquely strung together jewelry. The seven missing scales were tied to a string you wore, probably to be taken off later for some other purpose.

His hat was still on your head, so he figured you quite liked it. Your cup was empty before he could fully take you in, and you handed it to him for him to fill it again, your lower fins moving contently under the water in the tub. After handing you a second glass, the captain asked softly, “would it be intruding to ask your permission to touch your tail?”

Lifting much of your tail out of the water, you let the larger fins and scaled parts land practically in his hands, making him have to move his glass away so as to not drop it from the sudden weight. The iridescence was fascinating, and the rays from outside cast an ethereal glow on your already luminous form. His calloused hands ran over your scales gently, fingers tracing the pattern they made to protect the flesh beneath. Tilting the glass all the way up, you downed your second large glass, small murmurs coming from your throat.

“Captain Brant, do you sing well?” You sighed out, fins flexing and moving in his grasp. Gently putting your tail back in the tub, he drank the rest of his own share, fingers wiping a stray drop from his lip to answer, “I have my fair share of practice in it. Being on the sea would be a little dull without a song wouldn’t it? I enjoyed the song your scales sang to me particularly before I returned them if I could be so honest.”

“Mm yes, what folk songs do you know that pirates sing? I have never heard any before.” You watched him down a third glass before standing, bowing and turning his back to you. Suddenly he broke out into character, recounting a story he had heard, which then turned into a folk tale you began to quickly like. His theatrical voice and playful tone had you smiling and raising another glass to his wild whimsy. The wine had made you both tipsy, you giving a little hiccup as you started singing the chorus with him after hearing him sing it before.

The behavior was wild and full of merry joy, Brant decorating you with more jewels like a character he described in another story. The festive bonding between the siren and pirate captain lasted for an hour or two more, until you both sang yourselves to near sundown. Being the treasure of a pirate was the best, you thought as you nearly fell out of the tub, your head swimming from the wine. Brant was on the floor beside it laying over soft fabrics, clothes still damp. Adjusting the hat on your head, you climbed over, falling onto him with the rest of your tail landing with a thump on the floor. Your head sought to bury itself into his neck as your hands searched for warmth from his body.

Brant grunted, cheeks flushed from wine and the proximity you shared. His words slurred as he spoke, “beautiful siren, is it true you can enchant sailors to fall in love at first sight?”

Pulling back to peer down at him, you noticed with the boldness the wine gave you how kissable a pirate looked. His lips were wet, and his mouth slightly parted, chest rising heavily as he looked up at your form. “I…” he continued, “I must believe it to be true, as I can’t stop thinking about whether you feel soft to hold, to kiss…”

His eyes were sparkling, holding adventure and a desire for things unknown to him, like the woman above him. Sitting forward from his flat down position with you on him, he tilted his face up, his hands coming where you guided them, up the small of your back and below your shoulder blades. With slow, teasing motions, you peeled the billowy shirt and jacket down, revealing glistening skin where the water hadn’t dried from your encounter.

“I have no such magic, captain…” you whispered back in a subtle tone, encouraging him to keep going. Your hands lightly ran over the black mark over his chest, feeling the hum it made as well as the fast beating heart underneath. He sighed, pleased at how your hand danced on his skin, coming up to tilt his jaw. His eyes open briefly to catch you smiling, before pulling you closer, closing the distance between you. Those lips were indeed soft, warm as every part of him was.

Pushing him back down, you used the movement to open his mouth, allowing your kiss to turn heated. The tang of wine hit you as your tongues met, Brant giving a small whimper like grunt beneath you. His hat had fallen off the the side, forgotten in your desire for more of him. It felt strange, to want something other than shiny things and trinkets. A siren and a pirate intertwined on the floor. His hand was feather light along your curves, gentle and careful in his caresses, dipping down to your side to feel the scales again.

“Brant…” you whispered against his lips, words slurred by the burning heat of the wine in your bodies. His eyes glimmered when his name fell from your mouth, fingers twitching at the syllables. His breath was hot, lips pressing into your neck, jingling the jewels and strings of gold and silver. Time passed slow, and you were sure you’d come to find other treasures he was hiding besides gems and pearls, helping him sing in other ways. Being with a pirate didn’t sound too bad.

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vunblr · 3 months ago

Text

Tangled (#2)

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. I don't know if there will be eventual teratophilia.

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Word Count: About 6.5k.

note: The Cecaelia is a mythical creature that's half-man, half-octopus, and that was the winning result of the poll about what kind of creature would be merman!Bucky. So yeah.

Previous Chapter

The next morning, she decided to switch things up. Maybe, going earlier would save her from another weird staring contest with the stranger from yesterday. So she packed her usual things -her project, a thermos, a snack- and threw on a light jacket before heading out. The air was crisp and salty, the sun still low and soft on the horizon, casting everything in golden light.

By the time she made it to her spot by the rocks, she was greeted by two small but satisfying victories.

First: no sign of him.

Second: the tide was low.

Very low.

The mouth of the cave yawned open before her, dark, cool, and tempting. She stood there for a moment, just listening to the rhythmic hush of the waves and the soft cries of seabirds above. The breeze tugged playfully at her hair as she scanned the shoreline, confirming what she had suspected, the tide was still receding. She had time.

Her gaze flicked back to the cave.

Maybe… she could finally take a proper look inside. If the locals were so set on being cryptic about the place, well, she could see for herself what the fuss was about.

Adjusting the straps of her backpack, she made her way carefully across the rocky terrain, taking her time to step only on firm, dry stones. Her shoes crunched softly against the pebbles as she went, and when she reached the cave’s entrance, she hesitated only briefly before ducking inside.

It was bigger than she thought.

Seawater pools clung to dips in the cave floor, catching the sunlight and scattering it across the rock like scattered coins. She trailed a hand along the rough wall, marveling at how nature shaped everything so perfectly.

God, this place was beautiful.

She wandered a few feet inside, careful to keep the brighter mouth of the cave within her sight, she wasn’t about to get herself lost in the dark, after all.

The deeper she went, the more she noticed little details, the way seaweed had been caught high in some places, as though pushed there by violent tides, the shimmer of shells wedged between stones, and even marks on the walls.

Scratches?

No… another kind of mark she couldn’t decipher.

----

Bucky was minding his business -lately, this meant trying to nap and failing- when the sound of footsteps echoing faintly through the stone reached his ears. His eyes snapped open, sharp and alert, and his pupils narrowed against the faint shaft of light filtering through the cave’s chimney.

Footsteps.

Too light to be a fisherman or some reckless teenager come to drink where they thought no one would find them.

No, this was different.

He pushed himself up slightly from where he’d been half-submerged in one of the deeper pools, and the water swirled softly around the dark coils of his limbs. His long hair, still damp from an early morning swim, clung to his shoulders as he turned toward the sound, tattooed fingers flexing against the rock's edge.

Then he heard it again, careful steps over the stones. Hesitant. Testing the ground like someone not used to walking there.

His jaw clenched. He knew who it was even before he heard the soft intake of breath that followed.

Her.

The one who kept coming to his shore. The one who dared to sit and hum and twist her strange threads in the sunlight like she belonged there.

He swore softly under his breath. What the hell was she doing now?

She’d never ventured this close. Never crossed into the mouth of his lair. Sliding silently beneath the surface, he moved closer to where the cave opened wide, staying in the deeper shadows, where the water was darkest and the light struggled to reach. Only his eyes remained above, sharp as a blade, watching her figure outlined against the sunlight spilling from the entrance.

She moved slowly, and wide-eyed, running her fingers along the walls -his walls- studying the cave like she had every right to be there. He felt something twist low in his gut, a mix of annoyance and... something else. Something that felt dangerously close to curiosity.

Didn’t she realize how stupid it was to wander into places she didn’t understand? His dark tendrils shifting restlessly in the water, echoing his unease.

She paused by one of the shallow pools, crouching to look at something glinting in the rocks. Shells or maybe bits of drift metal carried in by the tides, small things he sometimes kept and sometimes destroyed when he was in the wrong mood.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed as he watched her expression. Not fear, not yet. She didn’t know she wasn’t alone. A flicker of guilt assaulted him, uninvited. She wasn’t armed, wasn’t threatening. She looked... curious. Innocent, even.

But he knew better than to trust a human face.

He was used to watching her from a distance. Used to seeing her hands dance over her threads, hearing the soft sound of her voice when she hummed to herself.

But now?

Now she was here. Too close.

And as she straightened up and turned deeper into the cave, following the patches of light that filtered through cracks and chimneys, Bucky felt his chest tighten. What was he supposed to do with her? His fingers dug into the rock, and his muscles tensed under dark, storm-hued skin.

Maybe it was time to show her this wasn’t a place to wander.

----

When she started moving toward that alcove, -the one where her little seashell square hung, swaying gently on its line- something sharp and possessive twisted in Bucky’s chest.

No.

That was his now.

Without thinking much about it, he slid from the deeper shadows of his resting pool, moving swift and fluid along the rocky edge, like a shadow swallowed by darker ones. His lower half gripped the slick stones as he glided over them, slipping noiselessly into another pool closer to her path.

Hidden beneath the surface, only his eyes above the waterline, he watched as she hesitated, scanning the alcove’s uneven walls with quiet wonder.

She was too close.

His fingers curled over the rim of the pond, the dark tattooed lines on his arm twisting as his grip tensed. And then, he hissed.

Low, sharp, and deliberate.

The sound slithered through the cavern like a living thing, bouncing off the rock, and gaining depth and weight as it echoed through the chambers. She froze mid-step. She turned around slowly, all wide eyes as she scanned the shadows, the pools, the craggy walls.

“Hello?” Her voice was soft, uncertain.

Bucky said nothing, keeping still as stone. She stepped back, brushing the cave wall lightly with her hand, as if for support. But that was all. She wasn’t running. She wasn’t screaming. Just standing there, scanning the dim light, with her mouth pressed in a thin line.

He stayed hidden, with his body almost perfectly blended with the dark water and stone. Watching. Studying.

She lingered another minute, wrapping her arms loosely around herself as if trying to convince herself that the hiss -that low, sharp thing slithering through the cavern- had been nothing. Just some natural sound of the sea moving through the rocks.

With a slow exhale, she wisely turned on her heel and started her march toward the exit, cautiously stepping over the slick stone.

But fate, of course, wasn’t on her side.

Her foot slipped on a patch of algae-slick rock, and before she could even yelp, she went down hard, landing with a splash in a pool she hadn't noticed before.

“Shit!” she gasped, as the cold water soaked her jeans instantly.

The splash echoed off the cavern walls, bouncing sharp and loud through the space. And that sudden, chaotic movement, the crash of her body into the water, the way her hands scrambled to push herself back up, startled something.

From across the pool, where the water dipped into shadow, the rocks seemed to shift. Her eyes caught on the movement, as the illusion of stone melted away, like mist burning under the sun. There, clinging to the rocks, was him.

Not a shadow. Not a trick of the light.

A man, pale and tattooed, with long dark hair plastered against his shoulders, and wide blue eyes locked on her with equal parts shock and anger.

But it wasn’t just a man.

Where legs should’ve been, his body changed, and thick limbs -deep blues and blacks shifting like oil- curled and rippled over the stones, some half-submerged, others coiled for balance. She could see suction cups running along the underside of a few, clinging effortlessly to the wet rock. The tips flicked and twitched, betraying tension and irritation.

For a long heartbeat, neither of them moved.

What-

He looked just as surprised as she was, like he hadn’t expected to reveal his position, to startle. Then, like a storm cloud pulling itself together, his expression darkened. He tilted his head slightly as if assessing how dangerous she was now that his secret was laid bare.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

The creep in the waves, she thought, as her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. Only… not quite the kind of creep she’d expected. No, this was paranormal-weird. A fucking living, breathing fairy tale was perched just a few feet away, staring her down like she had personally eaten the last of his cereal.

They just… kept staring at each other.

She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his tattooed arm flexed and braced against the rock like he was ready to launch himself forward. His inhuman lower half -those tendrils, massive and sleek in stormy blues and black- gripped the rock tightly, suction cups shifting and adjusting as if they couldn’t quite decide between holding steady or moving closer.

He was uneasy.

But she was very sure he could sense her unease too.

Her brain spun wildly, running in circles like a hamster in an out-of-control wheel. A male cecaelia? A fucking octopus man, just a short walk from her house? A goddamn myth glaring at her like she had just walked into his living room uninvited. Which, technically, she had.

Okay, okay… don’t freak out…

She swallowed thickly, trying to keep her face neutral, though she was pretty sure her wide eyes were betraying every last thought. She flicked a glance to the nearest rocks, desperately scanning for an escape route. If she could get up without slipping again, and if she could make it out before he decided to drag her back under…

Her stomach churned.

Because unlike a fish-tailed mermaid or triton, this guy didn’t need the water. Those muscular tendrils looked more than capable of hauling his heavy body across the rocks, and the way they were shifting now, gripping and testing, made her feel all kinds of not safe.

If he decided she was a threat -or worse, prey- she had no illusions about being able to outrun him on that slippery surface. He could snap her neck or trap her and pull her under the water before she even got to her feet.

Feigning death? Not an option. She wasn’t a possum, and he didn’t look like he’d fall for it.

Her thoughts tumbled in panic, but something in his eyes -that strange stormy blue, watching her so intently- made her pause. There was hesitation there. Like he wasn’t sure what to do with her, either.

So, she did the only thing she could think of.

The polite, and incredibly stupid thing.

She raised her hand -fingers trembling slightly- and waved.

“Um… hi there.”

Her voice cracked a little on the last word, but she managed to get it out.

Carefully, without taking her eyes off him, she pushed herself up to sitting, legs still half-submerged in the cold pool, and bracing her palms on the rocks to stop from sliding again. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it. But she kept her chin up, watching him watch her, waiting to see what the hell came next.

He didn’t move at first. He just stared, slightly narrowing his crystal-shaded blue eyes, with blown wide pupils in the dim light of the cave.

What… what kind of human waved at a creature like him? He understood her mistaking him for a man the day before, but now?

His sharp gaze swept over her face as if searching for something. Maybe she hit her head when she fell. Yeah, that had to be it. Otherwise, why would she be sitting there, soaked and trembling, but still raising a hand at him like they were having some casual chat over the weather?

His lips curled slightly, baring his sharp teeth, and a low, guttural hiss escaped his throat before he could even think about it.

She flinched -a visible, whole-body jerk- and Bucky felt a grim flicker of satisfaction. Good. Maybe now she realized what kind of danger she was in. But to his surprise, she didn’t scream. She didn’t scramble for the exit or try to throw something at him, both of which he would’ve expected.

Instead, she lifted her hands in a slow, careful gesture, palms out, like she was trying to calm a wild animal. Maybe she was.

“I- I mean no harm,” she said, with measured words like she didn’t want to spook him. Her hands stayed up, placating, trembling just slightly. "I’ll leave," she added, her gaze never leaving his, though he could see the rapid flicker of her eyes as they tracked the way his tendrils shifted and tensed against the rocks.

Bucky’s head tilted, sharp and predatory, watching her mouth as she spoke. He could understand her words. The meaning was there, swimming somewhere in the mess his mind had become.

But speaking back? That was another matter.

Once, long ago, he could speak like any human. Could hold conversations, ask questions, and give warnings. But now the words tangled, twisted up in the shadows of his mind, caught in the wreckage of what they had done to him. Thinking about them made something sharp and dark coil in his chest. His pupils narrowed.

Without meaning to, he slid forward a little, muscles rippling under pale skin as his tendrils dragged him closer, silent and smooth against the stone.

Her eyes widened slightly, and she instinctively leaned back, pressing her palms into the slick rock as if ready to push herself away, but she didn’t move. Not yet.

Every instinct in him screamed not to let her leave. She had found his lair, seen him. No human had gotten this close to him and walked away in… he couldn’t even remember how long.

