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synopsis — a waterbender ruling the fire nation? who'd ever heard of that?
content — fem!reader, angst, tribe racism(?), mentions of vomit, pregnancy, light angst with comfort, slightly suggestive at the end, takes place during the events of the movie so twelve years after the events of ATLA so Zuko is 29 and Reader is 27
author's note — based of this request, I have not watched the leaks and if I chose to I'll still watch it when it releases to support the animators
Every morning for the last two weeks, the future princess of the Fire Nation woke to the same quiet intrusion, the sun slipping through her satin curtains, golden light spilling across the room and settling gently against her face.
It should have been peaceful.
She would stir slowly, stretching beneath the sheets, silk sliding down her body as she shifted.
Her hand would drift, instinctive, searching—
And find nothing.
Empty.
Zuko was still gone.
Fire Lord Zuko, technically, her fiancé. Off somewhere with the Avatar and the others, chasing balance and diplomacy and whatever else the world demanded of him this time. She missed him. Missed them. the noise, the arguments, the familiarity of it all. She would’ve gone without hesitation if she could. But Zuko was always ready to throw himself into danger for his "honor" but never allowed her to do the same.
She exhaled slowly through her nose.
Figures.
The Fire Nation adored him for it.
They adored her, too, strangely enough. The people did. The markets still whispered stories about the thief who’d stolen from nobles and fed entire districts, about the waterbender who stood beside the Fire Lord like she belonged there, who helped the Avatar restore peace.
The court, however...
Her jaw tightened. They barely tolerated her. Waterbender. Outsider. Former criminal. Unfit.
And now—
The thought barely had time to settle before her stomach turned.
She bolted upright, barely making it to the bucket tucked in the corner before she was heaving into it, her body wracking with the force of it. Her hair fell forward, catching where it shouldn’t, and she groaned weakly, too exhausted to care in the moment.
When it finally passed, she slumped back slightly, breath uneven, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.
Eight months. Eight long, miserable months.
Her hand drifted down to the full weight of her stomach, fingers splayed over the taut curve as if the child might somehow hear the accusation in her touch.
That bastard had gotten her pregnant.
And, as if that weren’t enough, he had left her behind to shoulder his responsibilities while he ran around the world playing hero.
“Saiko!” she called, her voice sharp as it struck the heavy wooden doors. “Please come in here and draw me a bath!”
The doors opened almost immediately, and Saiko slipped inside with her head bowed. “Yes, my lady.”
“A cold one,” she said, already pushing herself upright from the floor with visible effort, one hand braced against the edge of the bed. “Cold enough to freeze my bones please. And open the windows before I suffocate."
Saiko moved quickly, crossing to pull apart the silk curtains and unlatch the carved screens. Morning air drifted into the room, cool and dry, carrying none of the cloying perfumes that had made her life miserable these past few months. Typically she was capable of drawing baths herself, not liking to use the staff to her bidding but these days she wasn't really capable of anything.
The waterbender stood carefully, adjusting the thin robe hanging loose around her shoulders. Her hair was a mess, tangled from sleep and now streaked from being sick, and she looked every bit as irritable as she felt.
“Has the council sent anything?” she asked.
Saiko hesitated. “Three letters, my lady. Two from the ministers. One from the palace accountant.”
She closed her eyes.
“Of course they have.” Her laugh was humorless. “The Fire Lord vanishes for two weeks and suddenly everyone remembers I exist.”
Saiko said nothing, wise decision.
The princess moved toward the bathing room at a slow, aggravated pace, one hand pressed to the small of her back. “Bring them after I’m in the water. And tea please. Not the bitter kind from yesterday it makes me nauseous."
“Yes, my lady.”
She stopped just before the bathing chamber and looked down at her stomach with open disdain.
“You,” she muttered, pointing a finger at it, “had better be very beautiful.”
Saiko lowered her head, but not before failing to hide a smile.
The princess caught it instantly. “Don’t start.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
"You would,” she said darkly, then sighed as another uncomfortable twist rolled through her middle. “Everyone in this palace would. The second this child is born, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Saiko stepped ahead to prepare the bath, steam already beginning to rise as servants in the next room poured bucket after bucket into the deep stone basin.
For a moment, the princess lingered where she was, staring out through the open screens toward the bright morning sky.
Somewhere far from the capital, Zuko was likely sleeping just fine. The thought offended her deeply.
“When he gets back,” she said flatly, “he can answer every council letter himself."
“And he is never touching me again.”
The baby kicked.
She looked down slowly.
“…Traitor.”
Her hair was pinned neatly into place, intricate but practical, every strand exactly where it needed to be. A long blue gown flowed over her frame, the fabric soft but structured, draping carefully over the unmistakable curve of her stomach.
She paused once, smoothing a hand over it,less irritation now. “…You’re already causing me problems,” she muttered under her breath.
Saiko kept her eyes forward.
Together, they walked the length of the palace halls, the atmosphere shifting as they passed. Servants bowed, guards straightened, but the officials lingering in alcoves didn’t hide their looks as well.
Whispers followed.
They always did.
“The High Council is assembled,” Saiko said quietly as they reached the chamber doors.
“Of course they are,” she replied. “Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”
The doors opened.
Conversation died.She walked forward anyway, unbothered, her posture straight, chin slightly lifted. Saiko stopped a few steps behind her as she came to a halt at the center of the room.
“Well?” she said, looking around the table. “You called for me.”
A few exchanged glances.
Finally, one of the older advisors cleared his throat.
“My lady,” he began carefully, “we appreciate your presence. We wished to discuss… matters concerning the succession.”
Her expression didn’t change.
“Then discuss,” she replied coolly. “I’m standing right here.”
Another advisor leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Given the… circumstances surrounding the child—”
"Actually, I'm going to sit down." She huffed waddling towards the head of the table, Saiko following closely behind her.
The eyes of the council watched her waddle, ungracefully they would like to add, towards the seat, Saiko pulling it out for her as she sat.
"Continue." She stated boredly.
"You can probably guess the direction we are trying to go here." One of the men stated. "Well if it's a matter I'm able to guess your position on what was the use of summoning me?"
A couple of them shifted uncomfortably.
Another advisor spoke up, more careful. “The Fire Lord’s heir is… a significant matter. Traditionally—”
“There it is,” she cut in, not loud, just done with it.
“Traditionally,” he repeated anyway, “these things are handled within certain… expectations.”
"Expectations?" She quirked an eyebrow.
A few shifted uncomfortably.
One didn’t.
“You were not chosen by this court,” he said, his tone clipped. “You were not raised within our customs. You have no noble lineage to speak of, and your past—”
“My past fed people while your nobles starved them,” she cut in, her voice still calm.
A flicker of irritation crossed his face.
“You were a thief,” he said bluntly.
“And you were useless,” she returned, just as blunt. "Just as you are now."
A ripple went through the room.
Another advisor spoke, trying to regain control. “Regardless, the concern is not merely your… history. It is what you represent.”
She tilted her head. “Go on.”
“You are a waterbender,” he said. “An outsider. And now you carry a child who will one day sit on the throne.”
“There are fears,” another added carefully, “that this sets a dangerous precedent. That it weakens the image of the royal line.”
“There are fears,” a third chimed in, less careful, “that the heir will not embody what the Fire Nation stands for.”
There it was.
Said just politely enough to pretend it wasn’t an insult.
Her gaze hardened.
"Please speak bluntly with me, I'm not a child, I just carry one." She let out a slow breath. "You are worried my child will not be... fire enough? Pure enough? Is it?"
No one answered.
Which was answer enough.
She let out a quiet breath through her nose.
“You tolerated me when I stood beside him,” she said, her voice steady but colder now. “You tolerated me when your people started chanting my name in the streets. You tolerated me when he made it clear I wasn’t going anywhere.”
Her hand rested over her stomach again, thumb brushing slowly.
“But this?” she continued. “This is where you draw the line?”
One of the older advisors leaned forward. “This is the future of the nation.”
“They are,” she said. "And it will be a bright one in their hands."
Another voice, sharper this time, cut through.
“You presume too much for someone who entered this palace through the back gates. Seducing the Fire Lord, entrapping him with a child that may not truly be his, to secure your place in this court. A court where you do not belong."
That one landed.
Saiko shifted behind her.
The princess didn’t.
Slowly, she turned her head toward him.
“And yet,” she said quietly, “I’m the one sitting here. And you’re still asking my permission to speak.”
A few eyes dropped.
Not his.
“You may have the Fire Lord’s favor,” he pressed, “but favor is not legitimacy."
“You can question me,” she continued, her voice low and controlled. “You can whisper about me in corridors. You can pretend this child threatens your traditions. Or that your traditions truly matter to you in this new age as much as you like to claim."
Her eyes swept across them.
“But don’t confuse your discomfort with authority.” No one interrupted. No one dared.
She straightened slightly, chin lifting.
“This child is Zuko’s heir,” she said. “That makes them the future of this nation whether you like it or not.”
A pause.
“And if you have a problem with that,” she added, her tone turning almost conversational, “you can take it up with him when he gets back.”
Silence.
Because they wouldn’t. Because they couldn’t. She nodded once.
“Thought so.”
She stood then, Saiko pulling out her chair for her as the two made their way out of the chamber.
"Goodbye, gentlemen."
It was hard to be the future wife of the Fire Lord.
It was harder when everyone knew, and never let you forget that, you did not truly belong.
She felt it in the pauses that lingered a second too long, in the way conversations dipped when she entered a room, in the careful politeness that replaced warmth the moment titles were involved. They bowed, they addressed her properly, they followed every rule of respect.
But none of it was real.
It was obligation.
And she had learned, a long time ago, how to survive without being welcomed. So she endured it. Because she loved him.
It had never been about the throne, or the wealth, or the power that came with standing at Zuko’s side. Those things had never interested her. not when she was stealing scraps just to get by, not when she was running from guards, not even now. She didn’t want the crown.
She wanted him.
That had always been enough. It should have been enough. And for herself… it was.
She could take their looks. Their quiet judgments. Their thinly veiled insults dressed up as concern. She could outlast all of it, the same way she had outlasted everything else in her life. She knew how to survive being unwanted.
But her child.
Her chest tightened. Her hand drifted, slow and uncertain this time, to rest against the curve of her stomach. Her child would not be allowed to simply survive.
They would be watched. Measured. Picked apart before they could even speak. The future of the Fire Nation. A title too heavy for anyone, let alone someone born into it before they ever had a choice.
And if,
Her breath caught.
If they were a waterbender. The thought settled in her chest like something cold and immovable. What then?
How would a nation built on fire look at a ruler who wielded water? How long before admiration turned to doubt? Before doubt turned to resentment?
Before the same quiet looks she endured became something sharper, something louder, directed at a child who hadn’t done anything except be born? She knew exactly how it would go. She had lived it.
You don’t belong.
Not here. Not like this. The words didn’t need to be spoken. They never did. Her fingers pressed more firmly against her stomach, as if she could shield them from something that hadn’t happened yet, but already felt inevitable. "I won’t let them do that to you,” she whispered, the words barely audible.
But even as she said it, she didn’t know how. The palace was too big. The expectations too heavy. The throne too visible.
There was no hiding from it. No running. Not anymore.
Her throat tightened, something in her chest cracking under the weight of it all, the fear, the pressure, the helplessness she hated more than anything.
She had always been able to fight back.
This?
This she couldn’t punch. Couldn’t outrun. Couldn’t steal her way out of.
Her breathing hitched.
She turned quickly, moving further into her chambers, away from the open doors, away from the balcony, away from anyone who might see. The moment the doors shut behind her, the strength she’d been holding onto slipped.
Just a little.
Then all at once.
Her shoulders dropped, her back hitting the wall as she slid down it slowly, one hand still clutching at her stomach like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. A sound left her, quiet at first, barely there. Then it broke.
Tears came before she could stop them, hot and frustrating, spilling faster than she could wipe them away. She pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth, trying to muffle it, trying to hold it in like she held everything else in. But it didn’t work. It never did when she was alone.
“I don’t know how to protect you,” she whispered, voice shaking, the words tearing out of her.
And that was the worst part.
Not the court. Not the whispers. Not even the fear. It was the not knowing. The not being able to fix it.
She bent forward slightly, her free hand gripping the fabric of her gown, tears falling unchecked now.
She was supposed to be able to handle this. She had handled worse. She had survived worse.
This wasn’t about surviving anymore.
And for the first time in a long time, she felt like she might not be strong enough.
“…Hey.”
Her head snapped up.
Zuko stood near the doorway, still in his travel clothes, dust clinging to the edges of his sleeves. He hadn’t even taken his gloves off yet.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then she turned her face away quickly, dragging her sleeve across her eyes like that would fix anything. "My love, are you okay?” he asked, approaching her slowly.
