#A Bond in Lieu | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pellucid-constellations · 1 month

Text

By the Book

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel is struggling to catch the attention of his mate. Cassian offers him some advice, but "putting the moves on you" is harder than it seems, especially since he's not a character in one of Nesta's novels.

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: Nothing much, just fluff and Azriel panicking <3

a/n: Enjoyyy :) And let me know what you think pleaseee!

Main Masterlist ♡

“Maybe you should try something different.”

“Something different?”

“Yeah,” Cassian shrugged, kicking back in his chair. “Put some moves on her, give her eyes—something interesting to gain her attention.”

“I’m not just trying to gain her attention, Cassian,” Azriel grimaced. “I—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m not an idiot. I see how you look at her. But you don’t want to scare her, you know?”

Azriel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You think I scare her?”

“No, no,” Cassian assured, lazily waving his hand in the shadowsinger’s direction. “But y/n’s new. She’s still got all the nerves of working for a high lord and being in court. And she’s kind of—well, you know.”

Azriel raised a brow, remaining silent in lieu of further questions. Cassian gave him a look, one Azriel did not replicate, and then sighed dramatically.

“Az, come on. She’s new and she’s young. She’s all innocent and skittish. If you drop all of your big feelings on her she could run for the hills.”

“She’s not that young,” Azriel refuted, face now pressed in confusion and contemplation.

“Young enough to be shocked by a mating bond so early in her life.”

Cassian’s words left a blanket of silence over the room. The fireplace crackled, the chair beneath Azriel groaned, and shadows wisped around bookshelves and walls.

“Is it obvious?”

“No,” Cassian shook his head, straightening his lax posture. “I was honestly just confirming a hunch. But now that I know…”

“What should I do?” Azriel stressed.

“Let me tell you a few things I’ve learned from Nesta’s interesting choice in literature.”

Azriel had waited all day for you to show up at the townhouse. Radiating nervous energy only visible in the way he continuously shook out his hands, the spymaster was armed with an arsenal of tactics Cassian swore by and a vigorous motivation.

Part of him had been wary of the “smooth moves” the general had shared, but another part took his brother’s warnings to heart. He didn’t want to scare you off and you were rather young. Not a child by any means, but if Azriel had found his mate within his first hundred years, he probably would have panicked.

And you were just reaching a centennial.

Gods, and Rhysand had only just hired you a few months ago.

Before Azriel could spiral and abandon his possibly catastrophic plans, you walked in.

Arm and arm with Feyre, you breezed through the front door with a canvas in hand and a laugh still fresh on your lips. Azriel wasn’t sure if it was the mating bond or just you that caused his chest to ache.

When you caught his eye, a bright smile plastering onto your face, Azriel deduced that it was just you.

“Hi, Az,” you called, unwinding yourself from Feyre and stepping close enough for Azriel to scent the paint mixing in with the sweet smell of your perfumes. “I stopped by Feyre’s studio after work. I painted the Sidra but it looks… well, just look at it.”

Azriel trailed his gaze down to the painting, but much of him was still lost in the giggle that followed your words. The “Sidra” was more of a collection of uneven lines and dots meant to be clouds, but Azriel found himself offering a few gentle compliments despite it all.

You tugged the painting down to your side with a disbelieving scoff, quirking a brow at the shadowsinger. “Do you make it a habit to lie to me, Az?”

There was paint on your cheek—just a small splotch, but enough to grab his attention.

“If she has something on her face, you reach up and get it for her. But you have to get real close and grab her face. And look into her eyes—yeah that part was important.”

Azriel’s wings rustled in anticipation at the opportunity, but he pulled them in tightly and hoped you missed the tell. The shadowsinger took a small step forward and tucked his fingers behind your ear, letting his palm press against your jaw and his thumb swipe along the paint by your nose.

One, two passes and the pigment was gone, but he hadn’t looked into your eyes yet and Cassian said that was key.

