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loveandothefpossibilities · 1 month ago

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Assimilation Unsustainable

Chapter One | You Don’t Belong In Politics

Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Oc ; slowburn political thriller; romance (slowburn-ish) ; action ; angst x romance ; annoying begrudging teammates to worse ; alluded sa trauma but no explicit mention ; violence! ; we both kinda suck at this politics thing but we have a strong sense of justice and also guns! Poc! Oc ; desi oc ! banter banter banter

The Subcommittee Hearing Room Was always cold. It seemed a flaw of the Rayburn House Office Building–these perpetually cold rooms, built to stave off the heat from stuffy suits. The morning was similar to nearly every other before such a debate, with senators and representatives sitting around. Songbirds fly outside the grounds, their chirping a sarcastic greeting to the grim, coffee-spurred faces of the politicians within the cold coffin Subcommittee room. More than tension, there seemed an overall fog of fatigue covering the sleep-deprived politicians of Washington, DC.

Cameras, charged and ready, line the floor capturing the faces of the first line of representatives seated and ready for the debate about to occur amongst the Subcommittee on National Security and Emerging Threats . Well, it was expected to occur.

The Chairperson glances at the wall clock, a sick sense of satisfaction growing with every passing minute the walking wildfire he was waiting on was to being late. Scary. Maybe a debate wouldn’t be too intense today…

Perhaps no one was more annoyed to be in the room than one Congressman Barnes. Seated against his will on the panel as an Invited Witness Expert for the hearing. It’s a load of bullshit and he knows it. The metal of his arm resting on his wooden chair grips and loosens around the edge of the arm rest. The semi-permanent frown on his face deepens, nearly buried under unshaved stubble. The flesh of his fingertips soothes down the roughness of it, gauging the length it’s grown out. He needs to shave, something about public appearances or whatever.

That’s why he’s here anyways: Congressman James Barnes, newly minted and in dire need of a good PR move. It’s clear as day, especially to the Secretary of Defense, who’s the reason Bucky’s here anyways. At 10 in the fucking morning. He side eyes the old man (who he’s got a few decades on, anyways) from across the spacious room, fidgeting in his tight suit. Why the fuck have’t they started yet anyways-

The growing noise outside the Subcommittee Hearing Room crescendos when the doors all but burst open. Like gunshots on marble, a high-heeled and pencil skirted woman strikes in the room and everyone seems to sit up straighter. Any thought of sleep seemed to have picked up and left the room. Alarm bells sounded silently in their minds simultaneously, Bucky’s included. He didn’t need an explanation, she was one of her own. Standing tall, wearing daggers for shoes in a sharp-cut blazer, the woman was a walking force.

This is why they were waiting.

The tick in Chairperson Reynolds’ jaw said enough. His eyes narrowed as a flustered aide chases after her with flushed pale freckled cheeks and a heaving chest.

“Congressman Arora, you were supposed to-”

She brushes past him without breaking stride nor eye contact with Chairperson Reynolds, upon whom her fiery gaze seemed set upon unmovably. The bronze skinned, slicked-bunned woman beat down her path through the center of the room. In one hand, a briefcase. In the other, a stack of slightly mussed papers. Her hands flexed and in the harsh lights of the room Bucky’s eyes caught the ink stains hidden beneath her nails.

“Ah, Congresswoman Arora. So good of you to join us. We were just about to begin,” Chairperson Reynolds licks his teeth. He barely disguises the note of disapproval in his tone. It’s harder to like than the condescension he drips.

Congresswoman Arora drops her chairperson on her bench and takes a seat. She lets the legs of her chair scrape the floor noisily and sighs as she drops into it.

“Wouldn’t miss this circus for the world.”

Aisya Arora folds her hands on the table calmly but her fingers tap the smooth counter top to the beat of her heart pounding in her throat. She doesn’t need to scan the room to know all eyes are on her. Chairperson Reynolds subtly signals for her microphone to be delayed. Aisya rolls her eyes and leans in.

“You ladies plan to start this morning or…?” she tilts her head as she eyes the room. Her eyes seem to stop on a face she’s seen only on television. Congressman James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. A small scoff leaves her lips before she continues her mental calculation of her opposition in the room. Of course, they brought in the ex veteran and super soldier as a witness for the Superhuman Oversight Resolution law.

“Congresswoman Arora, we were waiting on you,” Chairperson Reynolds narrows his eyes. Aisya clicks her tongue and taps her watch with a sarcastic smile.

“Actually, I wasn’t late. You were early. And if I’m being asked to listen to a five-star warhawk justify spying on civilians, then I suggest someone bring me my tea. It’s going to be a long morning.”

Reynolds sighs exasperatedly as the camera is adjusted, wanting to capture the walking spitfire seated on the benches. The sound of the gavel silences all of the heightened whispers of disagreement and disapproval in the room. Chairman Reynolds adjusts his microphone with a silent arrogance built over years of never being silenced. White haired. Thin-skinned. Oily hands.

“This session of the House Subcommittee on National Security and Emerging Threats is now in order,” he said, his voice amplified, yet still so very repugnant. “Today’s hearing concerns the ongoing discussion of the Superhuman Oversight Resolution, a bipartisan legislative effort responding to increased unauthorized activity by enhanced individuals, vigilante actors, and foreign operatives on American soil.”

Aisya poked her inner cheek with her tongue, her eyes narrowing on the e printed title in the folders placed before every seat. How vexing to name something so inappropriately, it was the sort of thing only political pigs could manage. Settling her stomach with a long sip of her tea–thank you, personal assistants–she tried to swallow down any violent urge to stand and object immediately. They hadn’t even tried to hide it, calling it a resolution when it was a scantily concealed means of obtaining absolute government control. But why would Aisya be surprised? She knew who proposed this…

“The resolution proposes establishing a permanent federal oversight authority,” Reynolds continued, “to monitor, license, and if necessary, detain super-powered individuals who act outside authorized jurisdictions.”

He paused, eyes sweeping the chamber as if daring someone to object too early.

“We will begin with statements from those in support. Representing the Department of Enhanced Affairs, we welcome back General Harlan Dupree and Dr. Nina Foulkes, defense strategist and national security advisor.”

There it was.

Aisya’s gaze sharpened like a blade.

Valentina’s fingerprints.

Foulkes — sleek bun, neutral suit, thin-rimmed glasses — took her seat beside the microphone, hands folded over a thick binder. She looked exactly like the kind of woman who made deals behind tinted glass.

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” she said, her voice polished yet squeaky, like floors under hurried shoes. “The American people deserve to know who walks among them. Who can level cities, who can disappear at will, and who is being trained by hostile governments. This resolution is not surveillance but security. Oversight ensures accountability, and accountability is peace.”

A few light taps of approval echoed from committee members. One or two aides nodded.

Aisya’s smooth fingers rubbed at her forehead openly in disapproval, a shot she’s sure the camera caught. Nothing she’s not used to, she’s become a sort of political show for the masses. If it makes politics accessible through her entertaining call outs then she’s fine with performing.

She could already feel the words building at the back of her throat. Sharp, indelicate, true. But first, she had to let the room hang itself in red tape.

Dupree leaned in next, his hands steepled like he was praying to the military-industrial complex.

“We’re not targeting heroes. We’re asking for registration. Transparency. Coordination. These people work in shadows and some of them are ghosts. We’ve seen what happens when one man —” (he didn’t look at Bucky, but the pause made it clear) “— becomes judge, jury, and executioner. That’s what we’re here to prevent.”