Letting her go felt wrong. Dangerous. But…

Her eyes weren’t filled with the kind of hatred and greed he was used to, nor calculation. No net. No spear. No sharp weapons. Only those trembling hands and careful words. His gaze flicked to her legs, still half-submerged in the shallow pool. If he reached just a little further, he could drag her back, down into the water where she wouldn’t be able to run-

His claws scraped lightly against the stone, and the sound echoed faintly in the cave. He knew he was scaring her, could smell the sharp tang of fear on her skin. And yet… she wasn’t running away.

Maybe because she understood she couldn’t. But instead of scrambling away or begging, she drew in a shaky breath and tried something else.

"Look…" she started, "I didn’t mean to bother you. I didn’t even know you were-" She hesitated, darting her eyes briefly to his glimmering tendrils before snapping back to his face. "Here."

She swallowed and lifted her hands again, as if he needed more proof that she wasn’t a threat. "I wasn’t looking for you. I was just curious about the cave. You-" another pause, her brow furrowed, searching for words that wouldn't anger him. "You live here, right?"

Bucky’s jaw tensed, sharp teeth flashing for the briefest second as his mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a snarl but wasn’t friendly either.

He shifted forward again, slow and deliberate, and the water slid over his skin and tendrils with a quiet hiss. She stiffened as he moved, but didn’t retreat, watching him wide-eyed.

He tilted his head again, and for a moment she thought he might just keep glaring in silence. But then he opened his mouth as if to speak, and nothing came out but a low, broken rasp, like a breath caught on something sharp. His brows furrowed, frustrated, and his lips parted again, trying to form the words tangled in his head.

"Why..." It came out rough, the echo of a voice long unused.

He shifted closer, water dripping from his hair as he leaned slightly to one side, circling her, as if testing, watching how she reacted to every inch he gained.

"Why… here?" he finally managed. His voice was low and hoarse like it hurt to speak. His eyes pinned her, demanding an answer.

She blinked at him, surprised that he had spoken at all, but the question was clear enough.

"I-I just was curious about the place," she answered honestly, lowering her hands slightly now that she saw he was at least trying to communicate. "I moved to the cottage up the hill. I didn’t know this was your home."

Her eyes darted to the water where his tendrils swayed and curled with tension.

"I can stay away if you want," she added, softer.

Bucky watched her in silence, tilting his head slightly as if weighing her words. She could see his throat working, as though he wanted to speak again but couldn’t force the words out.

Still, he crept a little closer, tendrils rising slightly out of the water, black and blue slick shapes moving with that unsettling, liquid grace, like living shadows.

She swallowed hard, watching him shift, seeing the way his muscles moved beneath pale skin, the long dark hair falling over his shoulders in wet strands. He was... too close now. Close enough that she could see how the water slid off his skin, how sharp the lines of his jaw were, how inhumanly still he could go, like a predator assessing prey.

Her mind raced, trying to piece together anything that would make sense of this encounter. Maybe she could reason with him? Offer something, anything in exchange for her safe retreat?

Her fingers trembled as she carefully slid the backpack off her shoulder, keeping her movements slow, and deliberate, showing him she wasn’t reaching for a weapon.

“Um...” she cleared her throat, forcing herself to speak, though her voice was uneven. “I can give you what I brought with me... if you want.”

She opened the flap of the bag and hesitated for a heartbeat before reaching in. The colorful yarn spilled between her fingers, reds and oranges mostly, bright and warm against the grey light filtering through the cave’s chimney. She held it out awkwardly as if offering a peace token to some ancient god of the deep.

His eyes, flicked from her face to the yarn in her hand.

She tried to smile, though her lips felt stiff and dry. “You... want it?” she asked quietly. “You can have it. I’ll just... go.”

Stillness.

His gaze returned to her, dark lashes lowering slightly, as if thinking. Or weighing.

And then, he shifted. His body undulated with a slow, contained force as he slid a little closer, tendrils curling and uncurling at his sides like restless snakes.

Her breath hitched.

But instead of lunging or attacking, one of those black and blue limbs uncurled, hesitating mid-air before reaching out toward the yarn.

She stayed very still, with her heart thudding painfully as she watched the tip of the tendril brush lightly against the threads.

Still, she took the chance to speak again, softer now, like trying to soothe a wild animal. “I don’t mean any harm,” she whispered. “I didn’t know this was your place. I’ll go, alright? I won’t bother you again.”

His gaze flicked from the dripping yarn in his grasp back to her, sharp and assessing.

She swallowed, holding herself still, watching as he studied the mess of threads. The yarn was already soaking wet, clinging to itself in limp strands, and for a moment he just looked at it, frowning slightly, as if puzzling over its nature.

Then, she saw the way his brows pulled tighter, as the realization dawned in his sharp gaze. It was useless like this, just raw material. His tendrils flexed, curling tighter and then unfurling in a slow, almost thoughtful motion.

When he lifted the dripping yarn again, something flickered across his face. A decision. He moved closer now -gliding with that unsettling, fluid grace- and she instinctively stiffened as the water rippled from his advance. But he didn’t lash out. Instead, he extended the yarn back to her, holding it out.

She blinked in confusion, hesitating before accepting it carefully, as though she was unsure if it was a trap.

Then came a sound, low, rough, like something long-forgotten being forced out of his throat. “…Make.”

Her eyes darted up to him, frowning slightly, unsure she had heard right.

“What?” she asked quietly, as if speaking too loud might break the fragile truce between them.

His tendril twitched, wiggling the yarn in her hand, insistently.

“…Make.” He said again, with a scratchy voice. She could see frustration flickering across his features, clenching his jaw as he struggled to articulate more.

“You…” she clenched her fingers slightly around the yarn- “You want me to craft something for you?”

The way his body stilled, then the sharp nod that followed -curt, and decisive- confirmed her guess.

But before she could say anything else, before she could even think of agreeing, his voice rasped out again, harsher this time.

“No... spi—spells.”

Her eyes widened slightly. His tendrils curled tighter, and she saw the tension in his body, as though even the thought of her weaving some enchantment into a craft unsettled him.

She lifted her free hand slowly, palms out in a placating gesture.

“No spells,” she promised gently, watching his reaction carefully. “Just…” she looked down at the yarn in her hand, “Just yarn. Nothing else.”

His eyes stayed on her for a long moment as if trying to read the truth through every line of her body. Then, with a sharp exhale that might’ve been a grudging acceptance, he let his tendrils slide back into the water, though he remained close, watching.

She swallowed again. “All right,” she said quietly, clutching the yarn to her chest as if that fragile agreement between them had some weight. “I’ll make you something.”

Still, he watched, unmoving, as though waiting to see if she’d keep her word.

And, maybe because she was reckless or because something in his gaze wasn’t entirely threatening anymore, she gave a small nod.

“I’ll bring it when it’s done.”

The moment the words left her lips, she knew she had said the wrong thing.

Because his eyes narrowed, sharp and unyielding, and before she could take a step back, he moved. Effortless, like a shadow sliding over stone, he surged forward, out of the water.

She gasped, stumbling a half step back as he rose up, tendrils unfurling and curling along the slick rocks as he dragged himself fully from the pool. Water streamed down the pale skin of his human half, muscles shifting under scarred flesh, and she couldn’t help but notice how solid he was, how much bigger than she had thought. If those massive tendrils below his hips were legs, and he stood at full height…

He moved with unsettling grace, positioning himself squarely between her and the only exit she had. The soft slap of his tendrils against the stone echoed ominously, and her heart was suddenly thundering in her chest again.

He was blocking her way out.

Her fingers tightened instinctively around the damp yarn, and her pulse raced as he stared her down.

“Here,” he hissed. His gaze was unblinking, cold as the sea.

She swallowed, watching as one of his tendrils lifted to tap the yarn, insistently.

“Make. Here.”

Oh, he didn’t trust her. Of course, he didn’t.

Why should he? She had wandered right into his lair, trespassed into the most private corner of his world. What reason would he have to believe she'd come back, or not run straight to town blabbering about a sea monster living in the cliffs?

She licked her lips, with her throat suddenly dry, her eyes darting from his looming form to the narrow path that led out, now completely cut off.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice a little shaky. "Okay. I get it." She kept her hands slow, deliberate, as she crouched down on a drier patch of rock, her gaze flicking up to him as if asking for permission.

He watched her like a hawk, tendrils shifting slightly against the ground as though ready to react to the smallest wrong move.

Her fingers fumbled slightly as she dug into her backpack for her hook, small and harmless, but she could feel the way his gaze latched onto it, tracking the glint of metal with suspicion.

“It’s… it’s just for the yarn,” she murmured, showing him the crochet hook in the flat of her hand before she picked up the sodden threads.

She exhaled, long and slow, trying to calm the tremble in her fingers as she looped the yarn and began to work, her mind racing even as her hands found familiar movements.

Crochet. Right. He wanted her to make something, here, now. She needed to make something fast. Something that looked impressive enough to satisfy him, but simple enough to be done before the tide decided to join them in the cave.

A jellyfish.

The thought flickered in her mind like lightning.

Last year, she had made dozens of them — some as little hanging decorations, some flat like coasters, cute and simple. The design was burned into her memory. Bright colors, curly tentacles. Easy.

Perfect.

She swallowed, adjusting her grip on the yarn and pulling her hook through the loops with more confidence now, as muscle memory took over. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him.

He was still coiled protectively between her and the exit, but now he seemed… fixated. Watching her hands, the way the thread looped and twisted under her fingers.

Her mind raced as her fingers worked the damp yarn, still feeling the weight of his stare, unrelenting, sharp, and far too close.

And then, slowly, he inched closer.

Closer.

Way too close.

By the time she was halfway done with the main body of the jellyfish, his face was mere inches from hers, darting his eyes between her concentrating expression and her hands. She tried to pretend her heart wasn’t slamming against her chest, but it was getting increasingly difficult to ignore the way his tendrils had crept silently over the rocks to surround her, some of them curling and uncurling near her feet, others bracing close to her sides like dark, living ropes.

For a creature that didn’t trust her, he clearly had no concept of personal space. She wet her lips nervously but didn’t stop working, feeling the heat of his gaze following every flick and twist of her fingers. “You know,” she murmured, not daring to look directly at him, “for someone so wary… you’re really not giving me a lot of room here.”

She risked a glance up, and for a fleeting second, she thought she saw a flicker of something in his eyes, amusement? Or maybe just sharper curiosity. His tendrils flexed against the rock, shifting slightly closer. One of them slid forward and she nearly flinched, but it didn’t touch her. No, it reached for the trailing end of yarn, brushing the thread lightly, as though testing the texture.

He made a low sound in his throat, almost like a hum, flicking his eyes from the yarn to her face and back again.

Her hands kept working, faster now, shaping the last round before starting the dangling "tentacles”: a few quick chains and curls, loose and wavy, the way jellyfish tendrils floated underwater.

"I’m making a jellyfish, by the way," she said quietly, filling the silence between them. "Not sure what you'll do with it down here, but-” She glanced at him, seeing how his brows furrowed slightly, as though trying to grasp her words. "But," she added gently, "you didn’t say what you wanted, so… this is what you’re getting."

Still, no answer. Just those sharp, blue, and way too focused eyes on her face. She tried to ignore how close he was. How she could see the faint shimmer of water on his skin, the way his dark hair clung to his temples. Almost done. Just a few more loops.

"If I finish this and give it to you," she murmured, working through the last stitch, "you’ll let me go, right?"

One of his tendrils curled slowly near her ankle, and she tensed before it retreated again, but he didn’t answer.

The final loop tightened under her hook, and she carefully turned the jellyfish over in her hands. It wasn’t her best work, but considering the circumstances? Pretty damn good. She held it up with slightly trembling fingers and finally met his gaze.

"Here," she whispered. "It’s for you."

For a long, heavy moment, he didn’t move.

Then one of his tendrils reached forward -slow, deliberate- and wrapped around the little yarn creature, lifting it gently from her hands. He held it delicately, looking at the bright red and orange yarn, wet but still vivid, which seemed almost to pulse in the dim light of the cave.

Her breath caught.

Was it enough?

His eyes flicked back to her, sharp and unreadable, before returning to the soft thing in his hold. Then, slowly, he brought it closer. He touched it with his hand, testing its weight and texture, making the curled tendrils bounce softly with his fingers. The way his clawed fingertips brushed over the loops of yarn was almost… reverent, like someone handling an unknown relic.

And when he lifted it to his face and sniffed it, she blinked in surprise. He made a low, thoughtful sound, something like a rumble deep in his chest, before glancing up toward the alcove where the seashell square hung. Not that she knew about it.

She didn't dare to move yet, holding her breath as his dark gaze returned to her, assessing, cold and sharp, and yet... there was something else there too.

Finally, with a rough, almost reluctant tone, he said, "Leave."

She didn't need to be told twice.

"Right. Leaving. Thanks," she mumbled, starting to push herself to her feet.

But as soon as she moved, pain shot up her leg and she stumbled with a sharp intake of breath, catching herself awkwardly on a slick rock. She heard him exhale a frustrated, almost growling sound.

And before she could even react, he was moving, fast and smooth despite his bulk.

Tendrils lashed out, wrapping around her waist, and before she could yelp properly, he hoisted her like she weighed nothing, slinging her over one broad shoulder in a way that knocked the air out of her lungs.

"What the-?! Hey!"

But he was already moving, crawling effortlessly across the rocks, with his powerful limbs and tendrils gripping surfaces with frightening ease.

She realized, squirming a little but not daring to struggle much, that he was carrying her toward the cave's exit, toward the open shore.

Despite the rush of fear and surprise, part of her brain registered the strength it took to lift her like this but he was using one arm and one tendril to support her, coiling firmly but not painfully around her, while he moved fluid and controlled.

When they reached the mouth of the cave, bathed in the cold morning light, he set her down, still holding her tightly with the tendril on her waist. She realized he wasn’t letting go. She barely had a moment to catch her breath before one strong hand cupped her face,pressing along her cheek and jaw, tilting her head to face him directly.

His eyes burned into hers, too close, too sharp.

"No one," he growled, like the sound of stones grinding together.

Her heart hammered.

"I- I won’t," she breathed, eyes wide.

His brow furrowed, searching her face for any sign of a lie, and for a long, tense moment, they simply stared at each other.

Then, with a final squeeze on her waist, -reminding her just how easily he could break her if he wanted- he let her go.

She stumbled back a step, watching him as he slowly retreated into the shadows of the cave, taking her jellyfish with him like a strange prize.

----

Once alone, he slipped back into the shadows, feeling the cool kiss of the water as he submerged into his favorite pond again.

But for once, the calm he usually found there didn’t come. The little jellyfish dangled from his hand, dripping seawater, with its soft yarn tendrils swaying gently with the motion of his arm.

He lifted it again, inspecting it closer now that the human was gone.

Red and orange, bright like the creatures that danced in the deep where no human dared to go. It shouldn’t exist here, among these dull coastal grays and browns, but maybe that’s why he liked it. It reminded him of things from the trenches of the sea, strange, delicate, and dangerous all at once.

With careful fingers, he turned it, watching how the thin tendrils curled and bounced with every shift, and for a moment he wondered, how did she know how these creatures were? And, did she guess what might catch his eye, or was it just luck?

His gaze drifted to the alcove where the seashell square still hung, weathered and faded from salt and air. Frowning thoughtfully, he slithered from the pool and grabbed another thin piece of fishing line. Working deftly, he tied the jellyfish, letting it dangle beside the square, and the breeze filtering through a vent stirred both pieces gently.

The tendrils danced, twisting and swaying as if alive, and something about that made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand or didn’t want to.

She had made this for him, even if coaxed.

And true to her word, it didn’t reek of magic, no strange tingling in the fibers, no shimmer of spells on its surface. Just simple human craft. He stared at it, folding his arms over the edge of the alcove and resting his chin on his wrist, watching the little creature spin lazily in the wind.