Hazel eyes shot up to meet your wide, unblinking gaze. Azriel held his hand against your skin for another moment, relishing in the feel of you as your mouth parted to take in a sharp breath. That sharp inhale was followed by a shaky exhale, and Azriel decided that was a good cue to release his hold.

And although his mind was running rampant with a slew of emotions and panicked thoughts, he took a step back and looked at his thumb nonchalantly.

“There was paint on your cheek,” he stated, because Cassian also said he needed to act stoic.

Azriel already considered himself stoic, but that was before he had held your face in his hands.

At some point, the painting in your hands had fallen to the tips of your fingertips, the canvas just barely hanging from your grip. You licked your lips and stuttered out a few incoherent utterances before landing on, “Oh, thank you.”

Azriel nodded, and a beat passed with only the whisper of shadows and the shallow intake of breath.

Until a throat was cleared behind you, and Azriel distinctly remembered that you had not walked in alone. Avoiding his high lady’s knowing gaze, Azriel jutted his hand out to a random wall in the townhouse.

“Should we hang it up?”

You were leaning against a wall in the House of Wind, forgotten drink in hand, gazing around the room with a content gleam in your eye. Rhysand had these parties every once in a while, but this was your first time attending one. The soft way you looked at his family—at Nyx and the stubborn way he escaped his parents—made Azriel’s throat tighten.

You were part of that family now too, whether you knew it or not.

You were part of him—a piece of his being just steps away.

“You put your arm above her head and talk low. If you’re feeling adventurous, a hand on her waist.”

Right. Cassian said not to scare you.

Revealing his undying love for you would most likely scare you.

Azriel abandoned his drink on a platter and closed the space between you.

Arm above your head.

Talk low.

A hand on your waist? Maybe.

This was ridiculous. Azriel knew how to talk to women. He had spoken to plenty of women and they had been more than happy to oblige him. Azriel knew he was attractive and was considering throwing this whole plan away, but then you looked up at him and he found himself placing his arm above your head anyway.

Mother save him.

He pressed in close, his forearm just inches from your head as he gave you a soft smile. “Hello,” he greeted, sure to keep his words low.

You wrapped your drink in towards your chest and smiled back, lashes fluttering as the shadowsinger held your gaze.

“Hi, Azriel,” you smiled back.

Shit, what was he supposed to do now?

“Enjoying the party?” he asked, only because you were so pretty and the bond within him was glowing with so much warmth that he could think of nothing else to say.

You hummed. “It’s rather lively. It’s nice that Rhys invites so many of his people. I really do love this court.”

I love you.

No, he couldn’t say that.

“I’m glad you approve.”

Stoic. Perfect.

A gentle conversation flowed between you. Azriel hung his head low as he discussed past parties and strangers and restaurants along common streets, and you angled your chin up so the words spoken were just breaths away. Azriel did not move from his position and you did not escape further into the wall.

“Do these go all night?” you asked, breaking eye contact for one of the first times since Azriel’s arrival.

He looked over his shoulder to follow your gaze. “Sometimes. With Nyx around, maybe not tonight.”

You took a sip of your drink.

Azriel turned back around.

The pull to you was inescapable. He glanced down at your waist, the way you had turned to your side to look at him directly, and then he reached out.

His hand fit perfectly, shadows sliding out to wrap around your body. Azriel took the time to watch how his fingers pressed up to your ribs, and then, in an act much bolder than he felt, he tugged you forward and lowered his mouth to your ear.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

You had placed your hands on his chest during his unexpected motion, your fingers tight against his shirt. “A little,” you breathily replied.

He could feel the warmth of your skin against his lips. Just a small turn of his head and he would taste it as well. His heart thumped painfully in his chest.

No, Cassian had said—

“Azriel?” Your call threw him out of his thoughts. Pulling back, he met your eye. “Are you tired, too? I think I might turn in early.”

Were you asking him to follow you?

He would follow you anywhere. For anything.

But if he were overstepping…

“Would you like me to walk you back to your room? Or fly you back to your apartment?”