The room tightened. Rustling from suits shifting against leather seats. Clicking pens. Whispers softly. Aisya tapped her pen against the desk once. Twice.

Under the fluorescent lights, Bucky didn’t move but his stubbled jaw locked. He kept his hands folded under the table. If he felt the tension rise, he didn’t show it. He didn’t have to.

She was already planning to shatter the whole thing and he could see it. Bucky could not stop staring. His ears were perked, listening to every word of jargon falling from Dupree’s lips. Attentive, in fact, to the insinuation at him. Bucky was completely aware of the reason he was in this room. A walking example of why such regulations were needed. Acting as a witness for this resolution was good PR, showed he was on the government’s side, showed he wouldn’t act out of line as a congressman. Essentially, showed off everything he hadn’t planned to do.

There were nods from some members of the committee, a few murmurs of agreement, the soft scratch of pens against legal pads. Cameras clicked from the media box. The air in the room felt like it had been vacuum-sealed.

“ Thank you, Senator Dupree, for your opening statement,” Chairman Reynolds looked down at his notes for no reason but to take the necessary pause before the verbal tsunami it was necessitated for him to introduce, “The committee now calls upon Representative Aisya Arora of New York’s Twelfth District.”

He sighed almost inaudibly and looked up, “The floor is yours, congresswoman.”

Aisya Arora stood up, looking like a scalpel in a room of blunt instruments. Her soft hands roughly grabbed the microphone, tapping it unceremoniously and requesting the AV Aide to turn up the volume before turning back to the floor. She stepped past the boundaries of her bench, much to the annoyance of several men in the room.

Aisya offered no bow of respect, no perfunctory nod. Just a brief tightening of her jaw as she adjusted the mic and stood tall.

Bucky recognised her from television but seeing Aisya Arora in action was something else. She had stormed into the subcommittee room like she owns oxygen and everyone else is borrowing it. Wavy brown hair unapologetically wild and tousled from the fight up the flight of stairs to the room with aides chasing her. Jaw locked. She spoke with a voice already sharp with disdain before the mic was even on.

From his seat at the back, Bucky Barnes watched her. He'd seen a lot of fire in his life. Literal, metaphoric, manmade and alien-born. But what she carried in her eyes wasn’t rage. It was purpose. And that was worse. Rage burned out fast. Purpose stayed warm and cruel.

He couldn’t look away.

“Gentlemen. Let’s drop the act,” she turned on her heels to focus on Dupree with enough venom in her gaze to make him swallow some of his glass of water faster, “We are not here to ensure accountability. We are not here to legislate fairness. We are here in yet another gilded hearing to weaponize fear. To dress it up in policy, wrap it in legalese, and hope the American people are too tired to read between the lines.”

Aisya sighed roughly, a grunt of a noise as she turned to face the entire room. Her eyes traced every face there meant to be backing the American people and failing once more. Not on her watch.

“The Superhuman Oversight Resolution isn’t about justice. It’s not about protection. It’s about control. It’s about political theatre. It’s about people in this room , people with pens, not scars deciding which lives are worth saving and which ones are worth monitoring. Why are we forgetting that these superhumans we are so concerned about constantly monitoring are humans too. Dare I say, humans first.”

Aisya scoffed and stalked closer, ““This isn’t the first time we’ve tried to file heroes under threat level. The Sokovia Accords were supposed to bring order. Remember that? Order. Oversight. All the same hollow words you’re feeding us today. What they brought was division. What they caused — was blood.”

She turned away from Dupree, gesturing at everyone and nothing simultaneously, ““You want to talk about casualties? Let’s talk about how many lives were lost because people like you decided to regulate help instead of earn it. Let’s talk about how many hands stayed still because they were waiting for government clearance.”

Her voice was growing louder, impatient with the negligence of the subcommittee.

“You talk about unchecked power like you haven’t voted to fund it for the past two decades. You talk about civilian safety, but not civilian loss. You talk about heroes like they’re your liability , not your excuse.”

Her feet calmly led her back to her bench, where she leaned with palms flat against the wood. Her eyes burned holes straight into Chairman Reynolds.

“I didn’t come here to play nice. I didn’t come here to negotiate the dignity of people who bleed for a country that can’t decide whether to thank them or register them.”

Her tone went colder now, sharper. Congresswoman Aisya Arora was not the kind of name that quietly settled into political margins. A former investigative journalist turned elected representative, she had built a reputation on being as incisive with policy as she once was with the pen. Sharp-tongued, disruptive, and unapologetically unfiltered, she wasn’t easy to handle and she made no effort to be.

“I came here to say no. No to the backroom deals. No to the surveillance. No to the slow, legal dehumanization of anyone strong enough to scare you.” She was a verbal battering ram against the state.

A pause. Then— “The Sokovia Accords didn't keep anyone safe. They kept good people scared. And this — this is the same story, rewritten with a shinier headline.”

She let the silence fill the room, daring anyone to disagree. Aisya’s eyes looked around, making eye contact with as many representatives as possible. Shame hung beneath their eye bags, and she knew that she was making waves. The livestream signal on one of the cameras caught her eye. She sucked in a breath and turned back to Chairman Reynolds, steel like.

“How many more names do you want on the ledger before we admit this isn’t about justice? It’s about control.”

There’s something in Aisya Arora that made the air in any room she was in charge up. It’s not just anger , it’s conviction. Brutal and unrelenting. A kind of holy fire she’s holding in her chest and daring everyone else in the room to flinch first. Somewhere deep in Bucky’s bones–in the parts of him that remember being the Winter Soldier, and the parts trying to unlearn it — he recognizes that fire. It’s the same fire that once kept him alive.

Others may call her impulsive. Disrespectful. Dangerous.

But Bucky sees it clear as day: she’s the only one in the room not lying.

She finished to a room that had grown noticeably quieter.

Senator Dupree leaned backwards, gulping. His glass of water barely held an inch of anything left inside it. He turned to his side, trying to glance at Dr. Nina Foulkes as though for support. Whatever they had been expecting, clearly Congresswoman Arora’s delivery was harsher than anticipated. And with the session being live…there wasn’t a lot of time to come back with a good enough retort.

Verbal battlefields were how Aisya won her greatest accolades. The young representative, with her loose wavy hair and brown skin, once held New York’s love and respect as a journalist who packed more punches without lifting a finger than anyone else in court rooms. So eventually, she swapped to join those rooms. If New York counted on her to change policies, she wasn’t going to disappoint. The half-Indian, all American foul-mouthed representative had unexpectedly become a political darling without meaning too. Though she was far from a political princess.

“Thank you, Representative Arora,” Dr Foulkes began, voice molasses-smooth. “Always a pleasure to hear from New York’s most…spirited. But I must ask,” Foulkes continued, eyes glinting, “what do you say to those who’ve lost everything to unsanctioned enhanced activity? Who fear another city leveled, another child orphaned?”

She opened her mouth, but the doctor had raised a finger first, theatrically polite. Aisya flared her nostrils with unrestrained annoyance.

“If I may,” she added, with mock deference. Then she turned. “We’re joined today by someone who knows both sides of this very well.”

Her gaze landed down the bench like a pin dropped into a minefield.

“Congressman Barnes.”

Bucky didn’t move. His jaw ticked and his eyes, previously fixated on the spitfire in the room, shifted slowly to Dr Foulkes.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Foulkes said, as if tasting the syllables. It must have been metallic, she hissed softly before continuing. “Formerly of the 107th Infantry. Also known as the Winter Soldier. A man shaped by war, puppeteered by foreign powers, implicated in multiple global incidents. But also, I believe, a recent consultant to the Global Intelligence Council?”