After a while, he found his thoughts drifting back to her, the way she’d stared at him, wide-eyed but trying to stay calm. The way she’d carefully spoken to him in a soft, and unsure voice.

Her face, her eyes.

Pretty.

He huffed to himself, irritated at the thought.

Pretty, for a human. Not that it mattered.

Still…

His brow furrowed.

Did she have a mate?

The question rose before he could stop it, crawling at the edge of his mind. Maybe someone waiting in that lair on the cliff? A male that would come looking if she didn’t return one day?

But then again...

If she had a mate, why would she spend so much time alone, sitting by his rocks, working with her strange threads? His tendrils twitched restlessly against the stone.

It wasn’t his business.

He firmly told himself that, squeezing the edge of the alcove a little too tightly. She was just a reckless human. One he should’ve scared off properly.

And yet, when the jellyfish spun again in the breeze, he watched it, and behind his eyes, he saw her hands moving, and her lips parting as she worked.

----

By the time she reached the cottage, her legs were trembling, partly from the cold of her soaked clothes, and partly from the leftover adrenaline rushing through her veins. The door slammed shut behind her, and she pressed her back to it, breathing hard, as if expecting him to have followed her all the way there.

But, of course, he didn’t.

She winced as she bent to take off her jeans, feeling the forming bruise at the base of her spine, joining the throbbing of her leg from where she’d landed in that stupid pond. "Great. Add that to my collection of regrets."

Once free of the wet clothes, she wrapped herself in a soft towel, padding barefoot to the bathroom to start the shower, replaying the whole encounter.

A cecaelia.

She knew the folklore. Old stories and whispered warnings of half-man, half-octopus creatures that lurked in the deep, dragging sailors under the sea, charming swimmers to their deaths, or seducing them into the dark.

Not that she ever believed those tales. Until today.

And God, even furious and unfriendly as he was, he was painfully, otherworldly handsome, in a way that made her stomach twist uncomfortably. She didn’t want to think how could it be to look at those features when they decided to charm instead of being hostile.

She turned her back to the mirror as she waited for the water to heat, rubbing absently at her bruised backside, but her mind wouldn't stop spinning. She could understand now why those old tales spoke of these creatures luring humans to them. There was something magnetic about him, even if she didn't want to admit it.

But...

If he really wanted to hurt her, he could have.

He could’ve crushed her throat, or dragged her under the water until she stopped breathing, hell, he had carried her like she weighed nothing at all. First slung over his broad shoulder, holding her tight with his arm, and then later, when his tentacles wrapped her waist and lifted her to her feet, holding her firm as if she were a doll.

But instead, he had trusted, and warned her off. No one, he said, the words harsh and rough on his tongue.

Because if she talked… if people knew something was living out there, how long before curious fishermen came with nets? Before reporters descended on the town, or researchers, trying to trap him, study him? Or worse?

All he wanted was to be left alone. And she -stupidly- had wandered straight into his home, poking around like some tourist in a forbidden place.

She sighed, finally stepping into the shower, letting the hot water pound her skin, washing away the salt and the fear. But even as the warmth soaked into her muscles, she couldn’t stop thinking of the way his tentacles had flexed when he watched her work, how close his face had gotten when he stared at her like he was trying to figure her out.

And then she wondered, what parts of the old stories were true.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @x-press-it @the-voice-beckons-below @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira

dividers by @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #merman! Bucky #cecaelia! Bucky #cecaelia

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better-setterv2 · 28 days ago

Text

𝒜𝒸𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈 - 𝒫𝓉.3

Authors Note: Hi all! Here is part 3 of Accidentally Yours. I am working on the next part as quick as I can. Enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: reader is approved by the group chat over a silly question. Later on, she overthinks and finally accepts the invite to Monaco. Though her anxiety gets to the best of her three nights prior.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @urmomsgirlfriend1 @mimisweetz @mits-vi @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

Pt1, Pt2, Pt3, Pt4, Pt5, Pt6, Pt7, Pt8, Pt9

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You didn’t reply to Hammertime that night.

You couldn’t.

Instead, you reread the messages more times than you’d admit. His words sat heavy in your chest, not in a bad way but in the kind of way that made you feel.

Something about the way he messaged you, like he was saying more than what was written. As if there were things hiding between the lines he wasn’t ready to say out loud.

Not yet.

The next morning, the group chat was back to its usual chaos. Someone had changed the group name to “GridGremlins 🛠️”, SmoothOperator was sending filtered selfies with too many sparkles, Baguetteboi was sharing his hatred of being called French and HoneyBadger had dropped a poll asking who would die first in a zombie apocalypse (Pastry was leading).

Still, your eyes drifted toward his name. Always his.

No private message. No follow up.

But then, like he knew you were looking -

Hammertime: Don’t worry, I survived another night with these lunatics. Barely.

Also newbie, zombie votes don’t count unless you tell us your apocalypse weapon of choice.

You smiled despite yourself. A soft flutter again. You replied in the group chat this time.

User (You): Cast iron skillet. Multipurpose. Classic. Heavy.

Pastry: Oh she’s good.

SmootherOperator: Marry me.

Baguetteboi: you won

Hulk: Please don’t encourage him.

You waited, just a little longer and then it came -

Hammertime: Good choice. I approve.

The day moved on. Classes, errands, life. But around lunch your phone buzzed again.

[Private Message – Hammertime 💬]

Hammertime: Was it too much? What I said last night.

Your breath got caught.

User (You): No. Just, honest. And maybe a bit scary.

Hammertime: Scary how?

User (You): Because I meant what I said too. And that kind of thing isn’t something I let myself believe in.

There was a pause.

Hammertime: I don’t usually either. But then you got added. And suddenly I’m thinking about it way more than I should.

You stared at the message.

Not flirtatious. Not bold. Just raw honesty typed out quietly like a secret.

You replied, this time without hesitation.

User (You): So what do we do with this?

Hammertime: Keep talking. For now, I like talking to you.

You smiled down at your phone, heart thumping.

Still no name. Still no face.

But somehow, this felt more real than most people you’d met in person.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The conversation didn’t stop.

Days passed like that - quick check ins, long stretches of silence filled with real life, then sudden bursts of messages that felt like stolen moments. It became a rhythm, one you hadn’t expected to crave.

Sometimes he messaged you first.

Sometimes you beat him to it.

Always, it felt like the highlight of your day.

Tonight was one of those slower evenings. Rain pattered softly against your window as you curled up with your phone, absently watching unread emails pile up. But one notification broke through the noise.

[Private Message – Hammertime 💬]

Hammertime: Ever feel like people know of you but don’t really know you?

You blinked. It was more serious than usual. No jokes. No chaos.

User (You): Yeah. All the time. Especially when I walk into a room and people already have an idea of who I’m supposed to be.

Three little dots appeared. Then disappeared.

Then came back.

Hammertime: Same. It’s exhausting. Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to start over somewhere. As just, me. Not the version people project.

User (You): You kind of did that with me. I don’t know who you are. Just who you’ve shown me.

And I like that version.

Quiet. Thoughtful. Funny.

Kind.

You sent it before you could overthink it. Then, heart hammering, you watched the typing bubbles appear.

Hammertime: That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.

You hesitated. Then typed -

User (You): Want to tell me something real?

Just, one thing. About you.

The pause stretched longer this time.

Hammertime: I hate crowds. Everyone thinks I thrive in them.

But most days I’d give anything just to be somewhere quiet, no expectations, no cameras.

Just real.

You could feel your breath catch. Whoever he was, his words felt like they came with a weight he’d been carrying for a long time.

User (You): I’d sit next to you in that quiet.

Another pause. This one felt like a heartbeat.

Hammertime:That’s the second-nicest thing anyone’s said to me. You’re dangerous, you know that?

User (You): Only to people who like cast iron skillets.

Hammertime: That’s it. We’re definitely apocalypse partners now.

You laughed out loud.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

That night your eyes were bloodshot starring at the Monaco invitation from a few days ago. You couldn’t decide if you should go or not.

You didn’t reply.

Not at first.

But you read his message again. Then again.

Your screen dimmed and lit up with the motion of your fingers tapping it back to life, like you couldn’t bear to let it go dark while his name sat there.

Hammertime: If you come to Monaco…Make sure it’s for you.

Your chest was tight, full of something you didn’t have the language for yet.

You typed a response.

User (You): Idon’t even know what I want yet.

You stared at it. Deleted it.

User (You): I’m not good at this.

Delete.

User (You): I saw the invite.

Too bland.

User (You): Why does it feel like something’s going to change if I go?

Your finger hovered.

Then you erased that too.

The typing bubble popped up on his end. Then vanished. Then reappeared.

You hadn’t even sent anything.

And still he was waiting.

You finally gave in, your fingers trembling as you typed something imperfect but real.

User (You): Are you always like this?

The bubble appeared again, almost instantly this time.

Hammertime: Like what?

User (You): Careful, kind, hard to stop thinking about.

Three dots.

Longer this time.

Then -

Hammertime: Only with people I don’t want to lose.

Your heart thudded.

You wanted to reply.

To say something sharp or smart or honest. But your hands had gone still.

You locked your phone, holding it to your chest.

Let yourself breathe.

You didn’t answer the invite.

Not yet.

But now -

You were starting to think about what dress you might pack.

Just in case.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You didn’t sleep much.

Not from stress, exactly.

It was more the feeling of standing at the edge of something high, toes curled against the drop. The quiet hum of maybe. Of almost.

Of what if.

Your finger hovered over the invite again sometime around 2 a.m.

Open.

It bloomed across the screen, white and gold and obnoxiously beautiful.

"MONACO."

Everyone knew what it meant in the group, expect you to be exact.

Glitz. Heat. A thousand eyes. And him.

You didn’t realise you’d clicked "Yes" until the screen updated.

Just like that.

Like it was nothing.

But it didn’t feel like nothing.

Because now it was real.

Your heart did this strange, stuttering thing. Not panic. Not quite.

But definitely not peace.

You switched back to the private chat. He hadn’t messaged again.

Good.

You weren’t sure you could take it.

Your fingers moved, traitorous and too honest.

User (You): I said yes.

Sent.

Three dots. Fast.

Hammertime: Yeah?

You could almost hear his voice in that one word. Low, warm, cautious hope wrapped inside it.

User (You): Don’t make it a thing.

Hammertime: Too late.

You closed your eyes.

Imagined the impossible. What it would feel like to see him and know, really know that it was him.

Not a username.

Not a maybe.

Not a what if.

But a person. Standing in front of you.

Breathing the same air.

Looking at you like he already knew every word you hadn’t said yet.

You typed again.

User (You): What happens now?

There was a pause.

Long enough to wonder if you’d said too much.

He then replied -

Hammertime: Now we wait. And see if you still feel everything when you’re standing right in front of me.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It was stupid, how packing a suitcase could feel like preparing for emotional warfare.

You weren’t even leaving yet. The flight wasn’t for three more days, but your room already looked like a storm had passed through it. Clothes everywhere. Shoes you hadn’t worn in months lined up like soldiers. Three failed outfit attempts on the floor and counting.

You’d packed for trips before. Exams. Interviews. A funeral once. But never something like this.

Because how do you pack for someone who’s only ever known you in fragments?

How do you pick the version of yourself you want them to meet?

Your chest felt tight. Like something was pressing against it from the inside.

Later that night, lying in bed, your thoughts ran endless laps.

What if he wasn’t what you imagined?

What if you weren’t what he imagined?

What if all the texts and late night chats and electric not quite flirting didn’t survive the sunlight?

Or worse! What if it was real?

So real it unraveled everything else.

You rolled over and checked your phone again.

Still no new messages from him.

Just his name in your inbox.

Sitting there.

Quiet.

Waiting.

#lh44 x reader #lh44 #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton #f1 x reader #f1 smau #f1 text au #f1 imagine #x reader #lewis hamilton x you #f1 drivers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #lh44 imagine

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clockwayswrites · 1 year ago

Text

Not So Imaginary

Parts 1-3 Parts 4-6 (posted part 6 last night in case you missed it) cw: medical care, references to Ethiopia, references to experimentation

It said a lot about the way that things had been going for Jason lately that even half conscious he recognized the low machine hum and carefully filtered air of a Watchtower Medical room. The familiarity of the space helped gloss over any panic about his missing memories of how he ended up back in medical again as awareness came back to body. Leg and an arm still broken, ribs still cracked, just about everything else sprained; he couldn’t have been out that long. He flexed his good (better) fingers around the hand that held his.

“B?”

His mouth tasted stale in a way that made his face scrunch up in a grimace.

“Just me, ‘wing. B is doing research, but he was here till about an hour ago,” Dick said.

Jason gave a long hum instead of trying to talk again, at least not until Dick had let him have some water. The straw was pulled away a lot sooner than he was happy about, but at least some of the stale taste was gone.

“What happened?”

“According to Raven, you’re, um, no so imaginary friend absorbed some of your life force.” Dick’s hand tightened almost painfully around Jason’s fingers for a moment. “You’ve been out for about a day and a half now.”

“Mmm… must have needed it then. Must’a been hurt,” Jason mumbled around a wide yawn.

“Jay.”

“Names, Dickwing,” Jason said just to be an ass. “’Sides, little sleep never hurt.”

“A little— you were basically in a coma!”

Jason yawned again and finally peeled open an eyelid. “’M fine. How’d they even do it?”

Dick tilted his head. “What?”

“The whole…” Jason gave a little wave of his and Dick’s hands. “Vampire schtick.”

“They didn’t drink your blood!” Dick actually looked a little horrified at the thought.

“Just my life force, yeah, sure, but how?”

Dick huffed and leaned back in his chair. “Raven says you have a soul bond or something with this— with your friend. It’s how you knew they were in danger.”

“Me too.”

“What?”

“How they knew I was in danger too. I’m okay, big bird, just… little worn out. I’ll be okay. They saved me and I saved them, ‘s what we do,” Jason said. He felt his words were a little weakened by the need to close his eyes again, but he was really tired. “Don’t be mad at them. They’re why ‘m alive. Jus… jus’ needed my help to be okay too.”

“Yeah, okay little wing, you have a point.” Fingers carded carefully through Jason’s hair and he gave a pleased hum. “You just get some more rest. I’ll let the B man know you woke up. It’s all going to be okay.”

Of course it was, they had found his friend.

He’d just get a little more rest and then he’d go see them.

Just a bit more.

---

AN: Apparently once I started writing my brain wanted to do more of this! This was supposed to just be a little poll fill, you know. Now it's over 5k. And so it goes! But Jason and Danny are closer to meeting properly!

Stay delightful, darlings!

#dp x dc #dead on main #not so imaginary

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carleycore · 1 year ago

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BabyDaddy!Gojo

A/n: chosen by my poll!!!!

The soft glow of the morning sun filters through the curtains, casting a gentle light over the room. You stir slightly, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders, and feel the familiar ache of longing. It's a morning like any other, except today, Gojo is visiting. The knock on the door is gentle, yet it echoes through the quiet apartment.

You get up, careful not to wake the baby still sleeping in the crib, and make your way to the door. Opening it, you're greeted by Gojo's bright smile, his signature sunglasses perched on his head, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he carried a bag that smelled delicious: breakfast.

If it was anyone else you would've tried to get yourself together a bit before opening the door, but you've known this man since high-school and didn't really care about what he thought about you anymore.

"Morning, Y/N," he says, stepping inside with a confidence that speaks of years spent together, even if you no longer share a home. "Did you miss me?"

He put the bag of food on the kitchen island.

You roll your eyes playfully but can't suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. "Morning, Satoru. You're early."

He chuckles, a sound that feels like a warm embrace. "Couldn't wait to see my favorite two people."

You lead him to the living room, where he immediately heads over to the crib. He looks down at the sleeping baby, his expression softening in a way that still catches you off guard. "Hey there, little one," he whispers, reaching in to gently pick up the baby.