You took a step back, Azriel’s hand slipping from your body.

A piece of him melted away at the loss.

You bit back what looked to be a smirk. “I got it. I’ll see you tomorrow, Az?”

He watched you walk away from him, silently cursing Cassian.

This had to have been his fault somehow.

The next opportunity Azriel got was accompanied by a flurry of concern.

He had come to walk you home from the clinic after a long day with Majda, his shadows informing him that you were tired, overworked, exhausted. When he opened the door to your disheveled figure slumped over a counter, the bond within him sent him rushing to you. Or perhaps it was just an intrinsic drive—just the love he held for you.

“The hair is a big one. Tuck it back behind her ear. The males in Nesta’s books always go for that one.”

To be honest, Azriel wanted to do much more than tuck your hair behind your ear. He wanted to wrap you in his arms and fly you home and tuck you into bed. But Cassian had warned him against grand acts, so the shadowsinger accepted your tired smile with a soft one of his own.

“A bad day?” he softly asked, tilting his head to the side and leaning over the counter.

His hands fell just a small breadth from yours.

You sighed in agreeance, forehead meeting the wood between you before turning back up to the male. “Come to laugh at me?”

Your hair had fallen into your face.

“Never,” Azriel whispered. “I’ve come to walk you home.”

“Hmm, always walking me somewhere, aren’t you?”

A confused smile graced the shadowsinger’s face, and then he took his brother’s advice and brushed fingers against your temple, sweeping your hair from your eyes. His touch ran down the slope of your ear, your lashes fluttering at the texture of his skin. Azriel gave into temptation and traced a line down your jaw as well, taking advantage of the tire that seemed to overcome you as you leaned into his touch.

Cassian’s tips seemed to work so much better when the two of you were alone.

But not too well, Azriel reminded himself, the male beginning to pull his hand from your face.

You caught his wrist in your unsteady hand.

“When are you going to tell me?” you accused, a slight squint in your eye. “I really do appreciate all of the stops you’re pulling out, but I’m wondering when you’ll stop walking me home and start being honest.”

Azriel’s mouth parted in shock. “What do you—”

“The hand on my waist was a good touch, I will say. I didn’t think you’d go that far. Especially not after you forgot to kiss me and instead offered to hang up my gods-awful painting.”

Azriel felt his face begin to heat. There was no way you had picked up on his flirting so quickly. But, Azriel thought in mortification, he had been stiff, paused too many times trying to remember Cassian’s words. Maybe he had been obvious.

Oh, Gods.

“Azriel,” you called. A soft call accompanied by a slight tilt of your head. He looked at you despite himself, lost in the haze you created in his mind. “Are you going to tell me now?”

Cassian had been wrong, clearly, because the way you looked at him was so sure. You held his hand against your face and a tired smile still lit up your features and you didn’t look scared at all.

And then the bond within him moved.

A tug.

And then another

You had known all along.

“You’re my mate.” He stumbled over the words, each falling from his mouth with haste. “My mate.”

“I am,” you whispered, turning his hand on your cheek to press a kiss to his palm. “And you are mine.”

“I’m going to kill Cassian,” Azriel mumbled under his breath, but the sound was lost between breaths as you surged forward to kiss him.

And Gods, did he kiss you back. He kissed you and kissed you and forgot every bit of advice from Nesta’s books, because he didn’t need it. All he needed was you and every iteration of the future that was now promised between lips.

He should have known better than to ask for advice.

You were his mate.

He didn’t need sly moves to win you over.

He didn’t need anything. Just you.