Still no movement. His expression was granite. Bucky missed the black coffee he had chugged before this meeting. If he knew the turns it would take, he would have brought another gallon into the room and hidden it under his seat.

“I’d be fascinated to hear your thoughts, Mr. Barnes,” she finished sweetly. “Surely, you of all people understand the importance of oversight.”

Aisya laughed. Scoff-like. A huff. The room turned to her. She tilted her head at Dr Foulkes, not turning to Bucky as she sat back in her leather seat with unrefined poise.

“Oh, of course,” she said, voice all sugar and knives. “Wheel out the reformed assassin for emotional impact. Nothing says balanced policy-making like a little trauma porn in a suit.”

A few heads turned. Bucky’s among them. A few outraged sputters were heard and Chairman Reynolds banged his gavel, urging for decorum in the Hearing Room.

She didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head, eyes cool. “By all means. Let’s hear from Exhibit A.”

Bucky’s scowl directed at her now, irritation starting to prick his neck. He set his frown in a thin line. His communications director sat next to him, eyes urging silently for Bucky to respond in the room as they had practiced. As had been ordered. As he had been told to. For PR.

For his good image.

And he knew damn well he should have, but he was now staring right at Aisya Arora. Into her dark, challenging eyes. For someone with such soft features, she managed to intimidate with just her looks. The edge of her lips was curled upwards, in a mean smile that seemed much more spiteful than pleasant. She was daring him to speak, or was that just a trick of light? That glint in her eyes, like she knew this was a performance. Like she’d already made her judgment and was waiting for him to prove her right.

“I’ve been through a lot of versions of this,” he said finally, voice low. “Governments trying to keep people like me in check. First it was Hydra. Then it was the Sokovia Accords. Now this.”

He glanced up. Just for a second, and something in her expression had changed. More solemn. Was that a hint of empathy in his eyes? He couldn’t tell from this distance.

“They all said the same thing. That it was for protection. I’m not saying we don’t need rules. But this...” His jaw flexed. He looked away from the panel. From Aisya, “This doesn’t look like safety. It looks like control. And I’ve lived through enough of that.”

He didn’t say more. Didn’t need to. The silence after him felt heavier than the speech ever could have been. A beat passed.

Then another.

Dr. Foulkes leaned forward, face frozen in a polished smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “With respect, Mr. Barnes, that wasn’t quite the direction we expected your insight to take.”

She said it lightly. But her voice had gone colder than the room they were in

“You were brought here to speak on the necessity of oversight—”

Chairman Reynolds banged the gavel once. “Doctor.”

But Foulkes was already raising her hand, waving like she could dismiss the tension out of the air. “No, I understand. It's difficult. Emotional. That's what happens when survivors speak from a place of unresolved trauma-”

Aisya sat up so fast her chair scraped against the cool floors, nearly falling.

“You don’t get to play that card,” she said sharply, cutting through the murmurs. “You don’t get to parade him in, ask him to relive his past for your narrative, and then, what? Gaslight him for not sticking to your damn script?”

Bucky blinked at her. She wasn’t defending him. That much was obvious in the venom lacing her voice when she turned toward him. Bucky felt something in his chest, more akin to a memory recognised. An old spark, maybe. In that split second, all he could confirm was that this was something he had felt long before all this: Congress, the Avengers, Hydra, the war…

“But don’t think for a second that means I’m on your side,” she hissed, “You may not have said the words, Barnes, but you were supposed to. And silence is just as useful to them. That’s what this was. A performance.” She looked back at the panel. “You wanted a show of unity. A war hero. A reformed killer. Someone palatable. You knew what this was, and you still sat there and danced around the truth like a good soldier.”

That hit. Hard.

The words landed like a fist pressed hard against something raw inside him. A good soldier. She didn’t just see the man; she saw the cage he’d been trapped in his whole life. The orders he’d followed, the truths he’d bent, the identity he’d tried desperately to escape. When had Bucky been allowed by anyone to be anything but a motherfucking soldier? A good little soldier.

It wasn’t just an accusation. It was a mirror held up to every scar he carried. He could see it emanating off of her. His personal mirror, his personal hell. Every loss, every betrayal, every moment he’d fought to be more than a weapon.

Her voice, sharp and unforgiving, echoed in his mind. He’d come here ready to testify, to toe the line, but now her words tore through that carefully rehearsed script.

This wasn’t just politics. It was personal.

She hated that Bucky was playing along with the system and that his silence or half-truths were being weaponized to support the resolution she despised . In her eyes, he was complicit — someone "dancing around the truth" instead of fighting it outright . So what can she do? She was warning him (and the room) that respect for his suffering doesn’t need to translate to political alliance.

His fingers curled against the table, steadying himself. He didn't rise, not yet. But the air around him changed like something old and dangerous had stirred under his skin.

“I didn’t dance around anything,” he said, low, measured. “I told the truth.”

“No,” Aisya shot back, “you told a version of the truth safe enough for headlines and government press kits.”

“You think you know what I should’ve said?”

“I know you’ve sat front row through every abuse of power this government’s ever funded,” she snarled. “And you still showed up for them.”

“Not for them,” he said, steel threading into his voice now. “For people like you. Who think screaming louder makes your hands cleaner.”

She flinched — not from the words, but the fact that he finally looked at her when he said them. Really looked. She hated that she could recognise the burning behind those dark eyes. Bone-deep tired, but not dying in the slightest. Congressman Barnes was more awake and alive than ever, and he wasn’t going down without a fight it seemed. Not so much a mouthpiece anymore.

“Oh, don’t you dare put this on me,” she said, rising again, seething. “You can’t halfway endorse fascism and then blame the people calling it out.”

“I’m not endorsing anything,” he said. “I’ve seen what no oversight looks like.”

“And I’ve seen what your oversight looks like,” she said. “Bodies. Cages. Kids growing up with numbers instead of names.”

The room had gone silent again. Watching. Recording. A hundred eyes and a dozen cameras caught the collision of two survivors shaped by different horrors, a seismic fault line crackling between them.

Chairman Reynolds looked like the weight of it aged him ten years in ten seconds.

“Representative Arora,” he said, voice strained, “Mr. Barnes, enough.”

But it wasn’t enough.

The line had been drawn. Clear and bloody. Neither one dared look away.

The gavel banged again.

“Order,” Chairman Reynolds barked. “We are not here to assign character attacks—”

“No,” Aisya snapped, her head turned to face Chairman Reynolds smoothly. “You’re here to rubber-stamp a resolution that puts more people under the boot. That’s what this is. And now that the Winter Soldier won’t parrot your PR, you’re flailing.”

“Representative Arora,” Foulkes bit out, “if you continue this line of accusation—”

“Oh, I’ll continue,” she, her voice crackling with fiery intent “I’m just getting warmed up.”

Chaos broke like thunder.

Reynolds pounded the gavel again, shouting for decorum. Members on both sides began talking over each other. Security shifted by the doors, uncertain. And through it all, Bucky didn’t move, just watched her, silent and still.

Fire, he thought again.

Not the kind that comforted.

The kind that burned you down.

And Aisya?

She didn’t look at him again. Didn’t need to. The damage had already been done.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

A recess wasn’t enough. It was clear the committee wasn’t ready to decide on the resolution diplomatically, not today. The tension still hung thick in the air as Bucky stood just outside the hearing room, his communications director leaning in close. The woman spoke in a hushed tone as she filled up her coffee cup from the machine in the corridor they were in. Bucky nodded but didn’t respond. His mind replayed every word, every jab, giving special attention to Aisya’s. Before he could process more, the sharp click of heels echoed down the corridor. He seemed to subconsciously know who it was before she appeared, storming toward him like a thunderclap.