As he cradles the baby, Gojo looks over at you, his smile turning into that familiar, charming grin. "You know, Y/N, every time I see our little one, I’m reminded of how amazing we were together."

You cross your arms, leaning against the wall. "Satoru, we’ve talked about this."

"I know, I know," he sighs, swaying gently with the baby in his arms. "But can you blame me for trying? Look at what we made together. Don’t you think we owe it to her to try again?"

You shake your head, feeling the familiar mix of frustration and affection. "It's not that simple, and you know it. We have our differences."

He steps closer, his free hand reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch sends a shiver down your spine. "Differences that can be worked out. I mean, come on, have you seen how good we look together? Power couple and all that."

You laugh despite yourself. "You're impossible."

"And you're irresistible," he counters smoothly, his voice dropping to that low, flirtatious tone that always makes your heart race. "Just think about it, Y/N. We could be a family. A real one."

You bite your lip, torn between the past and the possibilities he dangles in front of you. The baby stirs in his arms, letting out a soft whimper. Gojo shifts his attention, his expression tender as he soothes the little one.

"You’re really good with her," you admit, watching him with a mixture of admiration and wistfulness.

"I try," he replies, looking up at you with those piercing blue eyes. "But it would be a lot easier if we were doing this together, under the same roof."

You look away, unable to meet his gaze. "Satoru. We have a lot to work through." In a way, you did agree with him, but it was just a lot that had to go with it.

He steps closer, the baby nestled securely in his arms. "Then let’s work through it. For them, for us. We owe it to ourselves to try."

The sincerity in his voice tugs at your heartstrings. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "I just... I need time."

"I can give you that," he says softly. "But I’m not giving up on us. On this."

You nod, feeling a glimmer of hope. "Thank you, Satoru."

He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Anytime, Y/N. Anytime."

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of shared moments and soft laughter. Gojo stays, eating and helping with the baby, his presence a comforting balm to your weary soul, giggling as your daughter tried to eat his sunglasses while he took a million pictures. As he prepared to leave, he pulled you into a tight hug, whispering in your ear, "Think about what I said. We belong together."

You watch him go, your heart heavy with longing and uncertainty. Maybe he's right. Maybe, just maybe, there's a chance for a new beginning. But for now, you take it one day at a time, holding onto the hope that things might just work out.

#gojo x reader #gojo #car writes #car polls #baby daddy gojo #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo #dad gojo

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imawreck · 17 days ago

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Essence

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Original Character

Summary: An undercover OP forces Bucky and Max into an interesting predicament. Wills are tested, and tension runs hot. Could this be what forces Bucky to face his feelings, or only serve to fuel the flames of their never ending feud?

Author’s Note: A little something me and my bestie thought up for funzies. This has very little to do with the main storyline I’ve written for Bucky and Max so I wouldn’t try and put it into a timeline or anything! Lmk if you want a part two! Thinking about making one.

Warnings: Adult themes, strip club, lap dances, suggestive content, Bucky being absolutely down bad, Sam being Sam (slightly annoying), cursing, canon violence, probably a lot more but that’s the main stuff.

Word Count: 2,432

“This is fucking stupid.”

Bucky sat in the muggy atmosphere of ‘Essence’, a strip club rumored to be frequented by their current target; Oliver Cade. Cade was a drug dealer and very well known in the sex trafficking ring. Recently, he’d made a suspiciously large amount of money very quickly. So, a select few Sword and Shield agents were put undercover to take him out.

That’s the only reason he’d ever find himself in a place like this. Missions took him to a plethora of unsavory places he’d rather never return to, and he was beginning to think this was crawling to the top of that list.

Maybe it was because of his age and the time period he grew up in, or maybe it was the fact that the scantily clad men and women of the club were just a little too lewd and unsavory for his taste. There was just no part of this scene that sparked what most people chased in a place like this.

“Language.” Sam snapped back, yanking Bucky back out of his head. The sass filtering through the comm tucked away in Bucky’s ear only fueled his irritation. “Steve wouldn’t approve.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, “Don’t say that. You’re not Steve.”

“But he would say that if–.”

But Sam didn’t get to finish his retort before Bucky cut in again, “Where’s Max? Didn’t you say she would be here by now?”

Sam chuckled in his ear, “She’s managed to impress the club owner and snagged herself a top spot as their main act. Means anyone wanting a private show will pay a pretty penny to have her, including our guy. It’s perfect, really. She’s exactly what he goes for.”

Anger roiled in Bucky’s veins as Sam prattled on. He hated these types of missions. Not only were they unpleasant, but they made agents particularly vulnerable. Minimal clothing meant no way to hide a weapon, which is exactly why Bucky and a few other agents scattered throughout the club were carrying concealed weapons. They were the backup if things went south, but with the crowded room and the close proximity in which the dancers had to be with clients, it was practically guaranteed the undercover agent was in harm's way.

Max, fortunately, was a weapon in herself. That was one of the few reasons Bucky didn’t feel like he was going to crawl out of his skin.

The other reason was the burning curiosity keeping him seated on the plush velvet booth encircling a dance poll. A poll that was currently being used by what looked like an airbrushed mermaid.

The Essence Club was known for its more extravagant and odd caterings. For instance, tonight was a themed night. The dancers were all dressed and done up to appear ethereal in some sort of way. Some were decked in bejeweled gowns and tiaras, others with their skin painted blues and greens to mimic nymphs of fairy tales.

A part of Bucky was looking forward to Max’s performance, but the stronger part dreaded it. Why? He didn’t want to face that particular answer.

Max and Bucky teetered on a fence of mild tolerance and outright warfare. Max was every bit the morally grey individual he was set out to put down, and yet he couldn’t. Bucky respected her skill and grace in their field of work, and despite her questionable methods, she was efficient and her casualties were low.

Not to mention the fact that their pasts were interwoven in ways he couldn’t yet decipher. The memories of a certain white-haired assassin were faded and muddled in his mind.

It made him uneasy. And so did the heat that always bloomed in his chest when she caught his eyes.

No, Bucky had decided he despised Max, but it was his job as her partner in this to make sure she made it out.

So, he begrudgingly remained in the stuffy club and nursed a glass of bourbon.

Seconds later, the lights shut off, and a spotlight illuminated the center stage. A rather gaudy individual bejeweled in a black and red dress addressed the club goers in a sultry smooth voice. “Good evening, and welcome to Essence where fantasies become realities. How is the crowd tonight?”

There was a chorus of hoots and shouts of excitement from everyone around Bucky, and he sunk a bit lower in his seat.

“How lovely! Well, you're in for a treat tonight.” They quirked a brow, red painted lips tilted in a sly smile. “We have been visited tonight by a special guest. A rarely met Fae of great beauty and even more alluring talent. A being capable of shapeshifting and illusion, a manipulator of minds and dreams…”

The crowd rumbled with curiosity, and Bucky himself sat up more as the introduction neared its end.

“I bring you,” a long pause followed their words, drawing out the anticipation, “Sidhe.”

The spotlight fades, as does the crowd's murmurs as the curtains draw to reveal the silhouette of a woman.

A very scantily clad woman that definitely looked too familiar.

Bucky swallowed hard, trying and failing to tear his gaze from her as the spotlight enveloped her in a blue light.

Max looked like a goddess.

She was covered in what looked like sheer silver silks. The fabric wound around her body, accentuating every dip and curve of her as she walked. The ends of the silks whispered across the floor behind her heels, flowing across the floor like a silver stream of starlight. Bucky couldn't blink, couldn’t breathe. Every inch of her was barely covered, barely withheld from the gazes of dozens of drunken men.

Barely withheld from him.

Bucky watched as she drew her hand up, her fingernails long like claws and painted a glossy opaque, and trailed them up her throat as her head fell back just as a thrumming music began.

And then she was moving. Not like he’d seen her do a million times on the battlefield, with her sharp clean precision and power. Not harsh and violent. No… no, the way her body moved now?

Bucky had never been so captivated.

Her claws wound into her wild white hair, tousling the short white locks as her hips swayed rhythmically, flowing with the music and drawing everyone’s eyes to the way her body followed the beat.

Those blue eyes glinted under the lights, like the mirrored pupils of a predator stalking prey; flickering over each of her admirers. The sight would normally make people feel unsettled. To see such a strange quality on a human being in broad daylight. Here in this moment though, as she drew her hands down the lean muscles of her abdomen, it was nothing more than erotic.

Bucky’s pants grew tight, and he tore his eyes from her. He shouldn’t be here. Maybe a high beam, or the back where he couldn’t see her. Where he couldn’t be tempted by her.

Because that’s what he was. Tempted. And he was utterly terrified of the feeling.

Max had always been open with her attraction to him, he knew how she felt. He knew that he’d— that the Winter Soldier— had something with her. Something more.

And it was starting to bleed into his own feelings towards her.

But they were co-workers. Partners. He couldn’t feel that way for her.

The soldier's attention was drawn back to the stage as Max dropped to the floor, the thin fabrics of her dress fluttering down around her. A few gasps were echoed, and several men leaned forward to check if she had fainted.

Bucky found himself leaning too. Glass forgotten and eyes searching, worry blooming in his gut—

Those mirrored eyes were on him. Focused, purposeful, as the music grew more melodic and the base thumped louder. She ground her hips into the air, a smirk growing on her face as she trapped him within her gaze.

She wanted him watching.

“She’s, uh, really playing her part.” Sam coughed into his ear, startling him enough he pressed his back harshly into the booth seat to put some distance between himself and the temptress in front of him.

He’d forgotten they were on a mission. Shit.

Sam sounded off again, “Our target still isn’t as interested as we need him to be. She’s gotta do something to get his attention.”

There was a pause as Sam patched Max into the comm line. “Max, you need to take it up a notch. Target still isn't chomping at the bit for you yet.”

Sam’s sudden intrusion on comms didn't seem to interrupt Max at all, not a moment of hesitation interrupting her performance. In fact, the intrusion seemed to spur her even more.

Bucky watched with bated breath as her hips lifted up, up, up. The fabric of her dress pooled on the glossy black stage, slipping higher and higher on her legs to reveal those supple thighs. Her skin seemed to glow in the light, shimmering and soft. The sight betrayed the true power he knew her body possessed.

Max hooked her legs around the pole before him, her back arching as she lifted off the floor. The pole spun with her momentum, showcasing her dance like a doll in a display case.

Bucky was both enraptured with her, and utterly disgusted with himself for the vile thoughts that began tugging at his mind at the sight of her. Here, like this, he couldn’t deny his attraction to her. The curves of her body, the spark in those glass eyes…

Fuck.

She moved towards him, eyes locked on his, her body moving with fluid grace. Max looked every bit like an ethereal huntress as she dropped from the stage and prowled forward.

His eyes track her movements, the sway of her hips with each heeled step towards him. Bucky suddenly felt too hot, too constricted in his clothes under her haughty gaze.

And that was absolutely nothing compared to the blaze he felt when one of those opaque claws scraped its way teasingly from his knee to his thigh.

If there was a god, Bucky didn't know whether to praise it or curse it into oblivion.

Max leaned over, that finger settling just below his hip and tracing figure eights. “Care to be my partner for the night? I need your help making good ole Oliver jealous, and you're the only one in his direct line of sight.”

Her voice was sinfully soft and ever so sweet. With her fingernail tracing his leg, the heat of her body so close to his, her breath on his ear… God, how was he supposed to keep his head on straight?

A gruff ‘sure’ was all he managed to say. Too distracted by the suffocating heat rising under his skin.

Max smiled, the image every bit sinful, as she eased herself onto his lap. His hands withdrew from his legs, raised in the air just inches from where her weight settled against him, eyes wide and heart pounding.

This would be the end of him.

“Come on Buck, act like you’ve seen a woman before.” Sam whispers into the comms, and it brings a sly smile to Max’s face.

Her hands plant on the back of the booth, nails clacking against the crimson stained wood as she leans forward. Bucky could smell her perfume and the mint on her breath, a cocktail of something deep and rich. A drug a part of him begged to let consume him.

Max shifted her weight, her ass pressing into his thighs and her shoulders swaying to the thrum of music. Her chest heaved in his face; dampened with sweat and shimmering under the lights. It took every bit of his self control to tear his eyes away and pin them to the ceiling.

And then she laughed. Soft and teasing. A thumb brushed his chin, the drag of those nails behind his ear and the press of her palm against his cheek bringing him right back to her.

“Target has some interest now.” Sam comments into the comms, but it’s barely a whisper over the thrum of Bucky’s heart and the heavy beats of the music.

Max leans forward, chest pressing into his own as her lips brush his ear. “Looking a little out of depth there, Soldier. Want me to do all the work?”

That lit a fuse in his brain, stirring his irritation. Irritation was good, distracting.

Except that she was poking at his dignity, and he was competitive at heart.

Before he could think it through, his hands were settling against her thighs and tugging her forward. It was a quick, smooth move that had her seated right over him and their faces inches apart. There was the slightest flicker of surprise in her eyes before a slow, satisfied smile settled onto her features.

He’d done it now.

Max shifted her hips as the beat changed, grinding them downwards on his lap. Bucky’s breath shuttered, and he could feel his heart pounding with the rhythm of the music she danced to. Her eyes were on him, drinking him up, and he just knew that she caught every micro expression he was desperately trying to cover.

Those nails grazed his scalp as she cradled the back of his head, moving forwards to angle his face into her chest, and tilting her hips just a fraction—

Stars exploded in his brain as she rubbed directly against him, pulling a groan from him.

“Someone’s worked up.” Her lips were brushing his ear again, his hands traveling up to grip her hips as she continued her torturous movements. “Makes for a good show.”

Frustrated, Bucky grit his teeth and held her eyes as he wove his metal fingers in her dress and pulled her down.

The delicate little sound she made nearly broke him.

But before he could short circuit and haul her somewhere private, Sam was in their ears. “Targets making a move. Looks like he’s heading towards the Owner with a wad of cash in hand. The plan worked.”

And then Max was moving off of him. She stood, smoothed over her dress, and turned to sway herself back to the stage as the men around whooped and whistled and begged for her attention.

Bucky’s chest heaved, dick aching as he watched her mount the pole again as another song started and began another dance.

Damn the mission, damn that stupid punk-ass target, damn it all.

He wanted to make her pay.

And he’d get his revenge by the end of this one way or another.

Tags <3

@savannahrilee-blog / @littlegreenjellybean

#original character #bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #steamy #marvel #angst #mcu #winter soldier #fanfic #drama #fluff #the avengers #enemies to lovers #love hate relationship #fanfics #smut #marvel mcu #slow burn

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starwrighter · 2 years ago

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Dude, get a restraining order

(Prompt) (Ao3 link)

(The results from the poll have arrived!! You have chosen unintentional Yandere Damian! )

Danny had a feeling the next several months were going to suck. Out of everyone in his school, he'd been the one picked for the whole "Transfer student," nonsense. With his reputation, you'd think he'd be the last person you'd want to show off out of state.

Regardless, Danny was chosen, and now he was on a plane headed to New Jersey Gotham. "The City of Crime" sounds like a blast and a half. All the rouges and criminals that wouldn't be his problem to deal with. It seemed like heaven in theory, but Danny knew with his luck he'd be getting mugged left, right, and center.

Pressing his face against the window, Danny allowed his mind to wander. To the portal, the friends who wouldn't be here to support him, to the ghosts who didn't want to kill him. Dani and Val were going to pick up the slack back home but that wouldn't help with the rumors no doubt going around about Phantom's disappearance. He could only hope he still had a secret identity when he got home.

Maybe if he did crime against the local vigilantes he'd get sent home early...

No, the rouges and local criminals did that on a daily basis they wouldn't crack from a little trolling. Or maybe they would? Then again, Red Hood used guns and the current Robin ran around with a real ass god-damn sword so trolling was a bad idea.

In all honesty, Robin was intimidating even with the little information he had about him. All he had were blurry, articles from various news outlets and attempted interviews with some ridiculously persistent reporter. Robin sounded more cryptic than he was! The entire concept of a teenager his age manifesting out of the shadows and chasing him with a katana would forever be his biggest concern during his stay in Gotham.