She nodded, sniffling. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine. What’s happened?”
“It’s nothing, Zuko. It’s just hormones.”
“You can’t lie to me,” he said, moving closer before kneeling beside her. “Or at least, you’re not very good at it.”
She sniffled again, wiping at her tears. “…Zuko, I can’t do this.” Zuko said nothing at first, his face falling.
“…Are you—are you breaking up with me?”
“Oh my spirits, no!” she let out a small, disbelieving laugh, though it held no real humor. “That’s not—” she shook her head, frustrated. “That’s the problem.” Zuko frowned, confused. “The problem is that you’re not breaking up with me?”
“The problem,” she snapped, “is that breaking up is even an option instead of divorce, Zuko.”
A silence fell over the room.
Admittedly, that wasn’t the most coherent thing she’d ever said, but she was eight months pregnant and exhausted, so really, everyone else could adjust.
“The problem is no one in this palace respects me,” she continued, voice sharper now. “No one sees me as your equal. I’m just some thieving water tribe whore who trapped you with a baby that might not even be yours—”
Zuko blinked. “…It’s not?”
“Zuko, focus.”
She pushed herself to her feet with effort. He moved immediately to help her, steadying her arm, but the second she was upright, she pulled her hand back. He stilled at that, surprised, before stepping closer again.
“What are you talking about, love?”
“I’m talking about us,” she said, gesturing between them. “I’m talking about our child.”
Her hand moved to her stomach, more protective now.
“Our child who isn’t purely Fire Nation. Who isn’t purely royal. Who might be a waterbender ruling a nation of fire.”
Her voice wavered, just slightly. "A child your advisors will turn their backs on. Disrespect. Question. All because of who their mother is.”
A pause.
“And this has been going on for six years, Zuko,” she added, quieter now, but heavier. “Nothing has changed.”
She looked at him then, really looked at him.
“I don’t belong here.”
Her voice softened, weaker. “I left my home. Everything I ever knew to be by your side.”
"And you won't even marry me."
A beat.
“What are you talking about? I proposed, didn’t I? Of course I’m going to marry you—”
“Thirteen years, Zuko.”
Silence.
“We have been together for thirteen years,” she continued, her voice steadier now, but sharper. “And you never once thought about proposing until I got pregnant. And I’ve been pregnant for eight months and you still haven’t brought up a wedding. I embarrass you."
She shook her head, laughing bitterly.
“You did it to save your own skin. Not because you want me.” Zuko’s expression faltered.
“You embarrass me?” he repeated, quieter.
“You fell in love with a waterbender,” she said. “And it’s a fact that’s been eating you alive ever since.”
That landed harder than anything else. For a second, Zuko didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
He stepped closer. Slowly this time. Carefully. Like she might pull away again.
“…You really believe that?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. Which was answer enough. Zuko exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly, not in frustration at her, but at himself.
“I should’ve asked you years ago,” he said. “You’re right.” That caught her off guard. "I didn’t,” he continued, “not because I didn’t want to marry you, but because I knew what it would turn into.” He gestured vaguely, not at her,but at everything else.
“This,” he said. “The council. The court. Every person in this palace suddenly deciding they get a say in your life.” "They already do,” she snapped.
“I know,” he said. “And I hate that.”
A pause.
“I didn’t want to give them another reason to come after you.” Her brows furrowed. “So instead you just, what? Waited?”
“Yes.”
“I thought if I waited long enough, if I fixed enough things, if I made the nation stable enough, ensured my place as their ruler, welcoming the new age." he trailed off slightly, then shook his head. “Then when I asked you, it wouldn’t be a fight.” She stared at him. “It was stupid,” he added quietly. “I know that.”
Another silence.
“But don’t stand there and tell me I don’t want you,” he said, his voice lowering. “Don’t tell me I’m ashamed of you.”
Her breath hitched slightly. “I chose you,” he continued. “Before the throne. Before the crown. Before any of this.”
He stepped closer again, close enough now that she could feel the warmth of him." I would choose you again,” he said. “Every time.”
Her expression cracked just slightly.
“You think you embarrass me?” he went on, softer now. “You’re the only thing about my life that’s ever felt… right without effort.”
He reached up then, slower this time, giving her space, but when she didn’t pull away, his hand came to her face, brushing gently beneath her eye, catching the tears she failed to wipe off. “You’re not the problem,” he murmured.
His thumb wiped another tear away, lingering just a second longer than needed. “They are,” he added. “And I should’ve handled them a long time ago.” Her lips pressed together, trying not to break again.
“…You didn’t,” she whispered.
“I know.”
He didn’t argue it.
"I’m here now,” he said.
A small pause.
“And I’m not waiting anymore.”
Her breath caught. “…Zuko—”
“I’m marrying you,” he said, softer now, but no less certain. “Not when it’s convenient for them. Not when it’s easy.”
His hand slid from her cheek to her jaw, tilting her face up just slightly.
“Now.”
She searched his face. Really searched it. For hesitation. For doubt. There wasn’t any. Just him.
“…You’re late,” she muttered, though her voice had softened.
“I know.”
“…I’m still mad at you.”
“That’s fair.”
A beat.
“…And I’m not forgiving you right away.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
That pulled something small from her.
A breath. A step closer. And this time, when he leaned in, she didn’t stop him.
His lips brushed just beneath her eye first, slow, lingering, like he was taking his time undoing her. Then her cheek.
And still, he didn’t kiss her.
Not yet.
He stayed close, too close, his breath warm against her lips, his forehead barely brushing as if he was deciding how far to go.
Her fingers curled tighter into his collar.
“Zuko…” she whispered, softer now, her voice losing its bite.
His hand slid from her waist, slower this time, down, then back up again, grazing the curve of her side beneath the thin fabric of her gown, like he was reacquainting himself with something he’d been thinking about for far too long. The fabric shifted under his touch.So did her breath.
“You were saying something,” he murmured, but there was no real intention to listen.
She shook her head, barely. “Don’t—”
He kissed her. Gently at first.
Her grip tightened instantly, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened, her body giving in before her thoughts could catch up. His hand returned to her waist, firmer now, drawing her against him until there was no space left between them.
The silk of her gown bunched slightly under his fingers as they moved, just enough to break the neatness of it, just enough to make it feel less composed, more real.
More them.
She inhaled sharply against his mouth when his hand pressed more deliberately at her side, her body reacting before she could stop it, the sound quiet but enough.
His other hand came up, brushing along her jaw, then back into her hair, loosening it just enough that a few strands slipped free from where it had been pinned.
He didn’t care if she stayed put together. He preferred her like this.
Her head tilted back just slightly under his hand, giving him more space, and he took it, his lips moving again, slower now, but heavier, like he wasn’t trying to stop himself anymore.
Like he didn’t want to. The room felt smaller. Like everything outside of it had stopped existing.
When he pulled back, it was barely, just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against hers again, both of them still too close to pretend this had ended.
His hand stayed at her waist.
Her fingers still twisted in his collar.
“…Still think I don’t want you?” he murmured, low, almost teasing, but not light.
"I don't know... she teased lightly, reaching to release his hair from its updo, allowing his long black hair to fall down and cover his face. "I think you'll have to prove it to me."
love speaks! I wrote this in lecture this is a low point my phase is getting bad. dividers by @/cafekitsune
18+, age gap (zuko is in his late thirties and reader is in her twenties)
You were told that being a concubine of 𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓩𝓾𝓴𝓸 came with many privileges.
Social prestige and financial security for your family, a life of luxuries and protection, legitimate children with a claim to the throne, etc.. It was all good in theory but what about what you wanted?
You hadn't a choice in the matter. Your grandmother had grabbed your hands when the letter came, telling you that Firelord Zuko was in need of a new concubine and had been looking at your clan.
When you told her no, that you were only twenty two and didn't wish to lie with an older man when you already had a boyfriend, she simply pinched your arm and told you to be grateful for this opportunity that was being given to your people.
Your clan was a small one, located on the outskirts, north of the capital and basically separated from the rest of the kingdom. You weren't the richest bunch, nor were you the poorest but the other elders had been pressuring your grandmother to reintroduce your clan back into society, and with her being "nothing more than a widow of a clanhead" she felt pressured to cave to their demands.
So you swallowed your pride, packed a few trunks and were sent on your way with the hopes and dreams of bringing a better future to your people.
You had been in the palace for three months now and were still unsure of how to feel.
Zuko had turned out to be kind, soft with you and very easy on the eyes. He didn't look like he was almost thirty seven and he surely didn't act like the scary dictator you thought he might be.
Most surprisingly? He never expected anything of you, never forced you to do what you didn't wish to.
On your first night, you had been bathed and prepped all pretty for Zuko. Your ladies dressed you in the finest of red silk that left little to imagination, brushed and combed your hair until your scalp burned and rubbed jasmine oil all over your body.
They claimed it was his favorite scent.
After they left, you sat stiff on the bed, your nipples hardening from the wind blowing through your opened balcony door, the thin fabric not doing much to warm you. Your hands were awkwardly placed on your lap, and you waited.
When he walked in, he hadn't been what you expected for a man pushing forty. He was far from ugly, if anything he was unfairly handsome.
Tall with muscular arms, sharp jaw, soft but weighted golden eyes and long hair. The scar only made him more striking instead of less. He carried himself with the confidence of a king but the eyes never lie, and his were impossibly kind.
You stood, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst through your ribs, and waited for the Fire Lord to claim what was his by right. But Zuko had taken one look at you, at the way your hands shook and his expression crumbled, a frown pulling at his lips.
"You're so young." He whispered more to himself than you, staring at you with wide eyes and genuine surprise on his face.
"Nothing has to happen tonight. Nothing has to happen ever, if you don’t want it to. I’m not- I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.”
You had been grateful that he turned out to be a man of his word. And while it's been a few months of living here and Zuko had never expected sex from you, he always took the opportunity to leave you little gifts or notes.
One time you awoke to a bouquet of fire lilies on your bed after expressing how beautiful you thought they were. Another time, Zuko had visited you just before your first public appearance and gifted you a necklace that was clearly expensive and rare.
He stood behind you after moving you to the standing mirror, pushing your hair aside and telling you that:
"It belonged to my mother. I thought it might compliment you most."
You had looked at his reflection and he had already been watching you, the intensity of his gaze making your chest tighten.
When the other concubines seen it, most gasped while a few seethed. You hadn't thought much about the meaning behind it, thought Zuko was just being nice until one of them explained that the Firelord never allowed anyone to touch his later mother's possessions.
Now that same necklace was smacking against your chest and you were crouched beneath his desk with your lips wrapped around his cock.
The chamberlain’s voice came from the other side of the polished wood, something about grain shipments from the Earth Kingdom and a dispute over tariffs in the colonies. Blah, blah, blah.
You paid no attention to the words. Your focus was entirely on the way Zuko’s thigh muscles tensed beneath your palm, the way his breath hitched every time you swirled your tongue around the sensitive head. You had become an expert at reading his body in the last ten minutes, at knowing exactly how much pressure to apply and when to pull back and tease him.
It was your way of thanking him, a gesture of gratitude. You had no other way to repay him for his kindness, no skills that seemed valuable to a man who already had everything.
So you used what you had.
“My Lord, the Avatar requests an audience to discuss the matter personally,” the chamberlain said, his voice muffled through the thick wood of the desk.
Zuko’s hand found its way into your hair, his fingers tangling in the elaborate updo you had sat for an hour getting. You felt the slight tremor in his touch and smiled around his cock, drool spilling from your mouth.
He was close. You could tell by the way his hips kept twitching as he fought the instinct to thrust deeper into your mouth. You hollowed your cheeks and increased your pace, one hand working the base of his eight inches while the other cupped his balls
"Then send for him." Zuko says, his voice surprisingly steady for a man whose cock was buried in his concubine’s throat.
You pulled off, licking and sucking at the tip and Zuko jerked so hard that his knee hit the desk and he covered his moan with a fake groan of pain.
"My Lord! Are you well? You're sweating and you look pale. Should I call for the healer?"
Zuko shifted, hand slamming on the desk when you squeezed and stroked his cock from base to tip.
"No, p-please just continue."
You bit back a laugh and took him back in your mouth. Zuko’s grip on your hair tightened and you felt his cock twitch against your tongue. So you doubled your efforts, taking him as deep as you could and fighting your gag reflex.
Your jaw ached, but it was a satisfying ache, one you gladly welcomed if it meant unraveling him like this.
The chamberlain shuffled some papers. “Very well. There is also the matter of the spring festival. The council would like to know if you will be in attendance so we might arrange proper security.”
"I'll attend." Zuko responded too quickly, pushing your face further down on his cock and holding you there. "As will concubine (name), so double the security."