Aisya Arora entering a Hearing Room was enough to make people sit straighter. Aisya Arora charging straight at you? Bucky tensed silently even as he tried to maintain some air of relaxedness.

“We’ll spin it,” his Communications Director muttered. “You held the line. Didn’t throw anyone under the bus, didn’t get dragged into—”

“Were you seriously going to let them use you like that?”

Aisya’s voice sliced clean through the hall. Her sharp eyes glared at him, and she came to a stop ignoring his Communications Director completely.

Bucky didn’t flinch. He turned slowly, meeting her eyes as she strode up like she was walking straight into a fight she already planned to win.

His comms director stepped forward, hand raised, already tense. “Representative Arora, this isn’t—”

She turned to the woman, over whom she had a few inches over and shot her down with one singular look. It almost looked apologetic, outside the Hearing Room’s harsh lights. Then she turned back to the man in question.

“I’m not talking to you,” Aisya said, without breaking stride or eye contact. “I’m talking to him.”

A heavy silence marked the space between them in the corridor. Eyes were starting to turn, narratives building in their heads. The remaining cameras not interviewing representatives on what had just happened snapped back to life, wanting to capture anything juicy between the two sparky new representatives.

Bucky let Aisya come, let her speak. Because she wasn’t like the others in that room. She wasn’t posturing for the press or rehearsing outrage. No, she was trying to draw blood—and that, he understood. Oh, how he understood it so well.

“You really think staying quiet makes you neutral?” she asked, low and cutting. “They’ll use your silence like scripture. You gave them exactly what they wanted: calm, clean, controllable.”

“I wasn’t trying to be anything,” he said, voice level.

“That’s the problem. You weren’t trying.” She stepped closer. “You know how this government works. Now they’re trying to prop you up like some symbol of healing. A reformed murderer who plays by the rules.”

He didn’t interrupt her nor did he try to defend himself. He just… watched. Not coldly. Not dismissively. Measured. Like he was listening more carefully than he wanted to admit.

And maybe that’s what unnerved her most. She breathed hard, kept going. “I’ve seen what these policies do, Barnes. So have you.”

Something in those dark eyes–brown, he realised now. From this distance. Brown. A dark brown. Rich, like soil. Not that he was paying attention to that sort of thing–had softened imploringly.

“This resolution goes through, it won’t just be red tape. It’ll be surveillance, raids, internments. legalised. Sanitised. Backed by your image.”

“I never asked to be their image,” he rerouted , quiet but firm.

“No, but you let them take your silence and make it mean something. That’s complicity.”

The words hung there. He blinked once, slow. “You done?”

“Not even close.” Her voice lowered. “Because right now I need to know something.”

He tilted his head, just slightly and glanced away at the rows of scattered representatives and journalists watching them closely. Not then Aisya cared, she used to be standing in those lines she must have grown comfortable. Unlike him.

“Whose side are you on?” she asked.

That landed. Bucky’s head turned back to her before he could stop himself. Not because he didn’t have an answer. But because it demanded he say it. Out loud. In a way that couldn’t be walked back.He looked at her then, not as a representative, not as an agitator, but as someone trying, in her own unrelenting way, to pull him off the ledge before he got dragged fully into the machine. Before he got turned into another cog in the machine. That didn’t mean she wasn’t getting on his nerves.

He stood there all stoic, unreadable like she hadn’t just laid it all bare.

Her jaw clenched. “You really think this is redemption? Sitting through hearings while people disappear under the same system that made you a weapon?”

“You think yelling at me makes you a revolutionary?” he cut her off, voice flat but laced with challenge.

“Better than letting them dress you up like a folktale–Sergeant Bucky Barnes or Winter Soldier, they'll change your title to suit their narratives, Mr Barnes ,” she shot back, already wound up, already climbing. She stepped closer. He didnt’t move back. She lowered her voice, peering up at him despite the heels she was wearing “They have agendas. You could’ve burned it all down, Congressman Barnes. Instead, you played diplomat. Wore the suit. Took the seat. Did their job for them.”

“I’m not on anyone’s leash,” he growled under his breath, watching her from under his thick dark lashes. His blue eyes seemed colder than the frigid morning air stifling the damn place, “You think they’re listening to you?” he muttered. “All they see is a headline they can spin. You think they won’t use your rage to prove their point? I’ve seen what happens next.”

Aisya’s eyes narrowed, almost skeptically as she took a small step back. Bucky scanned her face momentarily. Aisya Arora wasn’t tall. Not really. Not without those heels. But you wouldn’t know it the way she squared up like she was used to taking on rooms bigger than her. People bigger than her. Still, up close, she should have been barely up to his shoulders without her tall heels. . Up close, she looked... different. Softer, somehow. Brown skin. Big, wide eyes that didn’t match the way she wielded her words like knives. A complete contrast to her personality, essentially. Her nose was soft, sloped downwards, and ended in the slightest curve. A mole beside it. A glint of metal through her nose. And when she got angry, she flared her nostrils. Just like she was doing now.

“I’m here to fight, Congressman. That’s how real change comes about,” she jibed.

“And that’s all you do,” he bit back. “You throw punches in every direction hoping one lands, but no one’s listening.”

Aisya seemed to falter. He caught the slight way she fumbled for just a millisecond before recalibrating. She wet her bottom lip, processing his words. She was sizing him up, deciding if he was just another obstacle or something more complicated.

She sucked in a breath, then fired back, voice sharp and unyielding:

“Trying isn’t enough when people’s lives are on the line. Do you think standing still and playing by their rules changes anything? It doesn’t. It never has. You want to act like a martyr for your ‘redemption,’ fine, Congressman,” she threw his new title in his face like it was something he wasn't suited to have. And honestly, Bucky felt way out of his depth. Verbal sparring sessions were not his forte.

Bucky’s jaw clenched tight. His voice was low, rough like gravel, “Maybe your noise just makes it harder to hear the real fight.”

She stepped forward, nostrils flaring.

“You wanna play the redeemed hero? Fine. But don’t act like you’re the only one who’s fighting.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened for a moment. Yeah, maybe she’s right. Fighting meant more than just words or posturing. It meant getting inside the walls, knowing the game even if it meant getting dirty. He was here to gather intel, to understand the system from within. Not because he trusted it, but because sometimes the best way to break a cage was to learn its lock. But admitting that? That was dangerous. Especially to someone like her.

Her laugh cut through his thoughts, sharp and bitter like a blade. “Doesn’t matter what you say. You’re either part of the problem or standing with the people who want change. There’s no middle ground.”

His silence this time wasn’t defensive. It was dangerous. And hers didn’t last.

“You don’t belong in politics, Barnes,” she sneered it out , eye violent and yet so very knowing. She stepped away from him, putting some distance between them. Each step was heavy, like a silent battle between her resolve and the magnetic pull of their shared, if conflicting, convictions. The air between them crackled with unspoken truths and sparks born from two people who saw the world differently but couldn’t deny the reflections of themselves in each other. A man like him…she would saw through him to carry on in her path if she had to and she wondered if, had they met earlier, would he have done the same.

He didn’t flinch. “Neither do you.”