When the plane touched down Danny was left in a busy airport terminal. Vague instructions from his teachers and chatter from the employees trying to get him out onto the street as soon as possible were all he had to go off right now. Also, a brochure that he was 90% sure was all bullshit.

Gotham's air felt closer to smoke than it was anything breathable. Burning his nostrils, a scent of gas and cigarette smoke pretty much engulfed the city. It was so bad the second he took a breath, his core jolted, snapping into gear, not allowing anything to enter his lungs before it filtered. He'd never been so glad about dying until now, and never had he ever been as impressed in a population as he was now.

Danny had only been here for ten minutes or so but he'd already come to the conclusion that Gothamites were as metal as amity parkers. Wandering through the city, Danny tried to keep his face neutral. Not a smile or the slightest tell that he wasn't from here. He'd rather not get mugged before he reached his apartment. Though, maybe a fatal injury would get him sent home early.

Looking down at the map on his phone, Danny drew closer to the apartment building he'd been assigned to stay at. Supposedly, it was closer to the rich kid school he'd be temporarily attending. Why they decided it was okay for a teenager to live by himself in Gotham was a complete and total mystery. He could only hope he wouldn't die a second time during his stay.

Getting the key from the front desk was a much easier process than he'd thought It'd be. But it could never be quick enough. His suitcases were heavy!! And he was so very very tired. When he got into his apartment he tossed his suitcases onto the floor, inspecting the place he'd be staying for the next few months. It pretty good setup, a bathroom with a combined bath and shower, a tiny kitchen for cooking, and a small bedroom with a twin XL mattress. Grey sheets that Danny didn't quite trust were clean. Danny barely had the time to settle in before he was pelted with schedules, school rules, and uniform requirements.

His uniform as supplied by the school was a navy blue blazer with the school label embroidered on the pocket. A tie striped black and blue tucked into a stuffy-looking dress shirt. Overall it felt more like he was dressing up for one of Vlad's stupid Gala's than it did school.

He wasn't given any time to unpack, not a second to relax or get used to his surroundings. Nope! He was expected to pack up his school supplies and head to school right away! Seriously, not a minute before the front office was asking where he was, as if offended he didn't teleport to school the moment he touched down.

The school itself was intimidating. Twice the size of Casper High, it looked like a private school. It also looked like a school where he'd face severe bullying. Just from looking at the entrance, he could tell this building had proper equipment down to the most obscure of clubs. Kids rushed past him some looking panicked as a school bell rang while others just seemed annoyed.

He strolled leisurely through the school hall on the way to the office. There was no rush, he didn't even want to be here. What were they going to do? Send him home? Oh no, what a tragedy! Snickering under his breath, Danny scrolled through the avalanche of texts Vlad was sending him. All of them pertaining the same message of "Get your ass to school you're making me look bad!" It almost convinced him to skip but the pissed-off edge to the office lady's voice in their last phone call was enough to goad him into creeping into the office.

A face of thinly veiled annoyance rested on the desk lady's face. He could barely get a word out before a school map and schedule were shoved into his hands. A bare-bones explanation of the school rules was given along with his school ID before he was all but shouted at to get to class.

You'd think there'd be an adjusting period where they'd walk him through everything and let him get settled in at his own pace, but nope! This is Gotham! Apparently, that's not how they roll with transfer students. It's like they wanted him back in amity as much as he did.

He wasn't sure if he liked that or not...

(I don't know who want's to be tagged for this one)

#I know very little about dc #I'm playing with the character like they're barbies #For it gives my adhd ravaged brain dopamine #dp x dc #dpxdc #I might just have to read some Dc x mlb #Because they do the same school thing with Damian a lot #dcxdp #I'm not beta reading this #deadserious #deadseriousship

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tartppola · 5 months ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/nyxiie/771808977557258240/twisted-wonderland-whos-the-best-boyfriend

Are you voting for Ace or Deuce? I think Deuce should win, just to roast Ace. The guy who cannot talk to half the population (girls) is better than him lololol

omg another TWST boyfriend poll... awahwghgghf HONESTLYYY the ratio 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 my vote ain't gonna do anything BUTTTT but but but but I must put on my nerd glasses... the propaganda!! being spoken about my boy Ace Trappola!!

He's obviously got his own issues, he's mean, he's a tease with no filter w his words, he disregards authority figures etc. etc. but i feel the fandom exemplifies his negative traits and doesn't take into account his character growth throughout the game

Main Story Spoilers for : Book 4, Book 6, Book 7

Event Story Spoilers for : Ghost Marriage/Phantom Bride, Spectral Soiree, Fairy Gala IF, Lost in The Book with Stitch

He's a ride or die!! It's shown time and time again that despite the persona he puts up he cares SO much for his friends, throughout the main story, events and vignettes. He took the long trek back to NRC in Book 4 because of the prefect's SOS message!! In Fairy Gala IF he brought the whole first year squad together when Ortho was struggling to find his own image/sense of style unique to himself, in Spectral Soiree he told off Malleus, which ends up leaving an impression ( btw everyone this is a sign to read the Bloom Birthday Malleus vignette or get him on his birthday on EN ). In Book 6 he and Deuce patched the prefect up and stuck by them when Grim's nature as a monster came into question, fought against the STYX to defend the Prefect even though he was scared, and he scolded them when they basically left with no warning.

Don't get me started on him with the prefect OUYGHGHGHhghgh if what I yapped in the first paragraph and the number of home screen lines he has of them across all of his cards do not convince you that he's soooo attached to them, then the way he sticks to the Prefect in Lost in the Book with Stitch because he's concerned abt them being magicless & stranded with him in a deserted island, and the way he noticed Yuu not feeling well in Lilia's farewell party should prove it.

He's so dishonest with his feelings and with others but like deadass. it's so obvious to everyone else. A lot of characters always say how he's always with Deuce and the prefect a lot, like Ortho outing him to Kalim in Playful Land, Silver and Epel making comments about how Deuce and Yuu being close to Ace when they were finding a gift for him, even Malleus and Lilia teased him when he was in denial about being best friends with the prefect and Deuce.

The culmination of this in the latest ( as of now ) Book 7 update in Cater's segment, where he decided that the next destination is Ace's dream, to reunite!!! the mabutrio!! LIKEEEEEE DO YOU SEEEEEE HHGFGJGJGGRGHGHH

He's rising up the ranks in a lot of popularity polls whether against other TWST characters or against other media. He went from 41st in 2023 to 27th in 2024 in the yumejoshi survey!! He's very beloved!! A lot of people being up his past relationship in middle school, they forget his speech to Eliza about finding the perfect/his ideal partner, someone he can laugh and cry with and stick through hard times with!! The old ace who callously left his ex girlfriend would not have these beliefs, it's a sign of his growth!!! To even top it off Ortho did an analysis on him to prove his sincerity in that moment! ( and to rub it in his face bcs d'awwww ace is saur sappy ghhgsghff )

IG what I'm trying to say is!! He's definitely a lot, he's not everyone's cup of tea, but he's a lot more than what the fandom makes him out to be, and if Ace Trappola is your boyfriend he'll definitely cherish you lots ❤️

#i answer stuff #auggh hfdjgfjgjfgjf #SORRY I SPAT THIS WHOLE PARAGRAPH SOBSSSVGJDJGGJF #does this count #as ace trappola propaganda #blinks cutely #ANYWAYSSSS #pleas consider aceypoopooo

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gffa · 1 year ago

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Over the last week, I decided to go ahead with bookmarking all the fics I've recommended over the years on AO3 since I abide by tumblr poll results always (and man pour one out for all the fic that never made it to AO3 or has since been deleted, sooooo many gems lost to time!) and it was a bit more than the ~3,000 I was expecting:

Hopefully, this will be easier than browsing the hundreds of recs posts I've made, since you can filter for any of the author's tags now! These are mostly focused on Star Wars and DC fandom, but I did my time in the anime mines and occasional tours through some TV fandoms or movies. You can dig into everything unfiltered and start your own filtering, or the bigger fandoms you'll find:

MAJOR FANDOMS: Each of these should have 100+ at minimum and, in the case of Star Wars, literally almost half of them are in that fandom. Look, Star Wars fandom might be a trash fire in a lot of ways, but it is ON FIRE with some good fic. (Older bookmarks not guaranteed to match my current sentiments, especially re: the Jedi, but they did catch my fancy at that point in time!)

STAR WARS: - All Star Wars -OR- All Star Wars minus the Obi-Wan/Anakin ship - OR- Nothing BUT Obi-Wan/Anakin

BATMAN/DC: - DC can sometimes be tricky, but you can do a Batman* search and get most of them (though, sometimes Nightwing* or Young Justice* or Superman* will catch some of the others). Honestly, though, you might want to just do a search for what character or dynamic you like and have fun from there, because otherwise you're getting a face full of my Dick Grayson Is The Center Of The Universe And I'm Making That Everyone Else's Problem agenda. ;)

MARVEL/MCU: - Marvel* will probably get most of the various properties, though you may want to filter for Defenders* or Guardians of the Galaxy* if you're interested -OR- Marvel* without the Thor/Loki - These focus a lot on the Thor* fandom if you want to witness the results of like 8 years of constant voracious reading in that fandom (Minus the ship), because, seriously, I read a LOT of Odinson family fic. - Bonus, just do a search for Maximoff* to find some really good X-Men: First Class-verse because, listen, I have been ALL ABOUT the Maximoff twins since long before the movies or MCU brought them over and I will DIE ON THE HILL of "Marvel, make Magneto their bio-dad again or I'm never reading another comic of yours ever".

TOLKIEN/LORD OF THE RINGS/SILMARILLION/HOBBIT: - Tolkien* -OR- Hobbit* -OR- Lord of the Rings* searches will turn up most of my Elf-hunting, I primarily focus on the Sindar Elves, but look I can't resist my problematic Feanorian faves or that I will die on the hill that Fingolfin is the best ever. (You have NO IDEA how sad I am that so much fic on Stories of Arda or FFNET is not easily bookmarked on AO3, sob. I externally bookmarked a few of the bigger ones, but sooo many shorter faves are missing from my recs tag.)

CLAMP: - X/Tokyo Babylon legitimately bums me out because it's not a huge fandom and yet so much of what was written was pre-AO3 and lost when CLAMPesque went down or was never brought over from Livejournal, yet this fandom (well, the Seishirou/Subaru pairing) still burns brightly in my heart.

BOOKS: Chrestomanci | Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint

DRAMAS: Nirvana in Fire | The Untamed -OR- Modao Zu Shi

VIDEO GAMES: Dragon Age: Inquisition | Final Fantasy 8 | Genshin Impact | Okami

BANDS: Arashi

All right, whew, that was actually a fun project, despite how much work it was to hunt down a lot of older faves to see if they were on AO3, hopefully you'll find this useful!

#lumi.txt #fic recs #star wars fic recs #batman fic recs

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ct7567329 · 8 days ago

Text

Hold Me Until the Morning ~ Rex x F!Civilian Reader

Summary: As a bartender at 79's, your nights are full of routine and chaos. An introduction to the Captain of the 501st makes your shifts more entertaining. Word Count: 9.1k Warnings: Alcohol consumption (that should be it, it's mostly fluff) A/N: My take on Rex x Civilian as per my polls that are up right now! I had this and a clone x Medic queued up so, thanks for helping me choose! Requests are open in my bio! join my taglist / masterlist

The glow of Coruscant’s neon skyline filtered weakly through the grimy blinds of your tiny apartment, painting pale streaks of pink and blue across the walls. You sat at the edge of your bed, staring blankly at the carpet beneath your bare feet. The city outside hummed with air traffic soaring overhead, repulsorlifts vibrating, voices rising and fading with the pulse of a world that never slept. But all you could feel was the heavy pull of exhaustion clinging to your limbs.

You’d woken late. Again.

Your shift at 79’s started soon, and you needed to get ready. But the weight of another night serving drinks and navigating the rowdy, unpredictable mix of clone troopers and off-duty patrons felt heavier than usual tonight. Still, the thought of the bar’s familiar noise, the clatter of glasses, the hum of conversation, and the occasional burst of raucous laughter was almost comforting. It was predictable, in its way.

With a tired groan, you rose from the bed and stretched, rolling your shoulders to loosen the knots from the night before. The mirror across the room caught your reflection of tousled hair, dark circles under your eyes, and the faint imprint of pillow lines on your cheek. You ran a hand through your hair, pushing it back from your face. The mirror didn’t lie. You were exhaused, but you were determined to shake it off.

Your bathroom was small, barely enough room to turn around, but it served its purpose. You turned on the faucet and splashed your face with cool water, the shock of it jolting you awake a little. Grabbing a towel, you patted your skin dry and stared at your reflection again. There were days when you wished you could just leave the makeup behind, pull your hair into a knot, and call it good. But tonight, like most nights, you wanted to try to look a little more put together. Not for anyone else, really. Just for yourself.

You opened the small drawer beside the sink and pulled out a well-worn makeup bag. Inside were the essentials: a dewy foundation that helped cover the dark circles, a subtle highlighter to give you a bit of glow beneath the harsh lights of the bar, mascara, and a dark eyeliner pencil. You traced the pencil carefully along your upper lash line, steadying your hand despite the lingering sleepiness. It wasn’t anything dramatic, but just enough to make your tired eyes look more awake.

A soft rose lipstick followed, dabbed on with practiced precision. It was a shade that wasn’t too bold, but it gave your face some life. You blended it with your fingertip, tilting your head slightly as you examined the effect. Your cheeks needed a touch of color, so you brushed on a hint of blush, blending it into your skin until it looked natural. The bar’s lighting was dim anyway, but you liked the ritual of getting ready. It felt like your version of armor.

Your hair was next. You debated leaving it down since it had a natural wave to it tonight, falling over your shoulders in soft curls, but decided against it. It would be too easy for it to get in your way, catch on a patron’s hand, or worse, dip into a spilled drink. You gathered it into a loose ponytail, pulling out a few strands to frame your face softly. A quick spritz of setting spray, and you were done.

Turning back to your bedroom, you rummaged through the dresser for your work clothes. You pulled out your standard black fitted shirt that skimmed your frame without being too clingy. It was practical and flattering, cut to show just enough at the collar to catch the eye without inviting trouble. Over that, you layered a charcoal gray vest with deep pockets that were essential for tucking away bottle openers, and whatever else you would accumulate through the night.

Your jeans were dark, fitted, and tucked neatly into your favorite pair of worn leather boots. The soles were scuffed from countless shifts, but they were comfortable and sturdy, the kind that could handle spilled drinks, slippery floors, and the occasional hurried sidestep when a fight threatened to break out. You tugged the hem of your jeans up and flexed your toes inside the boots, grounding yourself.

You gave yourself a final once-over in the mirror. The makeup was subtle but effective. Your hair was controlled but still soft around your face. You straightened your posture, rolled your shoulders back, and let out a long, slow breath. The exhaustion was still there, coiled tight beneath your skin, but you could already feel the anticipation building. The bar’s energy always found a way to wake you up, to fill the space inside you that the quiet of your apartment couldn’t.

You crossed the room to your small desk, where a thin credstick sat beside your personal comm. You pocketed the credstick, along with a small fold of flimsiplast notes, which consisted mostly of a few hastily scribbled reminders about deliveries and inventory orders you needed to place for the bar. You slipped a utility knife into the side pocket of your vest, just in case, and grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair.

As you locked the door behind you, the distant murmur of the city reached you more clearly. Coruscant’s night air was cool, tinged with the metallic scent of fuel and the distant hint of fried street food. You pulled your jacket tighter around you and set off down the narrow corridor.