Your eyes were wide and burning with tears, fingers digging into his thighs as you silently choked on his cock. Zuko let up after a few seconds but never loosened his grip on your hair, pushing your head up and down faster, hips slightly lifting as he fucked your mouth as discreetly as possible.
Then his thighs tensed, and you felt the hot, sudden flood of his release spilling across your tongue. You swallowed, throat working around him as he pulsed, your eyes fluttering shut as bits spilled out the corners of your mouth.
Above you, Zuko's breath caught, just once, a sharp hitch he masked with a cough and then his hand in your hair gentled, trembling fingers stroking your head.
You released his still hard cock with a wet pop! and only climbed from under the desk when you heard the soft click of the door shutting, a shit eating grin on your face.
“You,” Zuko growled, but there was no real anger in his voice, only exasperated affection. “You impossible, insatiable, reckless little girl.”
"You were very composed, my lord. I'm impressed." Your voice was smug, lips tugging into a smile as he pushed you back against his desk.
Zuko's face was growing redder by the second, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead and he looked stuck between captivated and shocked. He shook his head with a small smile, gathering your dress and lifting it above your hips. His hands wrapped around your waist and without much effort as he lifted you onto his desk.
"Shall we see how composed you are when I'm inside of you?" He grabs his cock and drags you toward the edge of the desk, settling himself between your legs.
Your breath catches. Zuko had yet to bed you and while you weren't a virgin, you weren't entirely sure he could even fit inside of you.
"May I?" Zuko asks, pushing your panties aside and lining his cock up with your leaking hole.
You swallow and nod, your raging desire overriding any fear of his size.
He pushed forward slowly, letting your body learn the shape of him, and when you whimpered against his neck he stilled at once and murmured, “I have you, it’s all right, breathe.”
He waited until the tension in your shoulders softened, then pressed deeper with a care that made your eyes sting. One hand was splayed warm and steady across your back, the one pressed against your tummy once he bottomed out.
"Please move." You huff against his skin after a minute, breathing in his sweat and fragrance.
Zuko gently pulls you back by your hair, titling your head so he can look you in the eye. He smiles down at you like the sun, the skin of his scar crinkling just a little as he leans down to kiss the corner of your mouth.
"Say please, little concubine." He whispers in your ear.
You roll your eyes and then roll your hips, grinning when he instinctively bucks and his cock rubs against your walls so beautifully that you can't help how hard you clench around him.
"Please, Zuko?"
Glossy doe eyes meet his slightly aged ones and Zuko breaks, like truly breaks because you're the most beautiful woman in the nation and yet you were here, panting under him despite his insecurities about his age.
So he gave you what you wanted because he was weak when it came to you. Embarrassingly so. How someone nearly half his age had been able to infiltrate his heart, he'd never know.
Each thrust he gave was deep and rough enough to rattle the heavy desk against the ground, scrolls tumbling to the floor in a messy cascade. His breath came in ragged bursts against your hair, praises spilling from his lips as he fought the urge to cum.
The older Zuko got, the harder he found it to last as long as he was once able to. It didn't help that you were tighter than the others, wetter too.
Zuko whines when he feels his balls tightening and your nails digging into his tunic and scratching his back. It makes you clench harder and Zuko pushes so deep he can see the print of his cock against your belly and it makes his eyes roll back until mostly only white was showing.
"Z-zuko, huuuuh, oh gods yes!" You meet him thrust for thrust, holding onto his shoulders as he fucked you faster and your mind spun from how drunk you were on him.
"So perfect, ngggh fuck, you're taking me so well, sweetheart." His face twists, eyes squeezed shut, brows pulled together as he plunges his cock in and out of you.
The way Zuko was fucking you made you forget all about the boy you left back home. He had never been able to pull these sounds from you. But Zuko was a different kind of beast, experienced, moving a hand between your bodies to rub your clit, his hips moving in circles before he fucked you even harder.
Your head fell back, arms tightening around his shoulders as you fell into pure bliss, orgasming so hard that you squirted all over his abdomen.
"Fuuuccckkkk!" Zuko cried out, pushing deep and spilling buckets of hot cum deep inside of you, painting your walls white with his seed. HIs hips stuttered as he pulled your body close to his, burying his face in your neck as he stuffed you full.
Zuko kept grinding into you, pushing out the last of his high before pulling out and immediately moving two fingers to your hole, pushing the cum that escaped back inside.
This was going to take. Zuko was going to finally get his heir.
He lifts your head and places his forehead against yours, heart pumping fast as he looks you in the eyes. He wasn't getting any younger, he needed to build a legacy, leave something behind, continue his family name.
Why not do that with you? He could already see it, children with his eyes and hair but all of your facial features.
Let's just say that neither of you were surprised when you had a bump a few months later.
❦ lisa's note: I'm thinking.. how we feeling about more middle aged zuko? i need that tbh 🫦
pairing. rhaenyra targaryen x fem! handmaiden! reader
summary. when your queens attention turns to you
content. smut. top! rhaenyra. semi 03x03 spoilers. cunnilingus. praise kink. power imbalance. fingering. mentioned alicent/reader. no use of y/n. dragon like! rhaenyra. no beta we die like luke!!!!!!
✉︎ anna's letters. I love nyra so much annnnnnd oh the tension w her and alicent in the newest ep...lord.
rhaenyra's brows pinched together in what could only be irritation as she retired to her chambers at the end of a very long first day. if having rats roaming her castle wasn't enough, she then had to deal with being deceived by alicent's cousin, ser corlys and his illegitimate-turned-legitimate heirs, and of course daemon and mysaria bickering ontop. who knew finally taking on the iron throne would bring this much stress?
a slow sigh escaped her lips as she stared ahead into the reflection of her mirror, hands smoothing down her nightgown. hands that weren't her own.
"are the silks to your liking, your grace?"
rhaenyra spared a hum, glancing to you in the mirror. "they are. where have you dug these up, mm?" her eyes, despite being tired, give a small playful glint in their amethyst hue. "have you stolen them, perhaps?"
your cheeks flush at the accusation. "of course not, your grace!"
your queen chuckles, turning around and shaking her head. "be calm. I only jest," her eyes flit over you, and she murmurs. "you served while I was gone, yes?"
you nod very gently. "er, yes."
rhaenyra hums, reaching forward and tracing a bit of your attire, watching you tense like prey. "did you serve alicent faithfully, too?"
"I.." your hands tremble a bit as hers work at the tie of your gowns apron, flimsy as it was, and your breath hitches when it slowly falls apart. "...yes, your grace." you speak honestly.
rhaenyra's eyes flit to yours, and then she nods ever so slightly to her bed. "lay."
"your grace-"
"lay."
your fumbling to her bed in a matter of seconds, weakly laying down on her bed. but before that, your simple loose dress slips down your shoulders, and rhaenyra aids in tugging it away slowly and tossing it aside. she circles, watching you closely as you lay on your back in just your simple underskirt, and a flimsy piece of cotton encasing your breasts and hiding your sex.
but your queen has the nose of a dragon.
"you're aroused." she muses, slipping into the bed.
your chest hammers at the sight alone. her braid was undone, leaving those pristine white locks cascading down her side like the fog of a waterfall. she leans in slightly, thumbing the fabric binding your chest. "you will do what your queen asks of you, yes?" a weak nod, and she hums with a low cock of her head. "words."
"yes..your grace.."
"good. clothes off."
the fabric around your chest is tugged off, along with the remainder of your small clothes - leaving you barren on her bed. your queen licks her lips slowly, sighing and glancing up to you. "I shall see that you a heavily rewarded for this...gift, you've so graciously bestowed upon your queen."
and you barely push out the syllables of words before her lips descend like searing blades across your skin, kissing down your collarbones and nippling lowly at the buds of your breasts, before eventually settling between your legs. a heavy flush takes over your face, and your hands are quick to shyly cover your face as you peek down at her. "y-your grace.."
"yes?" rhaenyra speaks, parting your legs ever so slowly. this time, when she puffs out warm hair - similarly to that of her dragon - you shiver as it hits your sex. "look at you, barely touched and already dripping like a good little maiden for your queen..."
you gasp breathlessly, hips raising dangerously closer. "p-please, your grace.."
"hush now," she tuts, leaning and pressing kisses along your thighs, dangerously nearing your lips with each slow brush. the ripples of arousal shoot through you like sparks from a fire, and you weakly push closer to her again - though this time, you're met with rhaenyra's lips slowly closing around the small pearl at the top of your cunt, making a slow sucking motion on it before her tongue gives it a low swirl, and dips fully into you.
with a whine, your hips raise instantly, begging for more the second she begins to explore your folds with an expertise she must have only gotten from years of practice.
the thought alone spurs the hot coil in your tummy.
your queen's tongue laps slowly through your cunt, her own eyes slipping shut as a groan of pleasure elicited from her throat - feeling like a low rumble as she continues to lap at you like a dog cleaning its chops. you shiver at the noise, weak noises leaving you in an instant, hips sputtering weakly. her hands reach to wrap around, nails diffing into your hips as she holds you down, taking her time with her meal.
your arm weakly raises to hide your gaze as you lean back deeper into her pillows, mixed in the throws of ecstasy at your queens command.
she pulls off slowly, licking her lips as her hand shifts just a bit, thumb rubbing your clit with slow persecution. "does it feel good? being ravaged by your queen?" she sighs appreciatively. "you respond so well.."
a weak moan tumbles as your hips raise up further into her touch, pressing against her thumb and practically grinding your clit on the pad of her thumb.
rhaenyra's eyes darken at the sight, and she doesn't wait for a reply as she leans back in, moving her thumb and sucking the ball into her mouth as her fingers reach, parting your folds a bit. her ring and middle press together, rubbing the rim of your entrance slowly, feeling as your walls flutter in wanton. she half wondered if alicent touched your sweet body like this too - but oh, it didn't matter now.
your body belongs to your queen now.
with renewed strength, she moves her hand up, slowly pushing inside of you. you whine, back arching as your hips raise and your head tilts back, accepting her fingers greedily.
rhaenyra purrs, continuing to lick your clit as you thrash about, her fingers fucking into you quickly and desperately, pushing you quick to your release. your whines come out sharper, louder, and your queen makes a noise of approval - fingers scissoring inside of your wet heat and making you moan abruptly as she presses a particular part of you, and makes you cum with a jolt.
rhaenyra's lips pull off your cunt, her tongue darting out to wet them as she moves back up your body, swatting your arm off your eyes and kissing you greedily.
you melt into the searing kiss, whimpering lowly as your arms loop lazily around her neck, body all boneless. and rhaenyra simply leans in deeper, her jaw shifting as she slips her fingers out of you and focuses now on pouring her attentions to you.
finally, with a slow breath - she pulls back, panting and looking down at your wrecked form. those beautiful eyes narrow slowly.
"...you belong to me," she rasps. "my...head maid. alright?"
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summary: it was unrequited love at first sight when you met bucky barnes. having a crush on him—your roommate—is hard enough, but hearing him fuck through your shared wall? that almost kills you.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, modern au, lots of plot, fluff, angst, sloooow burn, anxious!reader, kinda insecure!reader, reader works at a bar, cap’s quartet roommates (romanogers !!), swearing, drinking, weed mentions, idiots in love they just don't know it, oblivious!reader (i love her your honour), yearningggg, jealousy, reader crashes tf outttt, miscommunication, one (1) argument, love confessions, pet names (sweetheart, angel, doll, pretty girl), detailed explicit smut, slight dom!bucky, dirty talk, teasingggg, grinding, munch!bucky, oral (f!receiving), fingering, dacryphilia, pussy pronouns, small inspection kink, praise kink, unprotected pnv (don’t do this, friends), missionary, mating press, multiple orgasms, brief sub space, mention of f & m masturbation, happy ending, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, no physical descriptions of reader, reader's pov, kinda dramatic, briefly proofread, this is not your typical roommate!bucky fic !!
word count: 20.6k (apparently i have this condition where i can't write a short fic)
authors note: i am actually the leader of the 'having debilitating crushes on your roommate' club so... thank you to my gorgeous, stunning, one of a kind beta reader @phoenix-in-writing 🫶 yes, i did use some off campus characters as reader's coworkers - there's no subplot with them, they just suited the vibe 😎 likes, reblogs, and comments are very much appreciated (and feed my validation kink)
you are responsible for your own media consumption. don’t like? don’t read
song inspo: crushcrushcrush - paramore & boyfriend - best coast
divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, heart divider by @/strangergraphics
masterlist
Nothing compares to a quiet evening alone
Just the one, two, I was just counting on
That never happens, I guess I'm dreaming again
Let's be more than, more than this
You knew from the moment you stepped into the Brooklyn brownstone that you were royally fucked.
Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.
And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.
The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.
Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.