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x female!reader #azriel x y/n #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel fanfic #azriel spymaster #acotar #acotar fanfiction

2K notes · View notes

bookjunkiez · 2 years

Text

In Lieu of a Princess Blitz

(#1 The Royals & Rebels Series) Historical Romance, Regency Romance, Sweet Romance, Romantic Suspense Date Published: November 10, 2022 “This isn’t her Royal Highness,” the headmistress told the man and the woman who were staring at Lucinda with their mouths hanging open. “But it could be.” These words turn the life of Lucinda North upside down. Within hours, she agrees—against her…

View On WordPress

#HISTORICAL ROMANCE #In Lieu of a Princess #Meredith Bond #Regency Romance #romantic suspense #Sweet Romance

0 notes

darkstaria · 6 days

Text

Yandere Batfam - Soulmate Soul Animal AU.

Chapter 1:

Chapter 2.

Dark pupils watched from the ceiling, their gaze affixed upon you. You sighed, deciding to ignore its presence.

An aggravated chitter interrupted you. Pausing, you watched as a little green bird jumped out of the bat’s shadow. It paced towards you, making a small leap to land on your outstretched finger. You smiled, extending your hand to pet the top of its head. The bird took a moment to consider the moment, head tilting with its beak outstretched as if it intended to bite you. It seemed to decide on sparing your finger, allowing you to give the bird some pets on the head.

However, it was time to resume your work. You turned back to your computer, a dismissal. The bird didn't like that. A quick flash, and the bird tittered about on your keyboard, messing up your setup.

“Robin!” You snap, reaching out as if to push the bird away.

You sighed. You disliked calling the bird Robin. It was the correct species, despite the bird being green, so it made sense to use the name. But.. you hated the connection it created between your soul bonded animals and the vigilantes of the city. Unfortunately, the bird didn't answer to any other name. You've tried.

The other robins were so much more agreeable than this newer one. Well, not that you could even call those three robin anymore. The newer robin was very possessive of the name, and you'd rather not have to search your room for more stray feathers that flew off in their next fight. Your soul animals were such a pain.

The flutter of wings distracts you from your musings. You look up, finding the very bat you had been so cautiously avoiding earlier descend onto your desk. The bat chirped a little, with the robin occasionally replying back with chirps of its own. They were having their own conversation.

You decided you were owed a break already, so you gave up on your dreams of getting work done in lieu of watching the ongoing conversation. It was rare for soul animals to talk. They didn't need to. Due to the nature of a soul bond, soul animals act on the innermost feelings of the soul they represent. The bond connects souls, so soul animals, which are a manifestation of the bond, are already intune with their soulmates.

The only instance in which soul animals did tend to talk, was if the soulmates themselves were talking.

Robin chittured with a snap, the bat in return giving a controlled chirr.

Oooh. You thought to yourself. This sounds like an argument. You wondered what it was about. Maybe Robin pecked one too many victims, or caused a mess again.

Ah. You were thinking of your bonded as just animals again. To be fair, it was fairly easy. The only things you knew of your soulmates were because of how the animals acted. Anything else, and you were in the dark. That's how you wanted to think, anyway.

Maybe while they were distracted… You scoot back a little in your chair, until you figure you’re out of their line of sight. You make for the door, tipping out of your seat as quietly as you can. You're almost out the door when a weight settles itself on your head.

You sigh.

“Robin. Get off me, please.”

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the presence doesn't budge. Obliging, you reach up to your head, feeling the bird’s little feet jump onto your hand. Bringing Robin to eye level, you stare at it, unimpressed.

A nearby bat of wings draws you out of your faceoff. Guess sneaking out on your own was too much to ask for, as always.

“Ughhh.” You whine. Your soulmates were going to push you into complete isolation at this rate.

“Fine. You two already know the drill.”

You point at the Bat. “You can never follow me, I mean it. A bat is way too ominous of a soul animal to be flying around. It's just asking for trouble.”

The Bat remains silent, watching. Always, watching. You really hated it sometimes.

In all honesty, a robin wasn't too great of a soul animal to have with you in Gotham either. But your robins came in odd colours, so people didn't always clock that the bird was actually a robin. Sometimes you said that your soul animal was a greenfinch or a swallow. It tended to work, as long as no one looked twice.

A bat was much harder to hide.