A woman like her, too fiery and with no understanding of the silent diplomacy and compromise. Neither of them liked the idea of surrendering even a portion of what they wanted, Bucky had simply learned the consequences of not doing so more…seriously. She didn’t understand that kind of silent warfare; to her, bending was surrender, and surrender was failure. Neither of them was willing to give an inch, but while she charged headlong into battle, he carried the scars of every blow he had absorbed. He was doing this for something greater than himself. Bucky had to be careful. And he wasn't good with careful, at least when it came to fucking diplomacy.

They stared each other down—jaw tight, eyes hot, and something heavier boiling beneath the clash of egos. Recognition, maybe. Or resentment at the parts of themselves they saw in the other. She tore her gaze away first, not from defeat but because she’d drawn blood. So had he. They were still standing, but something in the ground had shifted.

They hated the same things. Maybe even for the same reasons.

And that made it worse

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scoldingdarjeeling · 3 months ago

Text

Heat / A Halsin POV / One Shot / mdni 18+

Rating: Explicit (18+MDNI) Work: One Shot Word Count: 5764 Relationships: Halsin x Tav OC, Halsin x Zevlor, Halsin x (my) OC, Tav OC x Zevlor, Tav OC (implied) x (my) OC, Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Additional tags: M/F, M/M, M/M/F, Demisexual OC, Polyamory, Interracial relationships (within the world of D&D), fluff & smut, Halsin's POV, Female Gaze

Halsin stirs in the night, restless, sweltering, and achingly hard. Agonizing under a relentless heatwave and besieged by lust. His emotions shift like the phases of the moon. He reaches for comfort, only to find his lover — Tempest, suspiciously absent from their bed. And he has already exhausted his available options — Tav, his primary mate, and their second lover Zevlor — resting peacefully beside him. Soon, the dire bear within will claw its way out. But the question remains: how is Halsin to solve the puzzle that is his enigmatic lover — the sorcerer known as Tempest?

Not even in his meditations could the former Archdruid, and now Reithwin’s furious protector, Halsin, find relief from the relentless heat. His racing heart and the ache that radiated in his loins. It started like a breeze, an alertness, a sensitivity to every touch or gesture, and now it raged like a storm.

It had besieged him for days now. And would continue for many more, like it had countless times before. He knew the signs. He did his best to maintain his composure during the day, getting engrossed in whatever task that could keep his feverish thoughts away from the primal urge that steadily rose within him. Not that he felt any shame. But he preferred to pay it no heed, to tire himself out with other activities. Activities that stimulated his mind, that could be just as fulfilling as sex — Halsin had nodded sagely to himself. Applying himself to tasks like working at the old stone mason's guild or lending the carpenters a helping hand, in order to find another more constructive physical outlet. Doing his best not to lapse from deploying higher thinking. Spending more time in deep meditation to stave his darker impulses with bright logic and reasoning rather than giving in to them. But he was mature enough, wise enough, and seasoned enough to know the folly in battling his own nature.

Silvanus had seen fit to test him in this way; he had never presented him with a challenge he could not overcome or rise to meet. Always maintaining balance.

Be that as it may, Halsin thought grimly.

He could only postpone the inevitable for so long. Before it overtook him completely. As he was reminded when he opened his sharp elven eyes to the dimly lit darkness of the master bedroom. Grumbling, his eyes sought the source of his pricked ego and growing discomfort: his manhood. Fully distended and veined — its purple-hued head fully emerged from the protective folds of the foreskin. Resting defiantly and rock hard against his abs. Halsin could feel his brow tense in a fierce scowl at this disturbing discovery. His body working against him even whilst wandering his dreams — an untamed wilderness beneath the midnight sun of the Feywilds. Not even the majesty of magic-infused forests untouched by civilization could calm his spirit. Raising a brow, he reached down with a calloused hand, exploring the hiked-up sack below and found it almost scolding to the touch. He hissed as he took himself in hand, trying to soothe himself with careful, lazy strokes, but it only made him more frustrated. It only took a few pumps for beads to show, gleaming like freshwater pearls in the filtered moonlight. His nipples stiffened.

The windows were drawn with heavy dark curtains. But that did not stop him from seeing the urgency of his predicament. He was Or-tel-quessir, seeing in the dark came as naturally to him as breathing. And although he shared this particular trait with his elven brethren, some could rival the dark sight of devils — like his Drow mate Tav’ariel. But none that he knew of, not the High Elves, certainly, underwent the punishing swell of the rut like he did. That, he had found, was something distinctly unique to him. Being Silvanus chosen, a druid, sharing his spirit with the dire bear and sensitive to the ever-changing moon, his soul was deeply enmeshed. Oftentimes leaving him in a bind as to what came first: was it the bear that influenced the elf? Or the elf influencing the bear? A conundrum to be sure, like the eternal question of the chicken and the egg. And unlike bears who entered the rut in search of other bears to mate with, his bear sought out two-legged and sentient beings like himself.

But Halsin found it hard to think right now, seized by a lust like a vise — its grip constricting his heart, his mind and clearly his cock. Words were a burden on an already frayed mind, his inner bear reminded him, scratching restlessly with its claws. And adding fuel to the fire of his frustrations and seemingly insatiable appetites was the absence of a body beside him. Releasing his cock with a grunt, he brushed a hand against the cool stark sheets beside him, his own feet partly tangled in the covers that his other two companions had hoarded to themselves. He turned his head towards the empty spot and sighed as he thought of the name of his missing companion out loud: Tempest. A chuckle, more like a huff, escaped him.

That one was slippery as an eel and sly as a fox.

He released a deep breath and smiled despite himself as he shook his head. He knew it wasn't a mere coincidence that Tempest would be absent from their lovers’ nest now that he was in such a ragged state. No, this, he mused, was intentional.

Yet another conundrum, though he supposed not an eternal one. They were new to one another after all. Well, not new in acquaintance but as lovers, he corrected himself. It had only been thirteen days since he claimed her. Thirteen days since she entrusted him with and extended the most sacred of gifts — from female to male — her maidenhood. To which he was deeply moved to be chosen for such an honor. Being her first.

And only. The dire bear sneered.

Halsin opened his eyes then, in concern. This new addition to his and Tav’s bed had opened his eyes to yet another side of himself he thought he had all but exhausted: a possessiveness. Something he never thought would pertain to him. He preferred freedom. To come and go with the seasons and to bed whomever his instincts dictate. And of course, he would expect and extend that same freedom to his chosen lovers, given his Wood Elf culture and ingrained core beliefs. Halsin, the elf, the man, did not necessarily agree with the animal here, but he did find it curious.

Remarkable really, what one can find out about oneself, even at a ripe old age, as he had once told Tav, on a calmer night, before propositioning Zevlor and Tempest and taking them as lovers.

He might be a first to Tempest but taking a maiden was certainly not a first-time experience for him, yet their lovemaking was no less than novel and beautiful in its rawness and vulnerability. It made him feel young anew. And he would forever cherish that moment. The very thought of it made his heart throb with longing on top of his retched needs.

He looked to his other side, studying the faces of his mate and her second, their second really. Tangled up, Tav with her back to Halsin and Zevlor holding her to his chest, her blood-red hair fanning out over the pillowcase. Both of their faces were at peace and at rest. Sated, fulfilled, and content. Unlike him. Halsin did not have the heart to rouse them and disturb the sacredness of their peace, not again.

Six times, he thought. Six times he had fucked and been fucked, thoroughly, only to rouse again. Full to bursting.

Halsin rose, gritting his teeth, sitting now with his hands rubbing his face. His sex poking him like one might poke at a burning log with a fire iron. He felt feverish. And on edge. His muscles tense. Like an undisciplined and hormonal 90-year-old.