He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.
He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.
You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.
The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.
His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.
When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.
While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.
You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.
Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.
Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.
Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.
And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.
Uncomfortably so.
He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.
Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.
He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.
Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.
And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.
The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.
Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.
"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."
Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.
He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.
Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.
The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.
Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.
The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.
"You got this, sweetheart."
Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.
"Better luck next time, angel."
What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?
Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.
God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.
The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.
Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.
"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.
You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."
"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."
The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."
Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.
His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."
You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.
Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."
"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"
"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.
Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."
Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.
You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."
He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"
You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.
"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."
He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.
"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."
"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."
The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.
The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.
You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.
You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.
"What do you want now?"
"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.
"No."
The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."
You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."
"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.
Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."
You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."
Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"
You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."
Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.
"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."
He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."
Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.
Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.
Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.
"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.
Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"
"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.
"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.
"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."
"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.
"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.
He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.
"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."
Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.
Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.
"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.
Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."
Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.
You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.
"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."
You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."
Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."
You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.
"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."
You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.
She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."
Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.
"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.
She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.
"Is it…am I really that obvious?"
She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."
She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.
You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.
Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.
Don't screw the crew.
The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.
"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.
Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."
You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."
Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"
Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.
You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"
"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."
You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.
"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."
Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"
Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."
You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.
You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.
Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.
Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."
"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."
He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"
A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.
Your girl.
Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.
Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.
Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"
"…Shrek 2."
Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.
"It's the soundtrack, right?"
You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."
You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.
Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.
"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."
The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.
"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.
"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.
"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.
Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."
You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."
The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.
Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"
You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"
"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."
You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."
Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.
You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.
Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.
She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."
"What?"
She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.
Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."
Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."
Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.
"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."
Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."
"We don't even know if it's about me!"
"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."
"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.
"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.
You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.
The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.
James B.
★★★★★ a month ago
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
Oh.
That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.
You don't know if it's about you.
You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."
Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.
"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.
"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."
"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."
Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.
It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.
"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"
"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"
"Or we could just ask who he is."
Something about that made you uneasy.
After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.
Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.
It was beautiful and terrifying.
And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.
"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."
Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.
Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.
You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.
A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.
Bucky had company.
Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.
Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.
The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.
You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.
You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.
You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.
Inhale. One, two, three, four.
Hold. One, two—
It didn't sound like she was faking it.
The breath rushed out of you quickly.
You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.
Inhale. One, two, three—
Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.
You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.
Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?
The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.
Did he call her sweetheart, too?
You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.
Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.
The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.
A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.
Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.
You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.
Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.
You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.
Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.
"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"
"Yeah? You like that?"
"Yes—god, so much!"
"You feel so good, baby."
Thump, thump, thump.
You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.
It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.
You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.
You fucking hated giggles.
By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.
No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.
The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.
The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.
When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.
What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.
"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.
"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"
Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.
Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.
She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.
The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.
It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.
You're a fucking fool.
She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.
Big mistake.
Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.
"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.
"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.
Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.
You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.
You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.
Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"
You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.
A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.
You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.
At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.
You walked into your shift the next day with another request.
You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.
You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.
Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.
And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.
You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.
The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.
She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.
You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.
"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.
She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."
Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."
Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."
He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.
Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.
Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"
You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."
"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.
You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"
She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."
Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.
Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.
"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"
Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.
"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."
The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.
"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"
You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.
"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.
That broke you.
Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.
You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.
You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.
"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.
You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.
"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.
Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.
She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."
Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.
Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."
"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.
Thursday 6:18pm
Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…
You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)
Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x
You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!
Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(
You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx
"I'm moving out."
It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.
Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.
Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.
"What?" She asked softly.
You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"
You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.
"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"
"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.
You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"
That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"
He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.
Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.
Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."
Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.
"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."
Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.
"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."
"Great idea," Sam mumbled.
"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."
Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."
"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."
That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."
You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"
"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.
"Bucky," Nat warned.
"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.
"Buck—"
"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.
"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.
The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.
"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.
Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."
You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.
Bucky was radio silent.
Tuesday 5:36pm
Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?
You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)
Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx
You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol
Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(
A month passed before you saw Bucky again.
You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.
Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.
Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.
But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.
It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.
You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.
Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.
You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.
"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.
A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.
Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.
"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.
He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."
You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.
"I—uh—how, how have you been?"
You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."
"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."
You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.
You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"
Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."
What the fuck did that mean?
"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"
"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."
It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.
Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."
Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."
Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."
If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.
And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."
You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.
"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.
You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.
You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.
You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.
"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."
"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."
A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."
You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.
She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"
A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"
Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"
You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"
He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.
James B.
★★★★★ 13 hours ago
Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.
Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.
What the fuck?
"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.
"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."
"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.
"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.
Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."
"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.
Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.
Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."
You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."
You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.
"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."
"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.
The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.
"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."
An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.
"Honey, there is no new roommate."
You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."
"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."
"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.
"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."
"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.
"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."
Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.
Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.
You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."
You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.
"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."
It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.
Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.
His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.
He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"
"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.
You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.
"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.
He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.
"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"
"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.
Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"
He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.
Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."
His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"
A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.
"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."
You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.
"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.
"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."
"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"
You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.
"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."
"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.
He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.
"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."
His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."
The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.
"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."
You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"
"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"
"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.
"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.
"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."
He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."
"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."
He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.
He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"
You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.
The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.
The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.
His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.
"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.
"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."
A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.
"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."
Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.
"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"
The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.
"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.
"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."
Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."
Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."
"Why didn't you reach out, then?"
He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."
You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.
You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."
"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.
The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.
He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.
"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.
He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.
He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.
You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.
He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."
"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.
His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."
He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.
You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.
"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.
He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."
You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.
He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.
"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.
"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"
You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"
You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.
"What was that?" He asked smugly.
Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.
"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.
He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."
His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.
He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."
You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.
"Bucky, please."
He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.
He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.
"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."
He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.
"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.
He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.
He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.
Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.
"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.
The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.
Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.
You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."
He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.
"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."
You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.
His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."
He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.
You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.
He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.
Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.
"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.
"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.
He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.
Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.
He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.
Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.
"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"
"Yes, Buck. Only yours."
He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."
He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.
"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."
A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.
He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.
Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.
The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.
"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"
You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.
A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.
"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."
With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.
Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.
"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.
"Need'a minute," you slurred out.
His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.
"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Hi. How you feeling?"
You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.
One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.
You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.
"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.
"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.
"Are you clean?"
His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.
"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."
His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.
"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"
That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."
He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.
He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.
He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.
"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.
He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.
"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.
"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.
He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.
He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.
"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.
"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.
He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.
His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.
You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.
"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.
Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.
The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.
You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.
"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.
"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.
"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"
You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.
He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.
The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.
Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.
He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."
His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.
Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.
Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.
"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.
His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.
He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."
You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.
"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.
Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.
"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.
"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.
Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.
He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.
You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.
"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.
He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.
"I love you too."
"When can we move your stuff back in?"
Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.
You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."
His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"
"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."
"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."
You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"
He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.
"So, you're James B? This whole time?"
His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"
"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"
He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"
You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"
"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."
Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."
Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.
"…Are you jealous?"
The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."
Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?
"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."
Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.
You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."
The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.
"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"
a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔) yes, team, reader should’ve made bucky grovel HOWEVER high emotion tension filled make up sex is hot 🫦 bro is buying her flowers and taking her on dates every day for the rest of their lives 😌
A/N: gambit x teammate!reader x woverine, 21+f!reader, smut, sexual tension, flirting, semi-public threesome, double penetration
“Bonjour, Monsieur Thomas, vous allez bien?”
Tom, the head bartender at The Cove in Salem Center turns at the familiar Cajun lilt and greets two of his regulars as they take up their usual bar stools. Gambit has a nick on his jaw, but that usual self-assured smile that he carries everywhere. Wolverine looks just fine, large and satisfied no doubt after sparing with the younger man.
“Evening, fellas,” Tom greets them, already reaching for the short glasses. “Same old, same old?” He asks, grabbing a black label whiskey and a robust bourbon off the liquor shelf.
“Make mine a double, Tom.” Logan grumbles, scanning the inside of the bar for potential threats while Remy scan for potential company. “Those kids at Xavier’s ain’t suited for the real world,” He gripes, giving Tom a curt nod when his whiskey glass is slid across to him. “I say duck, they stop to ask why. Never seen anythin’ like it.”
“They kids, homme,” Remy says, handing Tom some folded bills with a tip of a fake hat after taking his bourbon and sipping it slowly, savoring the earthy notes. “We never listened to our professeurs, ou pas? Is what they do, ignore us old men.” He says with a shrug. “Moi, personnellement? I never have trouble with the trainees.”
“That’s cause you flirt with ‘em.” Logan smirks.
“Gambit play to his strengths.” Remy winks.
The night continues with conversation, light banter between old friends. They play a few rounds of pool, bet some petty cash for the fun of it. Logan brings up Rogue and Magneto’s ever evolving bond and Remy shrugs it off, not ready to make a decision on that just yet. Remy, in turn, brings up how Jean’s been spending a lot of time in the garage with him. Logan claims he’s just letting her vent about marriage troubles — Remy doesn’t doubt it. The more complicated qualms of life often take hold of the vibe a few drinks into the night and they find themselves in a secluded booth tucked in the back of the bar. There is a feeling of anticipation quietly simmering between the two men, an impending sense of…thrill.
“Hey!”
They look up and suddenly you’re standing there, grinning at your mentors and teammates. You joined after graduating a years back, stayed on as a TA for Ororo and trained to be part of the X-Men. Now, three years after your graduation, you’ve grown from a coltish young student to a beautiful young woman. The X-Men are all very protective of you given you’re the youngest on the team, but you’ve always felt safest with Wolverine and Gambit.
“Oh, hé petite,” Remy smiles, standing to give you a hug and Logan follows suit, pecking the top of your head and looking over his shoulder at your group of friends. “How’s your night go-”
“Who’re they?” Logan interrupts.
“Friends from college, relax, dad,” You tease, crossing your arms as you realize you’re wearing a tube top under your cropped denim jacket. You wouldn’t usually care, but you do when you’re standing in front of two of your male role models and don’t have a bra on. “You two hanging out? We just came to have a drink, but they’re heading back into town afterwards.”
“You need a ride back home?” Logan asks and you nod. “We’ll be here, go have your drink, kid.” He says and you grin, pecking his cheek and Remy hands you some folded bills.
“Drinks on me, mon ange.” He winks and you lightly shove him with your shoulder while taking the crumpled bills from his hand.
“Thanks.” You blush before returning to your group.
“You really can’t help yourself can you, Gumbo?” Logan mutters as they sit back down. He can see that Remy is still staring at you and Logan gives a low growl as a warning.
“Oh, c’mon, Wolverine,” Remy laughs softly, downing the rest of his bourbon and signaling Tom for another by raising the empty glass. “She not a kid no more, no matter how much you treat her like one.” Logan shakes his head and spares a look over his shoulder at you.
You’ve shed your denim jacket off, the perky mounds of your chest sitting up nicely in that youthful, but undeniably womanly way. Twenty-one full years of life, nine of which he has been personally present for and he’s loved each version of you. This version, however, invites temptation.
“She deserves better than either of us can give her.” Logan turns back to Remy who gives a slow, but agreeable nod.
“Oui, mais…” Remy gives a small shrug as he trails off when his dark eyes find you again, laughing softly as you unconsciously flip your hair off your shoulder. Your eyes find his glowing irises and you smile sweetly, giving him a wave while biting your lip. “If she want it, what’s the issue?”
After your friends depart with hugs and half-made plans of doing this again next weekend, you join the two X-Men in the back corner booth, sitting next to to Gambit who has an arm outstretched behind you. “That boy of yours sure had a starin’ problem, huh, petite?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” You smirk, nudging him with your shoulder and he chuckles, his hand inches closer to your shoulder. “He’s nice, but…” You pause, noticing yourself just talking to them like friends and not teachers. You like this newfound closeness, this camaraderie between teammates. “I’m not really into his type.”
“What type is he?” Logan asks, trying not to sound as curious as he is by taking a swig of his beer, holding the bottle casually by its neck.
“You know, he’s just a little too shy, always plays by the rules,” You hesitate, fiddling with the straw in your empty cocktail glass as you bite your lip and look from one awaiting facial expression to the next. “My age.” You finally add, taking a sip from Remy’s glass while he grins at you and you blush, looking over at Logan. “Hope that’s not weird to say in front of you now.”
“Nah,” Logan says, sitting back in his seat across from you, arms crossed casually over his broad chest while Remy’s hand is now softly rubbing on your bare shoulder. “You’re grown enough to know what you want.”
That’s what the Wolverine keeps repeating to himself when you’re sitting between him and Gambit in the back of his Jeep. Logan’s tongue is gliding into your mouth while Gambit kisses softly on your neck, his hand holding your jaw to keep your head steady. “Tu as un goût si sucré.” He groans, his nose brushing down your neck as he kisses your bare shoulders, his hand falling from your jaw to your perky breasts. “No bra, bèbè?” He asks teasingly making you laugh.