The walk to 79’s wasn’t long; just a few blocks down the busy street, weaving through the crowds of pedestrians, vendors, and late-night travelers. Neon signs flashed overhead, advertising everything from steaming bowls of noodle soup to sleek speeder repairs. You caught a glimpse of your reflection in a shop window as you passed. The tiredness was still there, but you were pushing through it, drawn forward by the familiar pull of the night ahead.

As you approached the entrance to 79’s, the buzz of conversation grew louder. You could already hear the faint strains of music spilling through the walls, the clink of glasses, and the deep, resonant laughter of clone troopers blowing off steam.

A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. Whatever exhaustion you felt, whatever worries you carried from the day, they would soon be drowned out by the bar’s familiar rhythm. You’d step behind the counter, slip into the role you knew so well, and let the pulse of the room carry you through the night.

You took a deep breath, smoothed your vest, and stepped inside.

The heavy durasteel doors of 79's slid open with a familiar hiss, revealing the dimly lit interior of the clone trooper bar nestled deep within Coruscant's underbelly. The air was thick with the mingling scents of spiced liquor, engine oil, and the ever-present hum of conversation. Holographic displays flickered above the bar, broadcasting the latest podracing highlights, while the rhythmic thump of bass-heavy music pulsed through the floor.

You stepped inside, the ambient noise washing over you like a wave. The bar was already bustling, filled with off-duty clone troopers clad in varying states of undress. Some were still in partial armor, and others opted for casual fatigues. Laughter and animated discussions echoed off the walls, creating a cacophony that was both overwhelming and oddly comforting.

Making your way behind the bar, you greeted your fellow staff with nods and brief smiles. The countertop was already lined with empty glasses and half-finished drinks, evidence of the night's early momentum. You took off your jacket and began the familiar routine of restocking bottles, wiping down surfaces, and checking the inventory of mixers and garnishes.

As you settled into your rhythm, the doors opened once more, and a noticeable shift rippled through the crowd. The 501st Legion had arrived. Their presence was unmistakable with their confident strides, boisterous laughter, and an air of camaraderie that set them apart. Leading the group were Fives and Kix, their animated banter drawing attention as they approached the bar.

"Evening, gorgeous," Fives greeted with a wink, leaning casually on the counter, "Miss us?"

You smirked, pouring their usual drinks without missing a beat, "Like a blaster misses its target," you replied, sliding the glasses toward them.

Kix chuckled, raising his glass in a mock toast, "Always a pleasure to be served by the best bartender on Coruscant."

You smirked, sliding their drinks over, "Flattery gets you your usual. Keep it up, and I might even throw in a smile."

Their flirtatious remarks were a familiar part of your nightly routine, and you played along with practiced ease. The banter was lighthearted, a welcome distraction from the chaos of the war-torn galaxy outside.

As the conversation flowed, your eyes drifted past the lively duo to a figure standing slightly apart from the group. Captain Rex. His presence was commanding, even in the relaxed setting of the bar. Clad in his distinctive blue-accented armor, he exuded a quiet confidence, observing the room with a watchful gaze.

The banter continued, light and playful, as more members of the 501st settled in. Amidst the laughter and camaraderie, your eyes were drawn to a figure who hadn't approached the bar yet.

Captain Rex stood slightly apart from the group, his demeanor calm and observant. Unlike his comrades, he wasn't vying for attention or engaging in the playful antics. Instead, he watched the room with a quiet intensity.

Curiosity piqued, you leaned over the bar, catching his gaze, "You planning to stand there all night, or are you going to come over and introduce yourself?"

Rex approached, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, "Captain Rex," he said, extending a hand.

You took it, noting the firmness of his grip, while tapping your other hand along the name tag pinned onto your vest, "Nice to meet you, Captain."

He nodded, his gaze steady, "Pleasure's mine."

The moment lingered, a subtle tension hanging in the air. Around you, the bar buzzed with activity, but in that instant, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you.

Breaking the silence, you gestured to the array of bottles behind you, "Can I get you something? First drink's on the house for newcomers."

Rex considered for a moment before replying, "I'll take whatever you recommend."

You smiled, reaching for a bottle, "You got it, Captain."

As you prepared his drink, the conversation continued, weaving between lighthearted banter and deeper topics. Rex's demeanor was composed, yet there was an underlying warmth that surfaced as the evening progressed. The initial formality gave way to genuine connection, the shared laughter and exchanged glances hinting at a budding rapport.

"Thank you for the drink," he said, his voice sincere.

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips, "Anytime, Captain."

With a final nod, he turned and exited the bar top, leaving you with the lingering warmth of the evening's connection. The hum of the bar resumed its usual cadence, but the memory of your exchange with Rex remained, a spark amidst the routine of nightly service.

You moved with practiced ease behind the bar, mixing drinks, exchanging pleasantries, and keeping a watchful eye on the patrons. The rhythm of the night was familiar, almost comforting.

Amidst the crowd, Captain Rex stood out. Not just because of his distinctive armor but because of the quiet intensity he exuded. He approached the bar, his gaze meeting yours with a hint of curiosity.

"Another round, Captain?" you inquired, reaching for a clean glass.

He nodded, offering a slight smile.,"Please."

As you prepared his drink, he leaned slightly closer, his voice low to be heard over the music, "Busy night?"

You chuckled, sliding the drink toward him, "Always is when the 501st is in town."

He took a sip, his eyes never leaving yours, "Do you enjoy it? The energy, the chaos?"

You considered the question, glancing around the bustling bar, "It's invigorating. Keeps me on my toes."

He nodded thoughtfully, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass, "I can see that."

The conversation flowed effortlessly, touching on simple topics and deeper musings. Rex's demeanor was calm, yet there was an underlying warmth that surfaced as the evening progressed. As you became more engrossed in the exchange, the world around you seemed to fade. The clamor of the bar, and the demands of the other soldiers all receded into the background.

A sudden shout from a nearby table jolted you back to reality. A group of troopers waved empty glasses, signaling for refills. You blinked, realizing you'd been standing idle, captivated by the conversation.

"Duty calls," you said with a sheepish smile, moving to attend to the waiting patrons.

Rex watched you go, a thoughtful expression on his face. As you bustled about, fulfilling drink orders and exchanging banter, you felt his gaze follow you, a steady presence amidst the chaos.

Later, as the crowd began to thin and the night's energy mellowed, Rex returned to the bar. "Back for another?" you asked, already reaching for a glass.

He shook his head, "Just wanted to talk, if you have a moment."

You leaned on the counter, intrigued, setting a bottle of liquor into the well, "I'm all ears."

The conversation resumed, deeper this time. Rex spoke of his experiences, the weight of command, the bonds formed in battle. You listened, offering insights and sharing your own stories. Time slipped away unnoticed, the connection between you growing stronger with each exchanged word.

As the first hints of dawn approached, Rex stood, preparing to leave. "Thank you," he smiled, his voice sincere, For the conversation."

You smiled, a warmth blooming in your chest, "Anytime, Captain."

He nodded, turning to go, but paused, "Perhaps we could continue this another time?"

You met his gaze, the promise of future conversations shimmering between you, "I'd like that."

With a final smile, Rex departed, leaving you amidst the quieting bar, your thoughts lingering on the unexpected connection forged amidst the clamor of 79's.

You’d never been one to look forward to the start of your shift. Or, at least, not before the last few months. But now, as you stand in front of the slightly tarnished mirror behind the back office of 79’s, adjusting your makeup, smoothing down your dark top, and re-braiding your hair for a fourth time. You catch yourself with a smile that lingers a moment longer than it should.

It’s not just the routine of prepping the bar, of slicing citrus and aligning glassware. It’s the thought of Rex, who on the rare leaves granted to the 501st on Coruscant, inevitably finds his way back to this noisy, windowless corner of the city’s underbelly. Back to this bar and back to his favorite bartender.

The mirror reflects the subtle sweep of shimmer on your eyelids, the deliberate flick of eyeliner meant to be both polished and inviting. You check your hair once more, ensuring a few strands are tucked just right, and take a deep breath. He might not be here tonight, there were always rumors swirling about new campaigns, new deployments, but hope, fragile and persistent, stays with you.

79’s pulse hits you like a wave when you step through the staff door. The chatter, the scrape of chairs, the low thrum of music vibrating through the floor. It’s all so familiar now, like the beat of a living heart. You weave through the early crowd, greeting a few regulars, laughing politely at an overly bold compliment, and finally take your place behind the bar.

Your hands move instinctively as you set up for the night by checking the lines to the taps, pulling fresh bottles, and arranging the rows of glasses so they catch the glinting lights above. But as you work, you can’t help but glance at the stool. The one at the far end of the bar that you always leave empty.

Sometimes it’s the only empty seat in the place, and you catch the occasional patron eyeing it before they’re waved off by one of the bartenders or by your own gentle nudge: “Sorry, that one’s taken.”

Of course, it isn’t taken. Not technically, but you keep it open for Rex, just in case tonight’s the night the 501st is back on leave.

It had started as a small gesture, something you’d done without even thinking about it after that first night when he’d lingered at the bar, quiet and steady, watching you navigate the chaos with practiced grace. He hadn’t tried to impress you, hadn’t joined in the playful banter of his brothers. He’d simply been there, his presence a grounding force amidst the swirling noise of 79’s.

And now, months later, you found yourself anticipating that he would return, that he would settle onto that stool with the faintest smile and a quiet, “Good evening.”

The first rush of the night hits, and you throw yourself into the work. Orders fly in rapid-fire succession: a round of Corellian ales for a boisterous group at the center table, a couple of Rylothian sunbursts for a pair of off-duty pilots, shots of Tihaar for some of the more experienced clones sharing stories near the door. Your hands move with practiced efficiency, pouring, shaking, sliding glasses across the polished bar top with the same easy rhythm that’s kept you going shift after shift.

But even as you lose yourself in the momentum, a part of your mind keeps drifting back to that stool. You glance toward the entrance every time the heavy doors hiss open, scanning each newcomer for a flash of familiar blue-accented armor, for the broad-shouldered silhouette that has, against all odds, come to mean something to you.

The bar grows louder as the hours pass, the energy rising as more men filter in. The air is warm with the scent of spice and sweat and the faint ozone tang of recent rain outside. You manage a smile, a laugh, even a teasing remark or two, but your heart isn’t entirely in it. Not until the doors hiss open again.

A hush ripples through the crowd, subtle but noticeable, as a group of clones steps inside. Your heart kicks up a beat, and your eyes immediately search the group, spotting the familiar forms of Fives and Kix first, their easy swagger unmistakable. But then you see him.

There.

Rex.

His presence is like a quiet chord of music threading through the noise. He’s in partial armor tonight, upper armor and helmet left behind at the barracks, his expression composed but softened at the edges by the familiar surroundings. His eyes catch yours across the room, and the corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until he starts making his way toward the bar, weaving through the crowd with the same purposeful stride you remember. And despite the bustle around you, despite the drinks waiting to be poured and the orders shouted from the other end of the bar, you find yourself rooted in place, heart hammering in your chest.

He reaches the stool, the one you always leave open, and sets his palm down on the counter.

“Good evening,” he rasps, his voice low and warm, just for you.

You exhale, a slow smile spreading across your face, “Hey, Captain. Thought you might be back in town.”

His gaze flickers briefly to the bustling room before returning to yours, "Got a few days’ leave,” he murmurs. “Figured I’d stop by.”

You nod, already reaching for the bottle you know he likes, pouring his drink with the same care you always do, “I was hoping you would.”

His lips quirk at that, and for a moment, the weight of the galaxy outside this bar seems to ease.

As the night unfolds, Rex stays at the stool, and you find yourself gravitating toward him more and more, drawn by the quiet steadiness of his presence. You balance your duties of pouring drinks, wiping down the counter, exchanging brief words with other patrons, but every time you glance his way, he’s still there, his gaze meeting yours with that quiet, grounding calm.

At some point, you lose track of time. You’re laughing softly at something he’s just said. It was a rare story from the front lines, shared in his low, even voice, and it strikes you how natural this feels. How, amidst the clamor of the bar, the two of you have carved out a space that feels just a little apart from the rest of the world.

“I don’t want to keep you from your work,” Rex says after a while, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

You shake your head, stepping a little closer so your words don’t have to rise over the music, “You’re not. Talking to bar guests is apart of the job. And besides, I like having you here.”

His smile is subtle, but it warms you all the way through, “I like being here.”

And just like that, the world outside, the war, the orders, the waiting, fades into the background, leaving only the quiet intimacy of shared conversation, the familiar hum of the bar, and the unspoken promise that whatever this is between you two might just be the beginning of something neither of you expected.

The warmth of his smile lingers as you lean against the bar, fingers lightly tracing the rim of an empty glass you haven’t had time to clear away. Around you, 79’s thrums with life. Laughter bubbling up from tables, the clatter of glasses stacking, the faint, bass-heavy pulse of the music vibrating against the floor. But here, at this narrow stretch of bar where Rex has anchored himself, it feels as though the volume has dimmed just enough to make the space between the two of you feel almost private.

Your voice, soft but teasing, slips through the hum, “You’re not much of a fan of places like this, are you?”

Rex lifts his head slightly, his expression thoughtful but honest, “Not really,” he admits, his tone low and even. “Too loud. Too many distractions. It’s not easy to think.”

You smile, warmth curling through you. It’s no surprise, really. Even when he’d first walked into 79’s those months ago, he hadn’t seemed to share the same easy comfort his brothers displayed here. Fives and Kix had been quick with jokes and playful taunts, but Rex had always maintained a subtle distance, as though the noise and the flashing lights didn’t quite fit with who he was beneath the armor.

“Can’t say I blame you,” you reply, your voice pitched just enough to be heard over the music but still private, “Most nights, it’s a little much, even for me.” You tilt your head toward the nearest table, where a group of troopers are engaged in a loud, animated debate over sabacc hands, “Don’t get me wrong, the energy’s good for business. But it can wear you down.”

Rex leans a little closer, resting his forearms lightly against the polished wood of the bar. His presence draws you in, and you find yourself matching his posture without thinking, mirroring his subtle movements, “Why do you do it then?” he asks, genuinely curious.

You pause, your eyes flicking to the shelves of bottles behind you, their contents glowing softly under the ambient lights, “Because I like people,” you say after a moment, giving him a quick wink, “And I like feeling like I’m part this messy, noisy, chaotic thing that brings people together, even if it’s just for a drink or a laugh. There’s something comforting about it. Like no matter how bad the galaxy gets, there’s always a place where people can come and feel a little less alone.”

Rex’s eyes soften, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I think I can understand that.”

Your pulse stutters in a way that has nothing to do with the lingering caffeine in your system. For a moment, you consider leaving it at a quiet acknowledgment. But the weight of his gaze, steady and warm, emboldens you.

“My shift’s over at the top of the hour,” you say, your voice light but deliberate, “If you want to wait it out I know a quiet place we can go.”

For a heartbeat, Rex says nothing, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nods, “I’d like that.”

The admission settles between you like a shared secret, delicate but certain. Your lips curve into a soft smile, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the noisy clamor of 79’s seems bearable again.

The rest of your shift passes in a blur of half-heard orders, automatic movements, and the occasional, surreptitious glance toward Rex, who was sipping his drink slowly at the end of the bar. You catch him nursing the drink, exchanging occasional words with passing brothers, but always his eyes return to you, steady as a promise.

As the clock above the bar edges closer to the top of the hour, you catch yourself glancing toward it more often, heart quickening. The last orders are taken, the final rounds poured. The crowd begins to thin, some patrons already making their way out into the Coruscant night, their laughter echoing down the darkened streets.

You catch Kix and Jesse on their way toward the door, their postures loose with drink and easy camaraderie.

“Heading out?” you call over, wiping down the bar as they pass.

Kix grins. “Yeah, figured we’d let the Captain have his peace. Not often he gets a night off, you know?”

Jesse gives a mock salute, adding with a wink, “Don’t keep him waiting too long, huh?”