He decided to visit the bathroom to ease the pressure on his prostate, but that was a mistake. He could barely get a tinkle out without groaning hopelessly from the sensations it gave. To urinate felt almost as good as cumming. Halsin felt beads of sweat form on his temples.

Oak Father shield me. Halsin prayed.

After agonizing minutes, he finished up his business, and before returning to his side of the bed, he made a detour to the wash basin. He washed his face with the room-temperature water and used a washcloth to dab himself down, wetting his hair in the process. Having already lost his hair tie in the throes of his passion earlier. He froze, thinking back to what must have been moments ago, breeding his two remaining bedmates:

Tav had the honor of claiming his bowels for herself, with a possessiveness and force that made him shudder in delight. His cock weeping and twitching with every deep thrust. It was with a recent gift he’d procured for her too, for just the occasion. It was a beautifully carved and polished jade stone cock. Medium-sized and not too thick. It resembled his own, as per instruction. While Halsin was getting fucked within an inch of his life, he helped himself to Zevlor, taking him deeply, down into his throat. With a zeal and hunger that left Zevlor breathless, eyes rolling, the tiefling's claws scraping against his scalp. Halsin remembers how he fondled the Hellrider's balls while enjoying the bumps and ridges of his deep red rod. His saliva dripping and two lubricated fingers sawing the Tiefling's muscled ring open, in tandem with his obscene and loud sucking. Halsin had asked them to be rough. Being more than well prepared in advance. It was glorious.

And yet, as Halsin came back from his flashback of their previous trysts he found himself tugging and fisting his cock — roughly, in reaction. It made him grin with bared teeth. Cursing in elven. As he increased the pace and allowed himself to be overtaken by this most forbidden pleasure. Tilting his head back, mouth open, displaying his sins to the moon as he tensed his abs in bold relief and came stutteringly, spilling over himself and the basin. He grunted and breathed hard, shaking as he stroked through the aftershocks. One name on his lips — Tempest.

Allowed a moment's reprieve in the orgasmic afterglow, his thoughts cleared from the red fog of unresolved lust. Halsin lay back down and allowed his thoughts to wander where they willed. Any chance of retracing his steps into a restful meditation was rendered impossible. Halsin knew what he wanted, what he needed. But the object of his desire was not within his reach at present. While his sleeping companions had been more than enough of a main course for him, he preferred to end a hearty meal with something sweet. He had asked Tempest on numerous occasions after their coupling if she was satisfied. If they were happy and content with their arrangement. Halsin had encouraged her to speak her wants and needs openly.

Tav, unsurprisingly, had greater luck in that regard. A biological advantage. As a woman, Tav could be intimately trusted with such honesty, much more easily than he. There were things spoken between women that did not and would not concern a man. It was sacred.

Still, Halsin considered himself ever the studious pupil. And he had to admit — he’d had little involvement with people who didn't enjoy sex as the greatest expression of life, worship, and joy. As a means to reaffirm the sacred bond between life mates, as often and as naturally as he, himself did. Intimacy, he understood could encompass a great many things besides copulation. He wanted to explore those avenues; it was refreshing to be held in another's eyes without the expectation or awareness of sexual tension. At least in the beginning. Such was the case when first encountering Tempest.

Many had raked their eyes hungrily over both his and Tav’ariel’s forms. Sometimes they would reciprocate and indulge, but more often than not, it made him feel... Halsin found it hard to formulate... objectified. Like a conquest — something exotic to be checked off a list. It never concerned him in any of his previous casual dalliances, but now that he had been made aware of it — through the eyes of his lover — he’d realized just how much and how often he’d had to modulate his behavior and mind his body language in the presence of others. How often he would feign ignorance in the face of some drunkard making a slobbery pass at him. He didn’t think any of his suitors bore him any ill will, of course, and he wouldn’t fault strangers for making a move.

Elves were perceived as more than mortals, graced by an otherworldly beauty — himself and Tav being the confirming examples that they were to such conventional wisdom. It was only natural. To go for a partner with the most virile traits. Comely people were believed to carry the most advantageous genetic material. Couple that with the drive to reproduce, well, it was part and parcel with natural selection. That was how mates were chosen in nature as well. However, Halsin knew the dangers and pitfalls of animal attraction alone. Only a fool would set aside the treasure of a kind and loving heart. Halsin prided himself on his ability to see the beauty in all things. From the inside out.

And that was what had arrested him the day Tempest had arrived; Eyes, like cut opals, noble and warm, holding him gently in their light. He felt seen as a person. Although his first impressions of her, he chided himself for it now, had been less than noble. And it had taken many a trial and error before he puzzled the pieces together as to why — Tempest —had seemed so confused and frankly — naive — to his and Tav’s advances.

But now, he knew.

Tempest was not the sort to invite a stranger to her bed after a rowdy night at a tavern. But she would reward those who took care to nurture and cultivate their bonds with her. And rewarding it had been, indeed. Halsin felt treacherous heat curl in his abdomen again at the thought.

She was full of surprises, their intrepid little storm sorcerer. And a Fey touched one at that. Her magic hummed in tune with his own. Drawn from the same source. Something a rare few humans ever got to experience. Tempest was observant, never missing a beat — that coupled with her grace and her sharp mind, rivaling that of Gale of Waterdeep, well. It was hard not to taste her nectar for himself.

And more... much more.

While he had busied himself these last couple of days chasing down his base desires and dosing them however and whenever he could — now that he had found lovers who wholeheartedly accepted him, his kinks, and his sexual appetites.

Tempest had stayed away.

She would blush and turn away, walking in on him engaged with his lovers. Wave him away with an excuse of being in a great hurry to this meeting or that, whenever their paths crossed. But he had not missed the whiff of her excitement and interest — his sense of smell being as sharp as a bear after all. She was denying herself. He was sure of it.

She had walked in on him and Zevlor in the stables the other day.

As Zevlor, the fiend that he was, finally approached him, pushing him down into the hay, after hours of infuriating foreplay. Cocks straining under the fabric of their trousers, rubbing back and forth as their tongues danced and their hands teased and stroked at the other's nipples, groaning and devouring each other's breaths. Just when Zevlor squatted and aligned himself above him – there she had stood. Never looking away, even when his cock disappeared, greedily, inch by inch into the throbbing depts between Zevlor’s sculped asscheeks spread in his firm grip. Not even when he thrusts abruptly into his lover, as soon as Zevlor bottoms out above him — rutting unapologetically. At a brutal pace, ruled by his primal need to breed the willing male into submission. They had locked eyes then — his blown out and rimmed in gold, a wicked tug on his lips — and hers, a shimmering blue, her mouth opening and closing, a beautiful flush to her dark skin before she swiftly turned on her heels and closed the stall door behind her.

That is when he hears it — the sound of their bedroom door closing. Breaking his train of reverie. Halsin strains, holding his breath, listening, watching. His heart quickened. As a shapely, dark figure cloaked in the shadow of night, stalks inside on timid steps.

Tempest was still wet from a bath, the smell of the herbal soap and the bath oils tingling his senses. Juniper and orange zest.

The very same scent you wore the first time I watched my glistening length pump inside your hot and fluttering depths, he thought.

Her scarred and tattooed ebony skin glistening in the light filtering through the curtains. Her dark nipples stiff from the cool night air, she wears small clothes — Halsin realizes then, his eyebrows plastered to his hairline. A scrap of silk disappearing between the globes of her muscular rump and framing her sex in a sensuous ‘V’. Drawing his gaze, fixated.