“Is that a complaint?” You manage to ask against Logan’s lips, who chuckles while his hand on your thigh continues rubbing slowly along the inside. The warmth of both their strong, large bodies keep you comfortable as the doorless vehicle you sit in does little to offer warmth. With Remy at your back and Logan in front of you, you’re plenty cozy.
“Non,” Gambit smirks, pulling the top’s neckline down so your tits pop out playfully. “A gratitude.”
Logan’s eyes fall into your bare chest and you bite your lip teasingly as he watches Gambit fondling your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until the pebble gardens. “Go on, Lo,” You murmur, your hand running softly through the side of his hair before guiding him down to your chest. “Taste me.”
His mouth wraps around your nipple and you shiver from the suction of his lips and tongue, from the fact that the Wolverine is sucking on your titties while Remy LeBeau is working your jeans off so he can slip a nimble hand between your warm thighs, parted by Logan’s massive torso. “Bet this lil pussy tastes like candy.” Gambit whispers into your ear, making you wet as two of his finger pads slide along your slit to collect your arousal.
“Find out.” You tease, arching into Logan as he bites teasingly on your nipple. “Fuck, please, touch me.” You beg him, your hand coming back to clasp onto Gambit’s nape as his fingers push into your aching core. “Yes!” You gasp, spreading your legs wider as Logan tugs your jeans the rest of the way down.
“Wanna taste, Wolverine?” The Cajun asks with a smirk and Logan pulls back from your breasts to take the offertory of his teammate’s pussy soaked fingers. You watch with lust as Logan tastes you off of someone else and your bite your lip when you feel his cock growing hard against your thigh.
“Tastes like plums.” Logan says with a little smirk after pulling off Remy’s digits and kissing you. You moan into his mouth, letting his tongue slip past your lips so you taste yourself as well while Gambit’s wet fingers return south to toy with your clit. “You sure you want this, darlin’?”
“Yes,” You nod eagerly, looking up at him with clear eyes and then looking up at the man behind you. “Please.”
Soon you’re lying back on top of Remy, who’s playing with your tits while letting Wolverine set the pace above you with his hands on your hips. Their cocks are squeezed together in your pussy, stretching you out more than you’ve ever been stretched during sex. Gambit is sucking and kissing on your neck, thrusting up lazily while Logan is grunting and swearing from the sight of his cock plunging into your gaping little hole, clenching his jaw when his head rubs against Gambit’s own swollen tip.
The sensation is unlike anything you’ve ever felt — two large men sharing you like a toy, like a prize, both getting off on the same pleasure. They move in and out of you in a rhythmic pattern, taking turns bumping into your cervix so that you’re barely getting a moment to catch your breath or have a clear, coherent thought.
“Merde, ça fait du bien.” Remy groans about how good this feels while sliding one hand down your body to play with your clit again. Your eyes roll back into your head and you shudder from the pleasure, digging your manicured nails into Logan’s broad shoulders as he leans down and kisses you messily.
“You like this?” He growls low, barely lifting his mouth from yours as you nod, brows scrunched together in distress from the mix of pleasure and pain. “Tell me.”
“Yes,” You pant, your voice rough and breathless. “So much.” Their cocks keep gliding easily into you now, legs fully stretched out between their large, strong bodies as you let them take over. “‘M gonna cum!” You whine, your head tipping back against Gambit’s shoulder as he moans into your neck, your nails scratching down Logan’s firm chest.
“Fuck,” He grunts, suddenly lifting your thighs a little more to spread you wider and you squeal from the added pleasure the position gives you and them. Remy groans, his fingers pressing harder to your clit to get you over that edge as he begins to throb warningly. You writhe from the way he jiggles your sensitive bud between two fingers, making your walls contract and squeeze them inside you like a vice as your orgasm takes over your autonomy.
“Fuckfuckfuck!” You cry out, punching Logan’s hard pectoral once as Gambit lifts you slightly by your hips to hammer up into you. “D-Don’t stop!”
One of Logan’s hands then comes down to your lower belly to press you back down fully onto Gambit, squeezing both his and his teammate’s cocks while they’re inside you. Remy grunts from the pressure and he hisses as the direct friction from Logan sends him quickly to his own release.
“Asshole,” He huffs a laugh as he spurts inside you, his cum lubricating Logan’s cock further which makes the man’s head tip back in pleasure. “C’mon, bèbè, let’s make the old man blow his load.” Remy murmurs against your damp temple — as if you could do anything at this moment where you’ve succumbed entirely to the ache of ecstasy.
“Takin’ my time, Cajun.” Logan says with a small smirk as he watches himself slide out of you coated in evidence of arousal. Gambit turns your face to look at him and he kisses you slow and sloppy, swallowing your soft whines and murmurings of how good you feel between them.
Finally, Logan thrusts into you one last time, deep and intentional, shooting his load right against your cervix while you tremble helplessly between them. Your mind is dazed and your body sated as you sink into satisfaction from the feeling of their combined fluids leaking down your thighs. Logan swears under his breath, burying his face in your neck while Remy’s kissing you slow and messy.
“Can we go again?” You ask in a breathless, but mischievous voice after a moment of silence and both men groan softly.
“Only I’ve got the stamina to keep up with you, and Gambit’s not exactly at a hundred percent.” Logan chuckles, though he’s still unbelievably hard inside you.
The Cajun tsks playfully, caressing your thighs while adjusting his position behind you. “C’mon, homme,” He winks at Logan, rolling his hips subtly beneath you, making you gasp and Logan groan. “Let’s give it to her one more time, she an X-Man now, non?”
“Yeah, Wolverine,” You tease while playfully biting your lip, your hands smoothing over the hard expanse of his chest before adding, “We’ll just call this team bonding, huh?”
And how’s Logan to argue with that?
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KINKTOBER DAY 1 - MUTUAL MASTURBATION (Gale Dekarios/Reader)
Summary: You and Gale masturbate at the same time in your respective tents. You accidentally connect your minds via the tadpole.
Author’s Note: Yay! Day 1 of Kinktober! It’s my first time actually writing for Kinktober so I’m excited. We’re starting the month off a little light and as it progresses…well, you’ll see. Also quick reminder for the month: the genitalia of the reader might vary for different oneshots or might be completely ambiguous. It completely depends on my mood when writing and I will always specify in the warnings/tags section. That being said, let’s get down to business, shall we?
Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI, reader has a vagina but no gendered pronouns are used for the reader, accidental voyeurism via mindflayer tadpoles/telepathic communication, mutual masturbation, not beta read
You had been frustrated all day. Hell, you’ve been frustrated for the past week. Having a mindflayer tadpole squirming around in your head while zealots of the Absolute lurked around every corner was enough to make anyone frustrated. But lingering amongst your frustration towards possible impending doom was a different kind of frustration.
You were pent up to say the least. It had been quite some time since you had indulged yourself and it was starting to shine through.
You found yourself staring at Gale, your eyes lingering on the Wizard for far too long. You had grown quite fond of the man in a short amount of time and would even go as far as to call him a friend. But your stare wasn’t because of your blooming friendship. It was because of lust. Deep and carnal.
It was hard to ignore that desire especially when you were in such close proximity to each other on a daily basis. But you pushed the feeling aside, focusing on more important things.
Until one night you couldn’t ignore it anymore. A fire was dancing in your core as you tossed in your bedroll. It seemed that the more you tried to sleep the more the sensation grew.
Narrowed eyes peered up and then to the side as you lay on your back. Your hand reached for the flap of your tent, pushing it aside to glance out.
Everyone had gone to bed. You could even hear the faint snoring of Karlach from her tent near yours.
You closed the tent, hand drifting from it to the front of your pants, untying the laces. “Ignoring it will only make it worse,” you thought as your hand snaked down the front of your body, fingers sliding underneath the hem of your pants and underwear in swift motion.
Your fingers quickly found your clit, sharply inhaling in response to the contact. You pressed down and began to trace little circles, starting off slow.
Thoughts and fantasies drifted throughout your head as your fingers worked almost mindlessly. Your mind landed on one man.
You couldn’t help but imagine it was Gale touching you. You had always figured he would be good with his fingers, among other things. You wondered if he’d be gentle or if his own pent up frustration would take over and he’d fuck you with wild abandon.
Just as you were about to pick up the pace you felt it. A small strain inside your head, causing you to wince. You sat up just as the strain got stronger and before you realized what was happening your thoughts weren’t your own, your vision split between two words.
You were in someone else’s head, your tadpole being the connection. At first, there was only feeling, the heat in your core growing stronger. Goosebumps traveled up your body and for a moment you swore you felt unbridled ecstasy.
But it wasn’t yours.
“Fuck…” a quiet, all too familiar voice filled your head.
It was Gale. He was lying in his own tent, robes pushed to the side and pants pushed down, stroking his cock.
You could see him in your mind, in the back of your eyes, like a dream. But it wasn’t a dream. It was real and your tadpole was showing you.
Your mind panicked. Was he showing you this? Did he know you could hear him? Did he know you could see him? Was this some trick of the tadpole?
You squeezed your eyes shut thinking maybe the vision would go away but it only got clearer.
Gale’s hand lightly squeezed the tip of his cock, thumb pressing over the slit before traveling back down the base. His strokes were slow, deliberate. You could tell he was deep in thought, surely lost in a fantasy of his own.
And then you heard it. A name, whispered in the quiet confines of his tent. Nobody could hear it. Nobody except for him…and you. It was yours.
Your breath hitched and Gale paused, his eyes flickering open. The image of him faded slightly from your mind, but his voice remained.
“Is that you I feel wiggling in my head?” he asked, his voice echoing softly in your head.
You didn’t answer, slightly terrified and humiliated.
“I can feel you in my head, you know? It’s okay, really,” he said.
Your lips did not move but you spoke to him in your mind.
“I’m sorry, Gale. I didn’t mean to,” you said.
“Don’t apologize. I quite enjoyed your presence even if it was accidental,” he said.
There was a moment of silence. You could feel the sensitivity from down below, aching to be attended to.
“Would you like to continue?” Gale asked, snapping your attention back to reality.
You could feel him in your head, prodding with his mind. He wanted access, this time on purpose.
“Are you…are you sure?” you asked.
“Yes. Let me see you,” he said.
Your tadpole squirmed and your mind seemed to soften, both of you opening the doors of your mind once again. Your hand drifted back down, continuing what you had started. And now you had something better than a fantasy. You had a mental front row seat to the Wizard jerking himself off.
His hand had started to move again, going faster than before. You could feel it, the heat rising from both of your bodies. Gods, you swore you could even smell the lavender oil Gale had used to lubricate his cock.
“That’s it. Just like that,” you heard him say as he watched you in his own mind.
Your fingers slid down, gathering your wetness and drawing it back up between the folds of your cunt. You couldn’t help but let out a quiet moan as your fingers danced across your skin.
Gale’s hips stuttered as he thrust into his hand, sliding against his palm. He let out a breathy sigh, not caring much about being heard, lost in his mind and your own.
Both of you were close, edging towards your respective climaxes. Gale came first, hot cum shooting out and coating his hand. He kept thrusting into his hand as you reached your own orgasm, legs shaking as you finally got the relief you had been chasing.
The two of you lay there, quietly taking in one another in the confines of your mind.
“That was most enjoyable,” Gale said quietly.
“I absolutely agree,” you said.
“Would you care to join me in my tent tonight?” he questioned.
can we imagine that whichever companion you like is completely smitten with you, but you're oblivious and they are scared to confess, so the whole camp starts to flirt with you just to frustrate them into stealing you away, finally ?
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The battle had devolved into the kind of messy, sprawling chaos that made strategy feel like a distant memory. Mud clung to your boots, smoke stung your eyes, and the clash of weapons rang endlessly in your ears as you pushed forward through the press of enemies with stubborn determination. You were tired, bruised, and running purely on adrenaline, but the sight of the enemy captain retreating toward the far side of the field lit a spark of reckless resolve in your chest.
If you could just reach them—just land one decisive blow— oh, the rush to your ego was just too sweet, so you surged ahead. Blissfully unaware that, behind you, somewhere in the shifting haze of battle, Astarion had noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
He had been watching you for the last several minutes with mounting irritation, tracking your movements with sharp, predatory focus as you edged farther and farther away from the relative safety of your formation. He knew that look on your face—the tight jaw, the narrowed eyes, the absolute refusal to back down even when the odds tilted dangerously out of your favor.
It was, in his professional opinion, one of your most infuriating traits and one of the most terrifyingly attractive.
“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, already moving. You didn’t hear him. You were too busy chasing the fleeing captain, weaving between clashing bodies, breath burning in your lungs as you closed the distance step by step. Victory felt tantalisingly close, just within reach.