You roll your eyes, warmth flooding your cheeks as they leave, the door hissing shut behind them. Rex remains, his drink cradled in his hands, his posture relaxed but attentive as he watches you. With a final flourish, you set down the last wiped glass and grab your jacket from beneath the bar.

You glance toward him, your voice low and almost shy, “Ready to go?”

He rises, the motion smooth and deliberate, “Lead the way.”

Together, you step out from behind the bar, weaving through the lingering patrons and into the cool air outside. The door of 79’s closes behind you with a soft hiss, muting the sounds of the bar.

The city beyond is alive with muted neon and the quiet hum of traffic high above. You lead him through the streets, your steps familiar and sure, taking winding paths through narrow alleys lit by scattered glimmers of light. He follows without question, his presence a steady shadow at your side.

After several blocks, you stop before a small, tucked-away courtyard shielded from the main street by high walls and thick foliage. It’s quiet here, the air scented faintly with flowering vines. A handful of benches line the perimeter, and a softly gurgling fountain occupies the center.

“This is the place,” you say softly, gesturing to the space around you, “Not many people know about it but it’s peaceful and quiet.”

Rex stands beside you, taking it all in. His gaze lingers on the fountain, then on you, “It’s perfect,” he murmurs.

You settle onto one of the benches, and after a moment, he joins you. For a time, neither of you speaks. The silence stretches comfortably, filled only by the distant sounds of the city and the soft whisper of the fountain. Finally, you turn toward him, your voice barely above a whisper. “You seem like more yourself each time you come to the bar.”

He meets your gaze, and for the first time, you see a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. “I don’t have to be Captain Rex there. I can just be me.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing lightly against his, “Well good, because I like you.”

He turns his hand beneath yours, fingers curling gently around yours in a quiet, unspoken agreement. And for that moments beneath the stars and the gentle drops of water, you’re no longer a bartender and a soldier. You’re just two people, drawn together by chance, finding solace in each other’s company amidst the vast, chaotic galaxy.

Rex’s hand closes gently around yours, his grip warm and steady. His calloused fingertips lightly brush the inside of your wrist, sending a subtle shiver through you. The weight of his hand, both firm and careful, seems to ground you amidst the quiet night and the faint, distant buzz of Coruscant’s endless pulse.

“You know,” he says, his voice lower now, more intimate in the hush of the courtyard, “I’ve only been going to 79’s because of you.”

The confession lands between you like a soft spark, your breath catching just slightly. You tilt your head, a smile playing at your lips. “Oh, is that so?” you murmur, teasing but touched.

Rex’s cheeks color faintly under the city glow, and he lets out a quiet laugh, his thumb grazing along the back of your hand, “Yeah. Not exactly subtle, is it?”

You give a small, delighted laugh, your own fingers tightening ever so slightly around his, “I mean, I wasn’t going to say anything, but-”

“But you noticed,” he finishes for you, his tone light, his eyes catching yours with an honesty that sends a warm flush through your chest.

“I noticed,” you admit softly.

For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you, his steady hand in yours, his quiet smile, the way the city’s neon lights cast shifting colors across the quiet courtyard. It’s as though you’ve both stepped outside of the endless war, outside of the demands of your separate lives, and into this small, suspended space where nothing matters except this connection slowly inserting itself between you.

Off in the distance, just beyond the high walls and through a narrow gap between buildings, you catch a glimpse of movement. Fives, unmistakable in his swagger, arm slung around a girl’s shoulders as they laugh and stumble their way into a side alley, likely searching for a little privacy of their own.

Rex follows your gaze, his lips twitching in amusement, “Looks like Fives is having a good night,” he says, a hint of fond exasperation in his voice.

You can’t help but laugh, the sound soft and breathy as it spills into the quiet, “You worried he’s getting himself into trouble?”

Rex’s grin widens, and he shakes his head, “If I were feeling more responsible, I might report it.” He pauses, glancing down at your joined hands, then back up at you with a rueful smile, “But then I’d be a bit of a hypocrite, wouldn’t I?”

You let out a delighted laugh, the sound ringing through the courtyard like a chime, and he joins in, his shoulders relaxing further as the humor bridges the gap between duty and desire.

“I guess you would,” you say, your voice light but threaded with something deeper. Like an acknowledgment of the quiet, mutual pull between you that’s been building with every shared glance, every exchanged word.

His fingers tighten around yours for a moment, as though he’s drawing courage from the connection, “It doesn’t feel like trouble, though,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your heart stutters at the quiet sincerity in his voice. “No,” you agree softly, “It doesn’t.”

For a moment, silence settles over you both. Not the awkward kind, but a comfortable, shared stillness that makes you feel more connected to him than you thought possible in such a short time.

“You know,” you say, your voice gentle as you lean just slightly closer, “if you’re only going to 79’s to see me, you don’t have to wait for a shift to end. You could stop by earlier. Before it gets busy.”

Rex’s eyes soften, his smile growing quieter but no less warm, “You’d be okay with that?”

Your thumb brushes lightly over the back of his hand, “I’d like that,” you admit, your pulse thrumming with quiet anticipation, “I mean, it might mean I get distracted and mess up a few orders, but-”

He laughs, a low, genuine sound that warms your skin like sunlight, “Somehow, I don’t think the guys would mind waiting a little longer for a drink if it meant seeing you smile.”

You feel your cheeks flush, but you don’t look away. Instead, you let the silence settle again, this time filled with a quiet, mutual understanding. You can see it in the way his shoulders relax, in the subtle easing of the lines around his mouth. Here, away from the battlefield and the burdens of leadership, Rex is just a man, and you’re just a woman who can’t seem to stop smiling when he’s near.

A soft breeze stirs the air, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers from the edge of the courtyard. You lean back slightly against the bench, your hand still clasped in his, and tilt your head to the side. “What do you think Fives’ odds are tonight?” you ask playfully, nudging him gently with your shoulder.

Rex chuckles, a rich, warm sound that feels like it settles right beneath your ribs, “Oh, I’d say he’s got a pretty good chance, if the lady’s laughing at his jokes.”

You grin, your eyes sparkling with amusement, “Well, it’s hard to resist a charming clone trooper.”

His gaze meets yours again, something softer, something deeper stirring in his expression, “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice low and a little rough. “It is.”

The words hang between you. Your pulse quickens, but you don’t look away. Instead, you let your free hand lift, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, your movements slow and deliberate. Rex watches the motion, his breath hitching just slightly, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s going to lean in. The thought sends a warm thrill through you, but instead, he simply squeezes your hand a little tighter, grounding the moment with that simple, steady gesture.

“I don’t get a lot of nights like this,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles, “Where I don’t have to think about orders or missions and I can just be me”

Your heart clenches at the quiet vulnerability in his voice, “You deserve more nights like this,” you say softly, “Nights where you can just be yourself.”

He looks at you then, really looks, his gaze steady and warm, “Maybe I’ll start making time for them,” he says, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Your own smile widens, and you squeeze his hand gently in return, “I’d like that for you.”

The city hums around you, but here, in this quiet courtyard with your hands joined and your hearts speaking in unspoken words, it feels like the world has stilled just for the two of you. And for the first time in a long while, you both feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Rex's fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours, and he looks at you with a flicker of realization dawning in his eyes. “Kriff,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with quiet concern, “You must be exhausted. I’ve been keeping you up, haven’t I?”

The apology is genuine, edged with the steady sense of responsibility that seems to radiate from him, the same kind of quiet duty you’d noticed even when he wasn’t in his armor. His brows draw together, a subtle furrow forming above his nose as though the weight of your weariness is suddenly his to bear.

But you smile softly, the corners of your lips curling upward with a mixture of affection and amusement., “I’m the one who offered to take you here after my shift, remember?” you remind him gently, your voice laced with a teasing warmth.

He lets out a breath of quiet laughter, his gaze dropping briefly to where your hands are still joined, your fingers interlaced as though neither of you is quite ready to let go, “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I guess you did.”

Still, the exhaustion creeps up on you like a slow tide, the weight of the long shift settling across your shoulders and down your spine. Your eyelids feel heavier now, the adrenaline of bartending and the giddy rush of seeing Rex giving way to something softer, something bone-deep and inevitable.

You shift slightly, your hand brushing his knee as you lean back a bit against the bench, “I’m a little tired, though,” you admit, your voice quieter now, edged with honesty.

Rex’s gaze sharpens, the concern flickering stronger in his expression. His lips part slightly as if to speak, but you beat him to it with a small, rueful smile, “But I don’t regret it,” you say, your thumb tracing a slow, lazy arc over the back of his hand, “It’s worth it for this.”

His breath catches, his shoulders relaxing again as though those simple words eased something tight in his chest. “Still,” you add softly, your curiosity surfacing beneath the warmth of your voice, “what time do you have to report back in the morning?”

Your question is simple enough on the surface, almost casual, but there’s an undercurrent to it, a subtle edge of something more intimate. Something you’re not entirely sure you’re ready to voice outright. It’s not just idle curiosity about his schedule, but it’s the quiet, tentative wondering of someone who’s beginning to care a little too much, someone who’s realizing just how fleeting these moments might be.

Rex’s brow furrows slightly, his head tilting as though the question puzzles him. His lips part, and then he hesitates, his gaze locking with yours, “Why do you ask?” he says, his voice low, laced with quiet curiosity.

You draw in a breath, feeling the weight of his gaze, the warmth of his hand still cradling yours, “I don’t know,” you admit softly, your voice nearly lost in the quiet hum of the courtyard. “Maybe I just want to know how long we have before you have to go back. ”

There that flicker of something deeper and fragile threading through your words comes out. You feel it settle between you like a shared secret, delicate and unsure, but undeniable.

Rex’s lips part slightly, his breath catching in his throat. He doesn’t speak for a moment, as though he’s turning the question over in his mind, weighing it not just for its surface meaning but for everything you aren’t quite saying out loud.

“I’m not sure,” he says finally, his voice quiet, almost hesitant, “They don’t usually give us much notice. Sometimes it’s a few hours. Sometimes less,” He hesitates, his gaze softening, “But I’ll stay as long as I can. If you want me to.”

Your breath catches, your pulse quickening at the quiet sincerity in his voice, “I do,” you say softly, almost without thinking. The admission slips from your lips, unguarded and true, “I'd like for you to stay.”

His hand tightens around yours, his thumb brushing a slow, comforting arc over your knuckles, “Then I’ll stay,” he says quietly, the words a simple promise.

For a moment, the world feels as though it’s stilled around you. You’re both caught in this fragile, suspended moment where nothing exists but the warmth of his hand, the steady beat of your pulse, and the quiet understanding that has begun to weave itself between you.

“You’re full of surprises, Captain,” you say softly, your voice tinged with amusement and something deeper.

Rex chuckles quietly, the sound low and intimate in the stillness, “So are you,” he murmurs.

You lean just a little closer, your free hand brushing lightly against his knee, your movements slow and unhurried. The exhaustion presses against you, but the warmth of his presence, the steady reassurance of his hand in yours, keeps you anchored.

“I don’t get a lot of nights like this either,” you admit quietly, your voice almost a whisper, “Where I get to just be.”

His gaze meets yours, something unspoken passing between you like a silent promise, “Then let’s make the most of it,” he says softly.

And for a little while longer, you do.

You sit there in the quiet, your hands still joined, your shoulders brushing lightly with every subtle shift. Rex doesn’t rush to fill the silence with words, and you don’t feel the need to either. It’s enough to just be there, to feel the warmth of his skin against yours, the quiet weight of his presence grounding you amidst the endless hum of the city.

Eventually, though, the pull of exhaustion becomes too much to ignore. Your eyelids droop, your head tilting ever so slightly toward his shoulder. Rex’s arm shifts, his hand rising to brush a few stray strands of hair away from your face, his touch feather-light and careful.

“You’re falling asleep,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble near your ear.

“Mmm,” you hum in quiet agreement, your lips curving into a faint, sleepy smile, “Maybe a little.”

“Come on,” he says softly, his hand guiding yours as he stands, "You live far from here?"

You shake your head, "Just a short walk away."

You let him pull you to your feet, his arm steady around your shoulders as you lean into his side, your exhaustion pressing against you in a wave now that you’ve let yourself relax. As you walk back toward the busier streets, toward whatever comes next, you feel his hand warm and steady at your back, his presence a quiet promise of something you’re only just beginning to understand.

Coruscant’s neon lights filtered through the haze as Rex followed you to your apartment door. He paused, the weight of the night settling on his shoulders, exhaustion evident but mingled with the calm contentment that came from being with you.

“I’ll see you next time,” Rex said quietly, his hand lingering just a moment longer on the doorframe before he started to turn away.

You let out a tired yawn, your body heavy with the fatigue of the long shift, but your eyes sparkled with playful warmth, “Would’ve been rude to let you walk me home, then not to invite you inside,” you teased, voice low and soft.

Rex’s lips twitched into a grin, the familiar warmth returning to his gaze. Without hesitation, he stepped inside, the door closing quietly behind him.

“Make yourself at home,” you said, already moving toward the small hallway leading to your bathroom, “I’m going to shower the bar off. I'm covered in dried liquor and all that lovely bar filth.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and steady, “I couldn't tell.”

You could hear his footsteps trailing behind you as you peeled off your worn shirt and tossed it aside, the cool air of your apartment wrapping around you. Rex settled onto a stool in the kitchen, his gaze quietly taking in the modest space, noting the details of the well-worn countertops, the small potted plants by the windowsill, the cluttered stack of holobooks on the coffee table. He seemed at ease here, like he belonged, even in this little civilian world so far removed from the battlefield.

After a few moments, he rose quietly and made his way toward the balcony, the sliding door already unlocked to the cool night air. The city’s distant hum wrapped around him like a soft blanket as he leaned against the railing, eyes scanning the neon-lit skyline but clearly lost in thought.

You finished your shower quickly, the warm water washing away the fatigue and the faint smell of spilled drinks and sweat. After drying off and throwing on an oversized sweatshirt, you stepped quietly through the apartment, drawn toward the balcony by the faint glow of the city and the quiet presence waiting there.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping out beside him.

Rex turned, a slow smile spreading across his face as he looked at the damp hair clinging to your skin, eyes bright despite the exhaustion.

“You’re still here,” you murmured, stepping closer.

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else,” he replied, his voice low and sure.

The night stretched out before you, quiet and still except for the soft hum of the city below and the steady beat of your own heart, echoing in the space between you.

You lean over the balcony railing beside Rex, taking a slow, deep breath of the warm night air. The city lights twinkle far below like scattered stars, and a faint breeze carries the scent of ozone and distant blossoms.

“It’s a lovely night,” you say softly, your voice almost lost in Coruscant’s nighttime pulse.

Rex glances over at you, his eyes flicking to the damp strands of hair clinging to your neck and shoulders. His brow furrows, concern sharpening his features.

“You’re going to catch a cold with your hair still wet,” he warns, voice low and steady, the care in his tone unmistakable.

You laugh lightly, shaking your head with a gentle smile, “That’s actually a myth, Captain,” you say, turning to face him with a teasing glint in your eye, “Colds don’t come from wet hair. They come from viruses.”

He smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting in quiet amusement, “Good to know.”

You step a little closer, the warmth of your body just brushing against his as you cross your arms, “But if you wanted to come inside with me,” you smile, voice dropping to a softer, almost teasing whisper, “you could have just asked.”

Rex’s eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world narrows down to the space between you, “I might have,” he admits with a small, genuine smile, “if I wasn’t afraid you’d say no.”

Your smile widens, touched with warmth and something quietly tender, “I’d never say no.”

He steps a fraction closer, the night wrapping around you like a secret, “Good,” he murmurs.

You close the balcony door behind you, the sudden hush of the apartment folding around you like a soft embrace. The cool night air stays trapped momentarily by the glass before you reach over to click the small control panel beside the door, letting the warmth of the heater hum back to life.