Halsin had a rule about wearing clothes to bed. Tempest knew this, for that had been a point of contention between them. She had protested and bucked his authority by sleeping on the sofa instead. Which had led to him taking swift action. Pulling her across his lap. Growing uncomfortably hard in the confinements of his tanned pants, to the sound of his hand connecting to her darkening hindquarters. But tonight, he found himself not minding this bold and daring decision of hers.

No, not bad at all, he thought darkly as he felt his manhood twitch in interest.

He rose silently, like a panther, becoming one with her shadow, like any true-born sylvan elf. As she padded across the room towards a dresser grabbing a brush. He seizes her by the hips

— “Speak of the tempest and she shall appear.”

He leans down to nibble at her earlobe playfully.

— “Tav and I were starting to worry you might’ve ended up stuck in a portkey somewhere.”

Tempest blushes and looks down at the brush in her hands.

— “I needed time to think.”

Halsin frowns leaning into her to better gauge her facial expression.

— “Away from our bed?”

Tempest sighs and puts the intricately carved boar bristle brush back on the mirrored nightstand.

— “No... Yes- I mean…”

She shakes her head, looking up at the ceiling. Her eyes darted quickly to gauge his, before looking back down to her hands. Fidgeting.

— “We had a… tête-à-tête, Tav and I... earlier today. It was... enlightening, to say the least.”

A shy smile on her lips — her face growing a shade darker around the points of her cheeks. It was fetching, making Halsin narrow his eyes in intrigue. Seeing more than he should. But he keeps his commentary about what their little ‘private’ conversation might have entailed to himself.

Images of slender legs writing together in a sensuous dance punctuated by throaty moans flashed into his mind.

Halsin reins in his inner beast long enough to listen. Though it proves a test of wills as Tempest turns around to face him, her eyes assessing his naked physique. Lingering on his engorged and twitching member.

— “I didn’t want to add to your predicament.”

Tempest trails off as if lost in a daze, eyes blown, voice breathy, brushing her fingers over the tip of his sensitive sex.

Making Halsin hiss, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes from the stars flooding his vision. His knees straining from exertion.

— “I won’t ask anything of you that you are not already willing to give, my heart.”

He assures her then. Pulling her hips towards his own, lifting her chin to his face. As he gazes openly into those large, lively eyes of hers. Tempest leans into him, clasping her hands around his neck. He catches her scent, making his nostrils flare discreetly. Ovulating? Good. Your body is more than ready to accommodate my carnal desires. Halsin thought, puffing up his chest. He had no plans to conceive with her, though. But that didn't stop him from filling her with the seed of life whenever he could.

Silvanus demanded it.

And as he now held her fertile hips in his hands, he couldn't help but compare her to Karlach.

Tempest was just as tall and strong. But unlike Karlach, who was rowdy and enjoyed a good roughhousing, Halsin made it a point to touch Tempest with nothing but the deepest adoration and reverence. As the precious gift she was to him. He had a healer's touch after all, pouring every ounce of love for her into his large hands. Stroking his thumbs down her throat, asking her without words to tilt her head, watching the waterfall of silver locks cascade down her back. Spreading his hand over her clavicle and dragging his nails lightly over her abdomen, stopping just above her mound. Feeling her struggle to breathe from his ministrations.

It did something to his male pride. Watching Tempest’s eyes flutter closed and moan quietly, as he seduces her with kisses along her jaw and flattens his tongue against her neck. Trailing lower, drawing her nipples into his mouth, kissing them deeply like he would her mouth, coaxing her inner femininity to participate in a dance as old as time. Tempest’s tattoos started to glow, as they tended to do when her blood ran hot. His inner bear groaned in response, and Halsin could feel the telltale sign of Silvanus’ golden magic radiate from behind his eyes.

Breathlessly, Tempest responds at last with a bright smile.

— “After everything you’ve done for me, Master Halsin.”

Trailing her hand along the red thorn-vines over his powerful pectoral and going lower.

— “Saving me, guiding me, patiently introducing me to a world of pleasure such as I have never known?”

She smiles sweetly up at him then.

— “It is only right that I should soothe the beast within.”

— “Good lass.”

Halsin grunts, smiling wickedly.

At that, Tempest’s magic rises in answer to his provocation, electricity sparking, charging the air between them. Making him chuckle, equal parts promise and warning, as he looks down at her. He moves away from her then, taking her hand in his, guiding her over to his side of the bed.

— “Oh, and one more thing, sweet one.”

Halsin says, crossing his arms over his mammoth chest. Doing his damndest to ignore the burden in his loins. Tempest cooks her hip at him in response with an incredulous look. And Halsin can't help but sweep his eyes over her in undisguised lust.

— “I don’t mind an audience, but I will not suffer jeers from the fairy peanut gallery tonight.”

Halsin says pointedly, looking into a seemingly empty corner of the room with an armchair (the one frequently used as a cuck chair at that).

Tempest snorts and looks over and exclaims.

— “Ox...?”

They pick up a light thud in response, accompanied by a dramatic sigh. Shimmering into view was a cat-sized dragon, its claws tapping the floor as it crossed the room towards the bedroom door.

— “Yes, very good, very droll, Mr. Silverbough. I’d sooner study a rutting herd of dire wildebeest than clap my sorry eyes on the likes of you. Shall I fetch a bottle of disinfectant for you, my lady? We wouldn’t want you to catch pinkeye now, would we?” The fairy dragon drawled.

— “Moxie!” Tempest hisses.

— “Alright! Alright! I’m going... no hurry in Athkatla!”

The little dragon scuttles off.

As the door closes once more, Tempest bends, hooking her thumbs into her small clothes to pull them down, but stops abruptly at Halsin’s sudden and disapproving growl.

— “No, keep them on.’’

She narrows her stormy eyes at him.

— “And here I thought you said you wanted me ‘au naturel’?’’

Tempest asks him testily.

Halsin’s chuckle turns into a growl as he approaches the bed. True enough, she had him there. He had previously scolded her about it, discovering that she used to ‘trim’ her cunt in preparation for sex. Being that he was an elf who mostly bedded other elves. He rarely had the chance to savor a partner who was endowed with a pelt such as his own. Something that had always distinguished him from his fellow elves. And now that the opportunity to do so had arrived. Well, he had to admit that he had developed something of a taste for it. That lovely little thatch of silver curls crowning her lips drove him wild. But for what he had planned for them tonight, he preferred she keep her smallclothes on.

Halsin enjoys textures, and silk proved especially useful for building friction. He imagines how it would catch and rub as he grinds into her in a reverse straddle position on the bed. Giving him leverage and control.

As he climbs onto the bed like a jungle cat, he answers her in a lowered tone.

— “I thought it prudent to keep a little something to gag you with, should the pressure prove too much for you. You are under no circumstances permitted to wake Tav or Zevlor. Understood?’’

Halsin doesn’t care to wait for an answer. He expects her compliance as sure as night turns into day. He lies down on his back like a sacrificial offering with his arms outstretched towards her. Watching her saunter over and straddle him, then pause to meet his eyes, biting her lip, awaiting his instruction. An infuriating habit she seemed to share with his mate, he mused.

He took his time, arranging Tempest how he wanted her. Turned around with her arms outstretched between his feet, her legs curled under his arms, framing them. Her stomach between his parted legs, hiking her up and aligning her spread thighs just enough for his heavy and aching cock to nestle against her clothed sex. He stops. Time passes. Until Tempest huffs and looks back at him in a ‘what are we waiting for?’ gesture, to which Halsin smiles wolfishly at her and responds with a nod, ‘after you’.