Then the world shifted. A second enemy stepped into your path and another moved behind you. Before you could react, the careful rhythm of the fight collapsed into sudden danger, the space around you tightening like a trap snapping shut.
Astarion saw it all unfold in an instant and his stomach dropped.
“Oh, you absolute fool,” he hissed and instead of retreating back to safety, to make this someone else's problem, likely karlach's, he did something that surprised even himself, he ran towards the ugly fray.
Not with his usual lazy elegance, not with the theatrical grace he cultivated so carefully, but with raw, urgent speed that cut through the battlefield like a blade. He shoved past an opponent without breaking stride, ducked under a swinging mace, and closed the distance between you just as one of the enemies lunged. You barely had time to register the movement before something slammed into you from the side.
Hard.
The impact knocked the breath from your lungs as Astarion’s shoulder drove into your ribs, sending both of you stumbling sideways through the mud. The enemy’s strike whistled through empty air where your head had been a heartbeat earlier.
You gasped, disoriented. “What—”
His hand clamped around your arm like a vice. “-What,” he snapped, voice tight with fury, “do you think you are doing?”
You blinked up at him, still catching your breath. “I almost had them—”
“-You almost had a sword through your spine,” he shot back.
Before you could protest, he yanked you sharply backward, dragging you out of the fray with startling strength. His grip was unyielding, fingers digging into your sleeve as he hauled you step by step through the chaos. You resisted immediately, you were so close to winning.
“I can still fight—”
“No.”
“Astarion, let go—”
“Absolutely not!”
You twisted, trying to wrench free, but he anticipated the movement instantly. With a sharp, irritated sound, he shifted his hold—one arm sliding around your waist—and physically lifted you just enough to disrupt your footing. Your boots left the ground for a split second and you let out a startled noise. “Astarion!”
“You are coming with me,” he said through clenched teeth, dragging you behind the shattered remains of a stone barricade. You squirmed, like a child being dragged in for dinner, by their parent who had not had enough wine to deal with you.
“I was fine—”
“You were being spectacularly stupid. You reached new levels of stupidity that not even I was aware of. You-” You opened your mouth to interject in his ranting and twisted as you did. That was when it happened.
There was a tiny, horrifying sound. A faint, delicate crack. Everything stopped. Astarion froze mid-step and dropped you onto the ground with the ceremony of a sack of potatoes. Then slowly—very slowly—he looked down at his hand.
You followed his gaze from the floor, heart wrenching as the tragedy came into focuse.
One of his long, immaculately groomed nails had split clean across the tip, the smooth edge now jagged and uneven. For a moment, the battlefield noise seemed to fade into the background entirely. Astarion stared at the damage as if the world had personally betrayed him.
“…No,” he whispered.
You blinked.“…Is that—”
“-My nail,” he said faintly with the echoes of lament.
You pressed your lips together, trying very hard not to laugh. He turned his hand slightly, inspecting the break from every possible angle, his expression shifting from shock to genuine outrage.
“I just finished shaping these this morning,” he said, voice tight with disbelief. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to maintain standards in the wilderness?”
A laugh bubbled up in your chest despite yourself. You tried to swallow it. Failed tremedously.
Astarion’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing dangerously. “You think this is amusing?”
You bit your lip, shoulders shaking. “A little.”
His expression darkened instantly, indignation flaring like a spark catching dry tinder.
“Oh, splendid. I risk life, limb, and manicure to rescue you from your own suicidal impulses, and you find it entertaining.”
You wiped at your eyes, still trying not to grin. “You broke a nail saving me.”
“Yes,” he snapped.
You tilted your head, studying him. “That’s rather heroic. We should be sure to tell Volo when we return to camp.”
He scoffed sharply, turning away as if the word 'heroic' physically offended him.
“Hardly." Astarion scoffed, eyes narrowing at his brutalised nail. "It was an act of self-preservation. If you insist on throwing yourself into danger at every opportunity, someone has to intervene before you ruin everything."
You watched him closely, warmth stirring quietly in your chest despite the lingering adrenaline. You picked yourself up off the floor and smiled at him. “You came after me.”
“Of course I did,” he said immediately. The words slipped out before he could stop them. He froze.
You raised an eyebrow and his jaw tightened. Then, almost violently, he pivoted away from the moment, anger rushing in to fill the space where something softer had threatened to surface.
“This,” he said sharply, gesturing accusingly at you with his uninjured hand, “is precisely why I cannot allow you any independence whatsoever. You are reckless, impulsive, and clearly determined to die in the most inconvenient manner possible and bring my own innocent hands down with you.”
You crossed your arms. “I had it under control.”
“You had nothing under control.”
You took a step toward him and he stepped back immediately, still glaring, still clutching his injured nail with exaggerated offense as if shielding it from you, so not to allow further damage.
“And now look,” he continued, voice dripping with dramatic despair. “Permanent damage. A tragedy. A catastrophe. Truly, history will remember this day.”
You laughed softly and he scowled harder.
“Stop smiling,” he muttered, trying to ignore the way it made his dead heart flutter.
“You’re worried about me.”
“I am worried about my manicure.” He emphasised by showing off his broken nail and pointing at it with flair. You took another step closer.
He held his ground this time, but his expression flickered—annoyance warring with something far more vulnerable that he clearly had no intention of acknowledging.
You reached out gently and took his hand, the one with the broken nail and he stiffened immediately. Looking at you like he was trying to understand what audacity had overcome you.
“You risked yourself for me,” you said quietly.
His gaze flicked to yours, sharp and guarded. He scoffed, pulling his hand back just enough to reestablish distance, retreating behind irritation like a shield.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said briskly. “I simply refuse to let you die before I’ve had the opportunity to use you for all your apparent worth.”
You smiled again and he rolled his eyes dramatically, already turning away.
“Now stay here,” he snapped over his shoulder. “Try not to endanger yourself—or my grooming routine—again.”
Gale:
The deeper chambers of the Sharran temple possessed the sort of oppressive quiet that made every sound feel intrusive, as though the place itself disapproved of living things disturbing its long-abandoned halls. The stone underfoot was cold and worn smooth by centuries of passing feet, the walls etched with the dark, elegant iconography of Shar—crescent moons, shadowed figures, and carvings that seemed to drink in the dim torchlight rather than reflect it. The air was cool and carried a faint scent of damp stone, dust, and something else beneath it all, something sweet in a way that felt distinctly out of place among the gloom.
Gale walked beside you, his hands clasped loosely behind his back in the posture he adopted when his mind was particularly occupied, his eyes flicking over the architecture with scholarly interest while he murmured half-formed observations under his breath about Sharran religious symbolism and the lingering magical residue saturating the temple. Every so often he would gesture vaguely at a carving or faded mural, clearly itching to launch into a proper lecture but restraining himself in favor of focusing on the task at hand, scouting out for Raphael's enemy.
You, meanwhile, were only half listening. Because you had spotted something far more interesting.
You stopped walking abruptly, crouching down near one of the pillars where the stone floor dipped slightly in a shallow depression.
“Gale,” you said thoughtfully.
“Hm?” he replied absently, still scanning a row of carvings along the wall.
“Look at this.”
He glanced over with mild curiosity, then saw what you were looking at. His entire expression shifted instantly from idle interest to deep, immediate concern.
Lying on the stone floor between the pillars was a spider. Not a small one either, but a thick-bodied creature the size of a boulder, its legs curled tightly inward in the unmistakable posture of death. Its glossy amber abdomen reflected the faint light of Gale’s staff. You leaned closer, resting your chin in your hand as you studied it with growing fascination.
Gale frowned.
“Why,” he asked slowly, “are you looking at it like that?”
You tilted your head. There was a scent drifting faintly from the thing—not the rot of decay, but something strangely sweet, almost honeyed, with an undercurrent that tickled the back of your mind in a way that was both intriguing and vaguely intoxicating.
“…Interesting,” you murmured.
Gale’s frown deepened. “Interesting how?”
You didn’t answer immediately; instead, you leaned forward slightly. And before Gale could process what you were about to do, you reached down and gave the spider a quick experimental lick.
There was a moment—long and terrible—of absolute silence.
Gale’s brain appeared to have completely stop functioning. Very slowly, as though afraid that moving too quickly might somehow make the moment more real, he turned his head to look at you.
“You,” he said faintly, “licked a dead spider.”
You blinked up at him.
“Yes.”
“Dead,” he repeated carefully. “Spider.”
“Correct.”
“You licked it.”
“That is also correct.”
Gale stared at you in the way one might stare at a catastrophic magical anomaly that had just appeared in the middle of the room.
“That,” he said after a long pause, “is something that happened.”
You shrugged lightly. He dragged a hand slowly down his face, exhaling in the deeply weary manner of someone whose day had just taken a deeply unexpected turn.
“I think,” he said carefully, “we need to get you some air… and perhaps have a long conversation about unresolved childhood issues.”
You snorted at that, clearly unrepentant. And then, because the thought had already taken root in your mind, you leaned forward again toward the spider.
Gale made a strangled sound. “Stop licking the damn thing!—”
His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist just before your tongue could reach its intended target for a second time.
“What,” he demanded, his voice climbing an octave, “is wrong with you?”
You pouted immediately. “It tastes funny.”
“That is not a justification!”
You attempted to lean forward anyway. Gale tightened his grip instantly, hauling your arm back toward him.
“No!” Gale responded, his face twisted in absolute horror of your disposition.
“Just one more,” you insisted, pouting slightly
“For the love of Mystra, no.” Gale told you, his grip on you tightening.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I'm being dramatic?!" Gale's voice pitched up a few octaves at the accusation. "You licked a corpse!”
“It’s barely a corpse.”
“It is very much a corpse!” Gale stressed as he pulled you further away from it by your arm, and you couldn't help but giggle. And that was when Gale realized something else was wrong.
Your laughter was slightly too loose, your expression flushed in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment, and when you looked up at him your pupils were blown wide, swallowing nearly all the color of your irises.
Your breathing had quickened and there was a strange, restless energy humming through your movements that definitely had not been there moments earlier.
Gale’s stomach dropped.
“…Oh dear,” he murmured. You were still trying to lean toward the spider. He grabbed your shoulders this time and physically pulled you backwards. “No more licking mysterious temple wildlife!”
You laughed again, clearly delighted by his distress.
“Why not?”
“Because it is deeply disturbing behavior!”
But now that strange warmth was spreading through your limbs, a buzzing heat that made the air feel thick and your thoughts pleasantly fuzzy. Everything around you seemed sharper somehow—brighter, more vivid.
And Gale was holding you very tightly and standing very close.
Very close indeed.
You looked at him slowly, your gaze drifting over the lines of his face, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the soft curl of his hair falling slightly into his eyes. Gale shifted uneasily under the scrutiny.
“…Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked cautiously.
You leaned more into his touch, relaxing in his hold of you. He froze, as if suddenly realising he was manhandling you and an awkwardness settled in his chest as he suppressed his own feelings for you. Luckily, he did not have time to dwell on it as you spoke again.
“You’re very pretty,” you said sincerely.
His brain short-circuited.
“I—what?”
Then, without further warning, you leaned forward to kiss him. Gale reacted purely on instinct. He released you only for his hand to come up immediately, pressing gently but firmly against your face and pushing it to the side before your lips could reach him.
“No!”
You blinked in surprise. “…Rude.”
“You are not in your right mind,” he said softly but firmly, now holding you at arm’s length. Which did not stop you from trying again.
He caught both your shoulders.
“Stop that.”
You giggled again, clearly unbothered.
Gale’s concern was rapidly turning into full-blown alarm. The sweet scent from the spider drifted through the air once more and the pieces clicked together in his mind with horrifying clarity.
“…Succubus enchantment,” he muttered. You were still attempting to lean toward him.
“Just one kiss.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
You pouted dramatically and then abruptly attempted to dart past him—back toward the spider. Gale reacted immediately.
“Oh no you don’t.” He grabbed you around the waist and hauled you bodily away from it. You squirmed and protested loudly.
“Let me go!”
“You have already licked it twice!”
“It’s interesting!”
“It is cursed!”
You laughed helplessly, the entire situation clearly far more amusing to you than it was to him. Gale, meanwhile, was beginning to look like a man being slowly driven to madness.
“This,” he muttered under his breath, “is precisely the sort of situation wizard training does not prepare you for.”
You attempted to twist free again. So Gale did the only thing he could think of. He picked you up. Entirely.
You squeaked in shock as he hoisted you over his shoulder with surprising determination and strength.
“Gale!”
“You are coming with me.”
You kicked your legs indignantly.
“Put me down!”
“No.”
“This is kidnapping!”
“This is damage control!”