You drop down onto the couch with a long sigh, the cushions soft and familiar beneath you. Your tired body sinks into the embrace of the couch, the weight of the day finally pressing down in a way that almost demands rest.

Rex lingers near the balcony doorway, his arms crossed, watching you settle with an expression that’s difficult to read. The faint smile still lingers at the corner of his mouth, but he hasn’t moved to join you yet.

You glance up at him, arching an eyebrow, “Hey,” you say softly, “come on, sit down.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, but he doesn’t move immediately.

“You don’t have to stand there like some kind of statue,” you tease lightly, voice gentle but insistent, “I promise I don’t bite.”

Rex’s smirk deepens just a little, but he steps forward slowly, the silent weight of years of discipline making his movements purposeful but still a little cautious.

Finally, he lowers himself beside you, the couch creaking faintly under his weight. The space between you shrinks, the warmth from his body a quiet comfort against your side.

You reach behind you and grab a thick blanket draped over the back of the couch, pulling it forward and spreading it over both your laps. The fabric is soft, a little worn from years of use, but still comforting.

“There,” you say with a small smile, “now you can’t escape.”

Rex chuckles softly, the sound low and genuine, “I wasn’t planning to.”

You reach for the holoprojector remote resting on the low table in front of you and flick it on, a pale blue light flickering to life as the interface hums softly. You scroll through a small library of holofilms you keep saved. Mostly just old favorites or unheard of flicks. The kind of stories that help unwind after a long day.

“Ever seen this one?” you ask, holding up the holo-display with a playful glint in your eye.

Rex shakes his head, curiosity piqued, “No, can’t say that I have.”

“Good,” you say, voice soft but firm, “You’re staying for it.”

He raises an eyebrow but says nothing, his gaze flicking back to the flickering holo-image already projecting in front of you. The apartment dims slightly as the film begins to fill the room with light.

You lean back into the couch, letting the warmth of the blanket and Rex’s steady presence settle around you. The glow of the holofilm flickers softly, casting shifting light across his features.

Your eyelids grow heavier with every scene, the long day pressing down like a gentle weight. Rex’s shoulder is solid beside you, grounding you in a way that feels safe and steady. You inch closer, your head resting lightly against his arm.

He doesn’t move away, but instead, his arm shifts just enough to curl around your shoulders, a quiet, protective gesture. The film’s story continues around you, but your focus blurs as warmth and exhaustion mingle.

Subconsciously, you lean against Rex's chest and shut your eyes. His faint heartbeat against your temple relaxes your body fully, sinking into the comfort of the moment. Your thoughts grow soft and hazy, slipping away as sleep gently pulls you under.

Rex glances down at you, a soft smile curving his lips. His fingers brush a stray strand of damp hair from your face, his touch careful and tender. He leans his head slightly toward yours, sharing the quiet stillness.

For the first time in a long while, surrounded by the softness of the night and the gentle presence of someone who cares, you let yourself rest completely.

The soft light of Coruscant’s early morning filtered through the curtains, casting a pale glow over the room.

Rex stirred first, the weight of your head still resting against his chest grounding him even before he fully woke.

His arm was curled gently around you, fingers resting lightly on your shoulder like a quiet promise. For a moment, he simply lay there, breathing in the steady rhythm of your breathing, the rise and fall that told him you were safe and at peace.

The distant hum of the city felt far away, and the usual rush of his soldier’s mind was replaced by a calm he rarely allowed himself.

Slowly, he shifted, careful not to disturb you, his gaze soft as he looked down at your peaceful face.

“You’re still here,” he whispered, almost to himself, a small, tender smile brushing his lips.

Rex lay there beside you, still holding you close, his arm a solid presence around your shoulders. His gaze was fixed on you. He adored the way your lips curved slightly even in sleep and the softness in your features that only appeared in moments like these.

He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to break the spell of this morning, this rare sliver of peace in a world filled with noise and war. But eventually, the stirrings of dawn and duty whispered insistently at the edges of the moment.

Your eyelids fluttered open, revealing those eyes he’d come to know so well, bringing him warm, bright, and quiet happiness that sent a rare, genuine smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Good morning,” you whispered, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning,” he replied softly, voice low, almost reluctant.

You shifted just enough to meet his gaze fully, searching his face. There was something unspoken there, something held back with deliberate care. His usual guarded calm, but underneath it, there was an undeniable pull, a desire to stay, to linger in the warmth of your closeness.

“I have to get back to the barracks soon,” he said, the words falling heavy between you. There was no rush in his tone, only the quiet acceptance of the path he must take.

Your heart dipped slightly. You’d hoped for a little longer, but you’d known this was the reality from the moment he stepped inside. You propped yourself up on one elbow, reaching out instinctively to rest your hand over his as you intertwined your fingers with his.

“I get it,” you said, voice soft but steady, “but I wish you didn't have to.”

Rex’s gaze dropped to your hand, the interlaced fingers grounding him as much as it did you, “I wish I could stay,” he admitted quietly, “but the men need me. I need to be there.”

You nodded, blinking away the sudden sting behind your eyes. It wasn’t just the physical parting, but also it was the reminder of the world outside this small apartment. The war, the duty, the relentless demands. You squeezed his hand gently.

“I’ll be here,” you said, your voice a tender promise, “waiting.”

Rex’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, one filled with gratitude and a hint of longing. He shifted slightly, carefully disentangling your fingers but keeping your hand in his own for just a moment longer.

“I’ll be back,” he said, his voice low and steady, “I promise.”

You smiled, leaning forward to brush a soft kiss against his temple.

“Don’t be a stranger,” you whispered.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and familiar, “I won’t,” he promised, then paused as he stood, adjusting the straps of his lower armor slung beside the door.

You stood too, the sudden emptiness of the space between you a sharp contrast to the closeness moments before. Rex headed toward the door, but before he stepped through the threshold, he turned back.

His eyes caught yours, the unspoken weight of everything they’d shared glowing in their depths. With a mischievous wink, he said, “See you at 79’s tonight?”

You laughed softly, the sound light but filled with hope, “You better be there.”

He nodded, the smile lingering as he finally crossed the threshold and the door slid closed behind him. You stood there for a long moment, your hand resting lightly where his had just been, the quiet apartment suddenly feeling too big, too still. But beneath the loneliness was a spark of hope, warmth, and the promise of something more.

You exhaled slowly, your gaze drifting to the door as you whispered, “See you tonight, Captain.”

tags:

@trixie2023 @clon3wh0r3

@melonmochiii @alice-in-wonderland111 @marvel-starwars-nerd @simping-for-fives @horsegirl4561 @koskareevesismyqueen @katelynnwrites @pinkiemme @youmaynowdothething @808tsuika @dangerdumpling @ahsoka-padme @persaloodles @soclonely @coffeeandtodd @gryffindorqueensworld @obiorbenkenobi @jedi-dreea @lightning-wolffe

#clone x reader #clone captain rex x reader #captain rex #captain rex x reader #captain rex x you #rex x reader #clone wars fanfic #tcw

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totallyxtaurus · 2 months ago

Text

Big Man, Little Dignity

Summary: ? Pairing: AttorneyxSylus x fem reader (could be MC or reader) A/N: Hi everyone! I hope everyone has been taking sweet care of themselves! I was going to add a poll on my last poll about which idea people might like better, attorney Sylus x public defender MC or attorney Sylus with a discovery specialist. However, I hit 100 affinity level with Sylus tonight so instead I'm gonna post both stories then add a poll to them to see which ones you like the vibe of better! The beginning will be the same for both which is why it's isolated at the top. They're still rough since I haven't been working on them for very long but let me know what you guys think! 💗

The small town lay tucked away like a secret between the bright, autumn-painted ridges of the mountains. It woke slowly, as it always did beneath the weight of a mid-October morning. Leaves of vibrant orange, burgundy, and pine cling desperately to the branches lining the sidewalk. Some lose the fight and flutter lazily wherever the wind carries them down Broadway. Brick storefronts—some painted in shades of cream, cranberry or mustard—stand proudly, as if made for this season, each holding a historic charm.

Locals walk their dogs in puffy coats, nodding to each other in a way that only longtime neighbors do. At the end of the street, the clock tower stands sentinel over it all, the red stone of the courthouse glowing against the dismal morning sky. A soft, old-fashioned melody rings from its bells, marking the start of the workday.

The hanging café sign creaked and swayed gently as if beckoning people in. The scent of fresh coffee and cinnamon mingled with chimney smoke and damp leaves, a small-town aroma that clings to you long after you've left.

(Discovery Specialist):

The café door jingled softly as Morrigan slipped inside, clutching her messenger bag like a shield—hoping it passed for professional. She ordered the strongest coffee they had and claimed a table near the window, letting the morning light filter across the worn wood table and the stack of forms she lost sleep trying to understand.

It still felt strange, sitting here with a laptop, an ID badge that didn’t feel quite real yet, and the uneasy sense of pretending to have her shit together. She glanced out the window at the courthouse looming at the end of the street, its architecture like something out of a gothic novel.

She used to imagine writing about towns like this, not filing evidence logs and redacting witness statements for someone else’s trial strategy. Her BA in English hadn’t prepared her for this. Neither had the late nights spent flipping through MA coursework at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, wondering if she was cut out for any of it. Law school had been a desperate pivot—a “what now?” after the empty fridge made one thing painfully clear: creative ambition didn’t pay rent.

But this job-this opportunity- meant something. Even if it wasn’t glamorous, it was just until she finished school. Even if the ADA whose name was on half the files had a reputation for being a smug, Armani-suited terror. Sylus. She hadn’t met him yet, but she’d heard plenty.

She took a deep breath, letting the comforting scent of her hometown settle in her lungs. You can do this. Even if it didn’t always feel that way.

The bell over the cafe door jingled again. This time, the atmosphere shifted like someone had cracked open a window on a winter morning. Morrigan didn’t look up at first. She was too focused on her email, rereading her supervisor’s instructions for the day. She had a checklist to memorize and a whole filing system to learn before noon. No time to get distracted by—

“Double espresso, no room. And one of those cinnamon things.”

The voice was deep, clipped, and smooth— not unfriendly, just... efficient. Like someone who spoke only when absolutely necessary and never repeated themselves.

Her eyes flicked up.

And there he was, sticking out like a sore thumb in this quaint town. A designer black suit with red accents, a charcoal coat, and the kind of rigid posture that screamed important. He stood at the counter, glancing down at his phone like he was already three meetings into his day.

Sylus.

She knew it had to be him. He looked exactly like his reputation—dangerously competent, cold-eyed, and dressed like he’d taken a wrong turn on his way to a Manhattan boardroom. Everyone in town gossiped about why he was here and not somewhere bigger. She knew his type from law school—the ones who never showed up to class in sweatpants, who knew the right answer before the question was even finished.

As he turned to wait for his order, his gaze swept across the room—and landed on her.

A pause.

He blinked, then looked again, like he was trying to place her.

Morrigan’s stomach flipped. She gave him a polite, neutral smile—the kind you give someone you don’t want to talk to but can’t just outright ignore.

Please, please don’t come over here or talk to me, she thought.

He arched a brow, just slightly. Then, much to her horror, he walked over.

Fuck.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” he said—casual, curious, with a hint of playfulness. “New in town?”

Morrigan closed her laptop halfway. “Just new to the job.”

He nodded slowly, eyebrows knitting as if a thought struck him.

“Discovery unit?”

She titled her head. “How—?”

His mouth curved—barely a smile, more like the idea of one. “I caught a glimpse of you during your interview. Morrigan, right?”

“I take it you like to know everyone you’re working with?”

“I like to know who I’ll be relying on,” he said smoothly. “Or sparring with.”

Morrigan let out a dry laugh. “Is that how you see it?”

He chuckled, and Morrigan could practically hear the money in it. “Well, I am an attorney—conflict or cooperation is kind of our whole thing. Some people handle it. Others run for the hills. I’m curious which you’ll be.”

She leaned back in her seat, scoffing at his audacity. Is he serious? “Guess we’ll find out. Hope you won’t take me to court over your loss.”

“I don’t lose, sweetie,” he replied, voice smooth as ever

His name was called. He accepted the cup and pastry with a nod of thanks, then paused before stepping out.

“I’m Sylus, by the way.”

“I know.”

He raised a brow again.

“Morrigan,” she added. "Did you forget already?"

“Now why would I do that?” he replied, slipping out the door.

Smug prick, she thought.

(Public Defender):

Inside, however, the courtroom held its own distinct atmosphere-tense. The air crackled with intensity as the current hearing unfolded. Stained glass caught the weak sunlight, casting jewel-toned patterns across the portraits of stern-faced judges that loomed over the proceedings. A few townsfolk had settled in the back rows, arms folded over their coats, eyes darting between the judge and the attorneys at the front like they were watching a live taping of their favorite courtroom drama.

The judge, a stern woman with sharp glasses perched on her nose, had been silently observing the exchange between the public defender and the prosecution for the past several minutes.

“Your Honor,” Sylus began, his voice smooth and confident as he turned to face the judge, “the defendant’s BAC was clearly above the legal limit. It’s not a question of whether he was impaired; it’s a matter of the law. The state has sufficient evidence to secure a conviction.”

Morrigan, perched at the edge of her seat, straight-backed, responded with equal fervor. “The evidence may show a BAC above the limit, Mr. Qin, but that doesn’t mean the defendant was impaired at the time of the stop. The field sobriety test was hardly conducted properly, and the arresting officer’s observations were biased- he was too eager to make an arrest, not concerned with actual impairment.”

Sylus raised an eyebrow. “The officer had probable cause to arrest. The defendant was swerving, failing to maintain his lane, and his breath reeked of alcohol. I don’t see how you can dispute that, Ms. Clery.” His lips curved into a smirk as he emphasized her name.

“You can argue probable cause until you’re blue in the face,” Morrigan countered coolly, her voice cutting through the room, “but unless you can prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant’s driving was directly affected by his blood alcohol level, this case doesn’t meet the burden of proof. This is a DUI charge, not a witch hunt!”

There was a sharp silence before the judge spoke, her gavel striking once. “Enough. We’ll reconvene after the break. Take fifteen.”

As the courtroom began to empty out, Morrigan sat back in her chair, letting some of the tension leave her shoulders. The case was far from over, but for now, she’d won a small battle. Across the room, Sylus packed up his papers without a glance in her direction, his expression unreadable—like always. Tara, a colleague from the prosecutor’s office, bounced over to Morrigan’s table, a knowing smile already plastered on her face. She leaned in, her voice low enough for only Morrigan to hear.

“You know, you and Sylus will never get along in this lifetime, right?” Tara’s words were a mix of playful teasing and something a bit more serious, her gaze flicking toward the other side of the courtroom where Sylus was speaking with a few of his colleagues.

Morrigan signed, running a hand through her hair. “I’m not sure I even want to.”

Tara raised an eyebrow. “You two are like oil and water. He’s all about power and status, and you? You’re here to help people who don’t have a voice, don’t have money for a better lawyer.” Tara paused, studying Morrigan’s face. “But I have to admit, you do know how to get under his skin. He respects that, even if he’d never admit it.”

Morrigan frowned. “Respect? I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word when it comes to me.”

Tara smiled wryly. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The judge’s voice called out from the front of the room, signaling that the break was over. Tara gave Morrigan a pat on the shoulder, then turned and walked back toward her seat.

Morrigan’s eyes lingered on Sylus for a moment, his figure still standing confidently at the front of the courtroom, speaking in low tones with his team. There was something about him- something Morrigan couldn’t quite put her finger on-that gnawed at her. She was usually good at figuring people out and quickly, she didn’t like to waste time. The rivalry was sharp between them, almost instantly upon meeting, however, every time their eyes met across the courtroom, there was a spark of something else, something unspoken.

She pushed the thought away as the judge called for the room to reconvene, focusing back on the task at hand. She was here to do her job, not figure out what was going on between them. But as she glanced once more in Sylus’ direction, a question lingered in her mind.

Could Tara be right?

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