Oh, yes. He was going to make her work for it. And so, she does. Halsin keeps a light but steady hand on her thighs as she works herself on him, intermittently massaging her muscles, as she builds his erection back up, growing sopping wet for him. Coating him in her slick. Deliciously, repeatedly, and achingly slow in the beginning. She starts to lift when she finds the right pressure. He lies back listening to her labored breaths as he grunts every time she falls back down on him. And he waits patiently for her to utterly exhaust herself physically before he takes over. Knowing just how maddening it is to be so close and yet too tired to reach that undeniable sweet spot. Once she gives the reins over to him. Halsin is wholly intent on claiming this pleasure for himself. At a punishing pace. And make sure she damn well loves it too. Another thing Tempest seemed to have in common with the two now oblivious lovers beside them. She enjoyed being forced to climax while being used.

Tempest stops, begging him then, almost sobbing in her frustration, of being denied. And that, he thought bemused and beyond turned on, was that. He fists her underwear in one hand, trapping her, and holding her lower body down with the other as he starts thrusting and grinding his weeping cock against her. Fucking her through her thighs, strumming against all the sweet spots from the seem of her cunt to the part were her tail bone meets the crack of her ass. And he sees red, lost in a haze of thick and unadulterated lust. All that matters at this moment is the pressure of his sex against hers.

Outercourse. Halsin can't remember the last time he’d experienced it. He remembers experimenting in his youth, exploring the avenues of safe sex. And now, he can't believe how good it feels; it excites him beyond words. He loses himself in her and the stifled feminine moans and hitched gasps as Tempest could do nothing but hold on for dear life.

Whining, hushed pleas, coupled with oh’s and ah’s and right there’s spurring him on, spiraling further into a greater frenzy. Urging him to go faster, harder when the bulbous head of his cock catches on her clit. He changes the angle, enabling him to thrust upwards into her, just so, for his cock to stroke into her more deeply.

He pauses suddenly to grab his cock and rub himself in her juices coating her inner thighs. Slapping the battering ram that is his swollen flesh against her cunt. Making Tempest jump. He strokes soothing circles with one of his massive paws along Tempest's back. Admiring the sheen of sweat there. Watching her catch her breath, combing her wild mane back to lock her eyes with his. Her eyes are as wild and glowing as his own, and the predator in him watches on, taut as a bow string as she flashes a taunting smile at him. Halsin snarls, picking up where they left off.

The force from his rutting shook the bed, and the oak frame clattered against the wall. A yelp escapes Tempest before she can clap a hand over her mouth and bury her face into the sheets. Moaning into them. Her nails digging into his calves. Halsin throws a glance over to Tav and Zevlor, catching them stirring slightly only to reposition and settle back with light snores.

A relief.

And as he anticipated, the fabric now soaked through with her slick, mixed in with his pre-cum catches and drags along his battered length deliciously. Making the beast within him roar in exultation. Halsin grits his teeth when the foreskin of his cock pulls back to reveal is swollen and agitated head, dragging along the indents and swells of her slit. It's enough to make him see stars. But it was too soon for him to cum. The sounds of their sweaty bodies coming together are obscene to his elven ears. She is so slippery his grip is enough to bruise, every time he pulls her down onto his upward thrusts, the echo of him doing so claps along the walls, profaning the very sanctity of Eilistraee’s light.

Halsin gets the idea to push Tempest's boundaries further, kissing her clothed folds with the head of his cock, teasingly. Adding pressure at every pass. Tempest butts back in instinctual reaction but places a gentle hand over his cock as she does. Barring him from entry into her most sacred treasure.

Tempest tsks at him and whispers playfully, “Getting lost?”

But Halsin has had enough. Before she can so much as draw breath to snicker, he locks her legs together, banding his arms around them and fucks into her in earnest. Grunting and groaning deeply, watching with primal satisfaction how her smile falters in the onslaught of his bestial demands. The light teasing and fun of the moment was replaced by pure primal need and a desperate bid for relief. It shuts her up. Tempest plays the perfect part of the submissive, under the authority of the mature and dominant lover. Allowing Halsin to take what he wants. It doesn’t take long for her body to cave to his sexual aggression; he can feel her body tense and spasm. The orgasm rips through her, and she bites into a pillow, muffling her wails. And Halsin doesn’t let up. He builds her climax anew. He takes perverse pleasure from doing so, too. Again, and again.

He speaks gruffly and pitilessly in elvish, knowing she’ll understand him too. Letting Tempest know how good she feels, how much he wants her, and how foolish she is to insist on this game of keep away. Halsin doesn’t stop there, though, he continues, by giving her the most filthy and detailed description of how it felt being inside her. How good her cunt tasted. And praising the shape of her inner and outer labia.

Exclaiming a prayer to the Oak Father, asking the midnight air what he had done to deserve not one, but two of the tightest slits in all of Faerûn.

His words made Tempest bear down on him and stop breathing altogether as she came almost violently, from the stimulation, the friction, and force. That, coupled with his lewd, and off-color admission, was too much for her heart to take. She loses consciousness for a few moments while Halsin rises onto his knees. Straddling her prone buttocks. Clamping down on her, thrusting into her with as much of his weight as he dared. His hide prickling from the sound of it. His cock trapped under the thong of her underwear. Pushing her glutes, creating a sheath. Watching his cock twitch and stutter as he grinds, the tip of it gleaming in the moonlight as he brazes for his own climax. And he spills. Fiercely. Across her waist and back. Halsin curses with a grunt bordering on a shout. Groans following labored breaths as he continues to thrust leisurely, punctuated by a wet sound, long after his balls have stopped their twitching. His semen was like silver against the backdrop of ebony.

Tempest rises beneath him in a sphinx position, breathing hard, lost in the aftermath of her own climax. Halsin, finally satisfied and able to think, swipes his sweat soaked hair away from his face as he releases her and collapses back down on the bed. His barrel chest heaving. After a moment, Halsin pulls Tempest to him, gathering her into his arms. They rest their foreheads against one another breathing each other in, gazing lovingly into the other’s eyes. Halsin claims her mouth for the first time in days.

His mouth moves over hers with long strokes of his tongue, tugging and sucking, stroking her plush lips. Leaving her swollen when he pulls away. A kiss laced with gratitude and adoration that words alone could not express, as Tempest soothingly caresses his body. Tav and Zevlor were as of yet none the wiser to their midnight shenanigans. Still resting and fast asleep despite the lesser earthquake seizing their nest moments ago.

After a moment of hushed whispers and laughter, Tempest gives Halsin an intense look and straddles him boldly. Halsin sighs and smiles broadly in answer as Tempest places luminous fingers on his semi-roused member, her tempestuous magic hardening it immediately before welcoming him with confidence into her sacred depths.

And as for Halsin? He couldn’t have asked for a more wonderful outcome.

A03

Crossover/credit goes to: 🌻 @rambling-tam for lending me her captivating OC Tav'ariel from Hearts Of Oak & 🌻 @thoughts-of-bear the inspiring catalyst that encouraged me to take the plunge, lol!

Debut Smut:

If someone had told me a month ago that I would be posting smut on the internet, I probably would’ve laughed, shut my laptop, and gone back to pretending I was normal. Yet… here we are.

Somehow, in the middle of spiraling thoughts, self-discovery, and way too many late-night Google searches ("how to write smut that doesn’t suck"), I found myself asking: Who even am I? Where are my limits? And more importantly… do I have the guts to push them?

Spoiler: apparently, yes 🙈

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