You wriggled and twisted the entire way out of the temple, attempting several times to lean down and kiss the back of his neck, which caused Gale to nearly trip more than once while he tried very hard not to think about the warmth of you against his shoulder. He had plans, a whole starry sky full of plans to woo you, you being horny from dead spider meat was not in those plans.
“Oh for the love of Mystra—stop that!”
You only laughed harder. By the time the distant glow of the campfire came into view through the trees, Gale looked like a man who had aged several years in the span of a single hour.
“You,” he declared breathlessly as he carried you toward camp, “are never allowed near enchanted wildlife again.”
You hummed happily, clearly unconvinced, and Gale sighed the long, exhausted sigh of someone who already knew, deep in his soul, that this was absolutely not the last time he would have to physically drag you away from something profoundly ill-advised.
Wyll:
The battle had turned into a storm of steel and shouting, the kind of chaos where dust hung thick in the air and every sound felt too loud, too close, too urgent.
You were in the middle of it—of course you were—boots sliding in the churned earth as you pressed forward with stubborn determination, blade flashing in the dim light. The enemy line wavered ahead of you, and you saw your chance, that tantalizing sliver of opportunity that whispered if you just pushed a little farther, just a little harder, you could turn the tide.
So you did. You pressed forward, heart pounding, ignoring the shouted warnings from behind you as adrenaline burned hot in your veins. The world narrowed to the swing of your weapon, the clash of metal, the rush of movement—
And then everything went wrong. A horn sounded somewhere to your left. Reinforcements.
More enemies poured into the fray, closing the gap around you with frightening speed, their weapons raised, their movements coordinated in a way that made your stomach drop as you realized—too late—that you had gone too far ahead.
You turned, searching for your allies but the distance between you and safety had grown. Fast.
Across the battlefield, Wyll Ravengard saw it happen in an instant.
He had been fighting with his usual flair—blade moving in clean, practiced arcs, posture straight even in the chaos—but the moment he spotted you surrounded, his focus snapped sharply into place. The easy confidence on his face hardened into something fierce and protective, his instincts screaming louder than reason.
You were in danger and that was all that mattered.
He moved, not cautiously, not hesitantly, but with the bold, sweeping urgency of a hero charging into the final act of a grand tale. He cut through the battlefield with powerful strides, parrying one blow, then another, his cloak snapping dramatically behind him as he forced his way toward you.
You didn’t see him coming. You were too busy fending off the attackers closing in around you, breath coming fast and uneven as you tried to hold your ground. Your muscles burned, your footing slipped, and for the first time, doubt flickered in the back of your mind.
Then suddenly— A strong arm wrapped firmly around your waist.
You barely had time to gasp before you were pulled sharply backward, lifted clean off your feet as the world spun in a blur of motion.
“What—!”
You collided against a solid chest, the scent of leather and smoke and something warm and familiar filling your senses as you were swept out of danger in one smooth, decisive movement.
“Easy,” Wyll’s voice said close to your ear, steady and reassuring even over the roar of battle.
You blinked, disoriented, as he carried you several long strides away from the press of enemies, his grip secure and unwavering. One arm held you firmly against him, the other wielded his blade with effortless precision, deflecting a strike that came too close for comfort.
Your heart hammered wildly in your chest.
“Wyll—!”
“I’ve got you,” he replied, calm but firm.
The words landed somewhere deep in your chest, warm and steadying in a way you hadn’t expected. He didn’t set you down immediately.
Instead, he continued moving, guiding you through the chaos with confident purpose, his hold protective without being rough, his posture straight and unyielding as he carried you toward safer ground. It felt—absurdly, impossibly—like something out of a storybook, like the kind of dramatic rescue sung about in taverns by bards who believed in happy endings and heroic gestures.
You finally found your voice.
“You can put me down,” you protested, breathless.
“In a moment,” he said smoothly. You glanced up at him, and the sight nearly stole your breath all over again.
Dust streaked across his cheek, his braids slightly dishevelled from the fight, but his expression remained composed, focused, utterly determined. There was a spark of concern in his eyes, softened by something warmer, something gentler that made your pulse stutter.
He looked like a knight straight from a romance novel. Strong. Dashing. Completely unflappable. You swallowed and you could feel your preteen self practically swooning.
“I was handling it,” you insisted weakly, if not to him, to yourself.
His mouth curved into a faint, knowing smile.
“I have no doubt,” he replied, voice rich with reassurance. “But even the bravest heroes deserve a rescue now and then.”
Heat rushed to your face. He finally slowed, reaching the relative safety behind a line of fallen stone where the rest of your companions were regrouping. Only then did he lower you carefully back onto your feet, his hands lingering just a second longer than strictly necessary to make sure you were steady.
You swayed slightly. His hands tightened instinctively at your waist.
“Are you hurt?” he asked immediately, concern sharpening his tone. You are breathing quite heavily-"
"I'm fine!" You said a bit too quickly, and you took a deep breath in to steady yourself. “No. Just—startled.”
His gaze softened. “Good,” he said quietly.
For a brief moment, neither of you moved. The battle still raged in the distance, steel clashing and voices shouting, but here, in the small pocket of safety he had carved out, everything felt strangely still.
You became suddenly aware of how close he was—how warm his hands felt where they rested at your sides, how steady his presence was, how easily he had carried you as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“You didn’t have to be so dramatic about it,” you said, attempting to sound casual.
One of his eyebrows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in his expression.
“Dramatic?” he echoed lightly.
You nodded, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in your chest.
“Yes. Very heroic. Very… theatrical.”
A soft chuckle escaped him.
“Well,” he said, releasing you at last, though his gaze lingered warmly on your face, “if I’m to be accused of anything, I would much rather it be heroism than negligence.”
You felt your lips tug into an involuntary smile.
He stepped back then, drawing his sword again as his attention returned to the battlefield—but not before giving you one last steady look, equal parts reassurance and quiet promise.
“Stay close this time,” he said gently.
And somehow, after being swept off your feet like that, you found yourself very willing to listen.
Halsin:
The forest had turned against you.
What had begun as a routine skirmish along the edge of the wilderness had spiraled into something far more dangerous, the undergrowth thick and uncooperative beneath your boots, branches clawing at your armor as you pressed forward with stubborn determination. The air smelled of damp earth and crushed leaves, heavy with the sharp tang of sap and the distant metallic scent of blood, and somewhere above the canopy the wind howled through the treetops like a warning you had chosen, perhaps unwisely, to ignore.
You refused to retreat.
Even as the situation shifted—enemies closing in from multiple directions, the terrain growing treacherous, the ground slick with mud and scattered debris—you dug in your heels and fought harder, your breath coming fast and hot in your lungs, your muscles burning with the effort of holding your position. You could hear your companions calling out behind you, voices strained with urgency, but you blocked them out, focused entirely on the opponent in front of you and the stubborn, unyielding conviction that you could handle this on your own.
Then the ground gave way.
It happened in a heartbeat—a sudden collapse of loose earth beneath your feet, the edge of a concealed drop crumbling under your weight as you stepped forward to strike. The world lurched violently, your balance disappearing as the soil slid out from under you, sending rocks and dirt tumbling into the steep ravine below. For one terrifying instant, your stomach dropped and your arms flailed for purchase, fingers grasping at empty air as gravity threatened to drag you over the edge.
And then—
You were seized.
A massive hand clamped around your upper arm with crushing strength, halting your fall so abruptly it stole the breath from your lungs. Before you could even gasp, a second arm wrapped securely around your waist, hauling you backward with irresistible force. Your boots skidded across the unstable ground as you were dragged away from the crumbling ledge, your body lifted clear off your feet as though you weighed nothing at all.
You barely had time to register what was happening before you were pulled firmly against a broad, solid chest, your back colliding with something warm, immovable, and undeniably powerful.
“Enough.”
The word landed like a thunderclap. You froze. There was no mistaking that voice—deep, resonant, and usually so calm it carried the steady reassurance of ancient stone—but now it was edged with something sharper, something fierce and unmistakably angry.
Halsin.
He did not release you. If anything, his grip tightened, one arm locked securely around your middle while the other steadied you by the shoulder, holding you firmly in place as the last of the loose earth tumbled into the ravine below. You could feel the tension in him, the coiled strength beneath his skin, the way his chest rose and fell with controlled, measured breaths that spoke of restraint rather than calm.
You twisted slightly, still disoriented, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.
“I had it,” you protested weakly, though the words sounded hollow even to your own ears.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then he turned you. Not gently. Not carefully. But firmly—hands gripping your shoulders, guiding you around until you were forced to face him directly. His expression stopped you cold. You had never seen him like this before.
Gone was the patient warmth, the soft kindness that usually lived in his eyes. In its place burned something fierce and protective, his jaw set tight, his brow drawn low, the quiet authority he carried every day sharpened into something far more intimidating.
“You had it?” he repeated, his voice low and dangerous, each word deliberate.
Your mouth opened and quickly closed again. Because the look on his face made it very clear that this was not a conversation you were going to win.
“You nearly fell,” he continued, his tone rising slightly, frustration bleeding through the calm he usually wore so effortlessly. “You ignored every warning, every signal, every call to retreat, and you placed yourself in needless danger.”
The reprimand hit harder than any blow. You blinked at him, stunned—not by the words themselves, but by the sheer force of emotion behind them.
He was angry. Not irritated or mildly concerned. Truly, deeply angry.
“I was trying to hold the line,” you said, your voice quieter now, defensive but uncertain.
“And you would have held it from the bottom of that ravine?” he shot back immediately.
The sharpness of the retort caught you off guard. He had never spoken to you like this before. Never raised his voice. Never allowed his frustration to show so openly. And yet here he was, towering over you, his hands still planted firmly on your shoulders, his grip strong enough to keep you steady but impossible to ignore.
“You are not expendable,” he said, the words landing with heavy finality. “Not to this battle. Not to this cause. And certainly not to me.”
Your breath caught. The forest seemed to go very still around you, the distant sounds of combat fading into the background as the weight of his gaze pinned you in place.
You should have felt chastened. Embarrassed. Maybe even ashamed. Instead—Something warm and unexpected unfurled low in your chest.
Because there was something undeniably compelling about this side of him—the fierce protectiveness, the unyielding authority, the raw intensity of his concern. The way his deep voice rumbled with restrained anger, the way his broad shoulders squared as he held his ground, the way his presence filled the space around you like an unmovable force of nature.
It did something to you.
Your lips twitched. Then, despite every ounce of common sense you possessed— You smiled. Just a little. The reaction was immediate.
“Do you find this amusing?” he asked, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.
You tried—truly tried—to school your expression into something more appropriate.
“I—no,” you said quickly, though the warmth lingering in your gaze betrayed you. His jaw tightened.
“You are smiling,” he pointed out, clearly unimpressed.
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
There was a beat of silence. Then your smile widened despite yourself, a faint flush creeping up your neck as the realization settled in.
Gods. You liked this.
You liked the firmness in his voice, the way his hands remained steady and grounding on your shoulders, the protective anger burning in his expression. You liked the way he refused to back down, the way he held you accountable, the way he looked at you as though your safety mattered more than anything else in the world.
It was incredibly attractive. And he saw it.
The exact moment he realized what was happening flickered across his face—confusion first, then dawning recognition, followed swiftly by a fresh surge of exasperation.
“Incredible,” he muttered under his breath.
Your smile didn’t fade. If anything, it grew softer, more open, your eyes lingering on his face in a way that made his frustration deepen rather than ease.
“You frightened me,” he said suddenly, the words slipping out rougher than before. The honesty in them made your chest tighten.
But still— You couldn’t stop looking at him like that.
Couldn’t stop the small, stubborn warmth curling in your stomach. His hands tightened slightly on your shoulders, not enough to hurt, but enough to emphasize the seriousness of his next words.
“This is not a game,” he said firmly. “You will listen when I tell you to fall back. You will trust that I am acting to protect you. And you will not throw yourself into danger simply because your pride refuses to yield.”
You nodded slowly.
“Yes,” you said trying to sound convincing, but the soft smile remained.
His eyes narrowed again, frustration simmering dangerously close to the surface.
“You are still doing it,” he said.
“Doing what?” you asked innocently.
“Looking at me like that.”
You tilted your head slightly, feigning confusion, though the warmth in your expression gave you away completely. He exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly fighting the urge to say something more.
Something harsher. Something he would likely regret.
Instead, he released you at last, though his gaze lingered, heavy and watchful, as though he fully expected you to charge back toward the danger the moment his hands left you.
“Stay close,” he ordered.
The command was firm. Uncompromising. And, to your own quiet surprise— You found yourself smiling again.
Rolan:
The explosion of magic came out of nowhere.
One moment you were locked in a tense standoff, trading careful strikes and measured spells with the enemy forces pressing in from the edges of the ruined courtyard. The air was thick with dust and the sharp tang of ozone, the ground beneath your boots trembling faintly from the force of arcane power being hurled back and forth. You had been focused—intensely so—tracking movements, calculating distance, preparing your next strike.
Then a fireball detonated against the far wall.
The blast sent a shockwave tearing through the courtyard, rattling loose stones from the crumbling masonry and filling the air with choking smoke and swirling debris. The force knocked several fighters off their feet, and for a brief, disorienting moment, everything dissolved into noise and confusion.
You staggered but kept your footing, pushing forward through the haze, squinting against the smoke, determined to regain control of the situation before the enemy could capitalize on the chaos. Your instincts screamed to keep moving, to stay aggressive, to hold the line no matter what.
Behind you, unnoticed in the turmoil, Rolan saw exactly what you were doing and he did not hesitate. The tiefling had been stationed near the rear, hands glowing faintly with residual magic, mind racing as he assessed the battlefield with sharp, anxious precision. Normally, he preferred distance, control, and careful calculation.
Normally. But then he saw the enemy preparing another spell and he saw your foolish beautiful self walking straight into its path and something inside him snapped into place with sudden, startling clarity.
You took another step forward, coughing lightly as smoke burned in your lungs, your vision still blurred from the blast. Shapes moved in the haze ahead—enemies regrouping, weapons raised—but you pressed on stubbornly, determined to finish what you had started.
You never saw the spellcaster lift their hand. Never saw the gathering surge of arcane energy coiling into a tight, deadly sphere. Rolan did, however, and his heart lurched into his throat.
“Move!” he shouted. You half-turned at the sound of his voice, confusion flickering across your face.
“What—?”
The spell was released. There was no time. No room for careful planning. No chance to think about dignity or appearances or the fact that this was very much not the sort of dramatic heroics he wanted to display for you of all people.
Rolan ran fast—faster than you had ever seen him move—boots pounding against the stone as he sprinted straight into the heart of the danger without a second thought.
You barely had time to register the blur of motion before something slammed into you from the side. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs as arms wrapped tightly around your torso, hauling you off balance and dragging you bodily out of the path of the incoming blast.
The spell struck the ground where you had been standing an instant later, exploding in a violent burst of light and heat. You stumbled, disoriented, your ears ringing as the world tilted sideways.
“What the—?”
“Gods, are you trying to get yourself killed?” Rolan snapped. You blinked. Your vision cleared just enough to focus on the face inches from yours—flushed, breathless, eyes wide with a mixture of panic and irritation. But you recognised that voice of worried distain anywhere
Rolan. You stared at him. “Rolan?”
“Yes, Rolan,” he shot back, still gripping your arm with surprising strength. “Who else would be foolish enough to sprint into a blast zone after you?”
You opened your mouth and promptly closed it again. Because you were still trying to process the fact that he was holding you—firmly, decisively—dragging you backward through the chaos with a grip that brooked absolutely no argument.
You stumbled slightly as he pulled you behind a half-collapsed stone pillar, his hand tightening instinctively to steady you.
“I had it handled,” you protested weakly.
He stopped abruptly. Turned to face you. His expression was incredulous, similar to the look he had given to you back at the Last Light Inn when you said you would be the one to help him bring his sibling back.
“You were about to be incinerated.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were!” His voice cracked slightly on the last word, the sharp edge of fear slipping through despite his best efforts to maintain composure. You blinked at him, caught off guard.
Before you could respond, another distant explosion rattled the courtyard, sending a fresh cascade of dust drifting down from the broken walls. Without hesitation, Rolan grabbed your wrist again and pulled you farther into cover, positioning himself squarely between you and the open battlefield.
The movement was instinctive. Protective. You couldn't help but stare.
“Since when,” you managed, still breathless, “do you charge into danger like that for someone you despise like me?”
He froze for half a second, clearly realizing what he had just done. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face.
“I—well—someone had to,” he said stiffly.
You raised an eyebrow. “You tackled me.”
“I did not tackle you.”
“You absolutely tackled me.”
He bristled immediately. “I rescued you,” he corrected, drawing himself up with wounded dignity. “There is a distinction.”
You couldn’t help the small, incredulous laugh that escaped your throat. It was still surreal—being manhandled to safety by Rolan of all people, and yet here he was.
Standing close. Still holding your arm. Still breathing a little too fast. Still watching you with unmistakable concern.
“You ran straight into that,” you said quietly. His gaze flicked away for a moment, jaw tightening.
“Well,” he muttered, “you were being reckless.”
The words were defensive, but the tremor beneath them gave him away. You studied him, something warm and unexpected stirring in your chest.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
He blinked. The simple sincerity of it seemed to throw him completely off balance.
“I—yes—well,” he stammered, color creeping up his neck. “Try not to require such dramatic interventions in the future.”
You smiled faintly. “I’ll do my best.”
Raphael:
The fight had begun as so many of yours did—loud, messy, and entirely under your control, or so you believed.
Steel clashed in sharp, ringing bursts that echoed through the ruined hall, each strike reverberating up your arms and settling deep into your bones as you pushed forward with relentless determination. Dust drifted lazily from the fractured ceiling overhead, disturbed by the force of spells detonating against stone pillars and shattered walls, while the air itself seemed to hum with tension, thick with heat, smoke, and the lingering bite of magic that prickled unpleasantly across your skin. It was chaos, yes—but it was a chaos you understood, one you had learned to navigate with stubborn confidence and an almost reckless refusal to yield.
You advanced another step, breath coming hard but steady, your focus narrowing to the enemy directly in front of you. Their guard faltered under the pressure of your assault, their footing slipping slightly across the debris-strewn floor as you drove them backward with a sharp, decisive strike. Victory felt close—so close you could practically taste it—and the familiar surge of adrenaline pushed you onward, urging you to finish the fight before anyone else could interfere.
That was when the battle shifted.
It was subtle at first—a flicker of movement at the edge of your vision, the faint whisper of leather against stone behind you, the quiet repositioning of an opponent you had momentarily forgotten in the heat of the moment. But you were too focused, too determined to press your advantage, and the warning signs slipped past your notice like shadows in the dark.
Someone else noticed.
From the far side of the hall, just beyond the immediate clash of weapons and magic, Raphael watched with an expression that hovered somewhere between mild amusement and growing irritation. He stood perfectly composed amidst the chaos, doublet untouched by dust or blood, as though the violence unfolding around him were nothing more than an elaborate performance staged for his personal entertainment. His sharp gaze tracked your movements with unsettling precision, lingering not on the enemies themselves but on you—on the way you pressed too far ahead of the others, on the way your attention locked forward while danger gathered quietly behind your back.
He saw the blade rise. Saw the intent behind it. Saw how little time remained. A soft, exasperated sigh escaped him, barely audible beneath the din of battle.
“Oh, dear,” he murmured, voice smooth and low, threaded with something that sounded suspiciously like concern despite the dry humor lacing his tone. “You truly do make a habit of this and it simply will not do.”
You never saw the attack coming.
The enemy behind you moved with sudden, lethal speed, their weapon arcing downward in a clean, deadly line aimed squarely for the space between your shoulders. Your focus remained fixed on the opponent in front of you, your muscles already coiled to deliver the next strike, completely unaware of the danger closing in from behind.
Then the world shifted.
Without warning, a powerful arm wrapped around your waist, firm and unyielding, hauling you backward with startling force. Your feet left the ground entirely, the momentum of your forward motion abruptly stolen as you were yanked out of the path of the descending blade. The weapon sliced through empty air where you had been standing an instant earlier, its edge biting uselessly into the stone floor with a harsh, grating screech.
The sudden movement knocked the breath from your lungs.
“What in the hells—?!”
Your protest dissolved into confusion as you found yourself pressed against a solid, immovable chest, your back colliding with a figure who smelled faintly of musk, cherries, and unmistakable sulfur. The heat of him seeped through the layers of your armor, unsettlingly warm, and before you could fully process what had happened, a familiar voice drifted down beside your ear—silky, amused, and entirely too composed given the circumstances.
“Really,” Raphael murmured, his tone equal parts dry reproach and quiet satisfaction, “must you insist on turning every minor skirmish into a near-death experience?”
Your stomach dropped as recognition slammed into you.
You twisted immediately, bracing your hands against his chest in an attempt to push yourself free, indignation flaring hot and sharp in your chest. But his hold did not loosen. If anything, his grip tightened just enough to steady you, his arm locked securely around your middle in a way that made it abundantly clear that he had no intention of releasing you anytime soon.
“Let go of me,” you snapped, breath still uneven from the abrupt rescue.
“Mmm,” he hummed thoughtfully, as though considering the request with polite interest rather than immediate compliance. “I don’t believe I shall.”
Before you could argue further, he moved again—smoothly, effortlessly, as though the chaos of the battlefield meant nothing at all. The air around you seemed to twist and fold in on itself, reality bending subtly at the edges as he guided—no, dragged—you several paces away from the thickest part of the fighting. The shift was disorienting, the world blurring for a heartbeat before snapping back into focus as your boots touched solid ground once more.
You staggered slightly, caught off balance by the sudden displacement.
His arm was still around you. Still holding you firmly in place and entirely too close to you.
“I said let go,” you repeated, sharper this time, irritation bleeding into your voice as you struggled against his grip.
“And I heard you,” he replied calmly, unmoved. “I simply chose not to comply.”
Your temper flared. “I was handling that!”
Raphael finally released you then—but only enough for you to turn and face him fully. His hand remained on your arm, fingers curled securely around your sleeve, as though he expected you to bolt straight back into danger the moment he loosened his hold.
He regarded you with a faintly raised brow, his expression composed yet unmistakably skeptical.
“Handling it?” he echoed, voice smooth as polished glass. “My dear, you were moments away from being carved open like an overripe fruit.”
“I was not—”
“You were,” he interrupted, more firmly this time, the humor in his voice thinning just enough to reveal the steel beneath. “And while I admire your enthusiasm for dramatic heroics, I would prefer not to witness your untimely demise today.”
The words landed heavier than you expected. You crossed your arms, bristling.
“I don’t need you stepping in every time things get difficult,” you shot back, frustration bubbling over. “I’m not your responsibility. I’m not your—”
“Pet?” he supplied smoothly, the corner of his mouth curling upward in a knowing smile.
Your jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
For a brief moment, the teasing expression faded, replaced by something quieter—something more deliberate and unexpectedly sincere.
“No,” he said softly. “You are not.”
The simple acknowledgment caught you off guard, stealing the sharp edge from your anger for just a heartbeat.
But before you could respond, another blast of magic struck nearby, sending shards of stone skittering across the floor. Instinctively, Raphael stepped forward again, one hand settling against your shoulder to guide you back out of harm’s way. The motion was swift, decisive, and maddeningly protective.
You jerked away, irritation returning in full force. “I can stand on my own,” you insisted. His fingers tightened briefly, steadying you as you shifted your footing.
“Then stand somewhere less likely to get yourself killed,” he replied sharply.
For a moment, the usual theatrical arrogance slipped away entirely, revealing a flash of something deeper beneath the surface—an edge of genuine concern that unsettled you far more than his teasing ever could. The faint smile returned to his lips, smooth and composed, as though the brief crack in his mask had never existed at all.
“There we are,” he said lightly, stepping back at last and releasing you completely. “Safe and sound. A much more agreeable outcome, don’t you think?”
You straightened, brushing dust from your armor with more force than necessary, your pride still smarting from the unwanted intervention.
“I didn’t ask for your help,” you muttered.
“No,” he agreed easily, hands clasped behind his back as he regarded you with quiet amusement. “You rarely do.”
A beat passed between you, the tension lingering in the air like the fading echo of thunder.
“I had it under control,” you insisted again, stubborn to the end.
Raphael tilted his head slightly, studying you with that same unsettling intensity. “Of course you did,”
You narrowed your eyes.“I mean it.”
“And I believe you,” he replied smoothly, his voice lowering just enough to carry a hint of something more earnest beneath the polished charm. A pause. Then, softer— “I simply chose not to risk being wrong.”
The words settled heavily in your chest, unwelcome and difficult to ignore. You exhaled slowly, frustration still simmering—but now tangled with something far more complicated, something you weren’t ready to name. You shot him one last glare.
“Next time,” you said firmly, “stay out of it.”
His smile deepened, slow and knowing, as though he had already made his decision long before you spoke.
“Of course, pet."
I simply could not resist doing the spider scene for gale, I know everyone else's was during battle but I just could not pass up the opportunity.
I really hope you guys enjoyed these! I have a similar concept to this in mind, but dithering on whether or not to do it for the dark!BG3 lot or the regular companions. Decisions, decisions. Anyway hope everyone is doing well 💜- Seluney xox
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