“So..”. You give up, gesturing to your bag. “Just get in already, I'll make the trip quick.” You always had to make any outings short with this particular robin. If you spent too long with someone it got snippy. Very, snippy.

The other three robins tended to be a bit more accommodating. Well, not by much.

Robin glides into your bag, a movement of precision and grace. Not for the first time, you wonder what your bonded was like in person.

Deciding to dismiss the thought, you unlatch your door, heading out.

Just another day, with your soulmates.

~ ~ ~ ~

Your parents told you about your birth. You were born to a bat watching your window. It wasn't such a red flag, at first. The maternity ward was flush with newborn babes, so your parents figured that the bat was bound to another child. It was what they had hoped for, anyway.

Plenty of children weren't born with soulbonds. It wasn't a concern. They could be the elder of a bond. Or, they could have a delayed bond. They weren't concerned.

But… then it followed you home. Your parents settled you down, snug in your crib. When they next came to check up upon you, it was there. Perched upon the crib, watching you. When they next blinked, it was gone.

The very next day, your parents awoke to the Bat watching you again. But this time, a smaller bird was snuggled to your sleeping face. It clung to you all day, refusing to disappear when they appeared like the Bat did. It was… very mouthy.

They had assumed this to be a good development, everyone knew The Night worked alone. They were happy.

They were happy, even when another robin appeared the subsequent day. A scruffy one, snappy. Its feathers were still growing out. Young.

Perhaps they should have expected then, that the dawn the next new day would bring another little bird to your crib. The youngest one, a nestling still developing pin feathers. Despite its age, it held a keen gaze at them.

There weren't any more animals that appeared after that. So they hid any evidence of the Bat, and instead allowed you to grow up freely with your three birds.

The Bat was evidently the oldest in your soulbond. It was protective, almost parental, in its movements. It had a sixth sense for when you were in any danger, always emerging from the shadows with perfect timing. If a bat wasn't such a symbolic image in Gotham, you'd probably be more appreciative of its efforts.

The eldest bird was silly, performing aerial tricks and jumps that always brightened your day. It was keen, focusing on you whenever you felt down. It had the uncanny ability to appear whenever you were under the weather. When you said the word robin, it snapped to attention.

You decided to call it Robin.

The second bird was protective. It wasn't as loud as the eldest, but there was a spark of kindness in its gaze. Originally the bird was a lot rougher, but it started to calm down a few years in. Became stable. It always seemed to find you when you got stuck on homework, or landed on your shoulder whenever you flipped through a book.

The third bird was small. You assumed it was only a year or two older than you, due to how the bird’s feathers grew in. It wasn't as affectionate as the other two. Solitary, it often lingered in the shade. It watched you. It watched your other soul animals too, when they appeared. It seemed a little tired. It took you a bit, but eventually you realised it was lonely. After that, you always had a comforting word.

That is… until the Batman gained a partner. A boy decked out in green and yellow, the same feathers on your eldest bird. The vigilante called itself Robin.

As the duo gained notoriety, you were hidden more and more. There was danger in soulbonds, and nothing was more dangerous than vigilantes.

Robin became Nightwing. Your eldest bird grew in blue feathers. The bird stopped responding to its name. A new boy became Robin. You spotted green and yellow feathers growing in on your second bird. It started answering to Robin.

You knew who your soulmates were. After that, it was no secret. Not to you, not to your parents.

Your parents weren't happy anymore. But you were safe. They could be content with that. They considered reaching out. The evidence was obvious, they knew it, and you knew it. Maybe you could be even safer, if the Batman knew where you were.

And then you watched your Robin die.

The little bird had been stuck to you recently, seeming to be in an argument with the Bat. When in conflict, soul animals gravitated to those they weren't in disparity with, and this was nothing unfamiliar to you.

You had been stroking the little bird, as it rested on your lap. But then it jumped. It started shaking. It started crying. Bleeding.

You panicked. You tried to comfort it, to whisper caring words, to give a reassuring touch. You were young, you didn't know what to do. There was nothing you could do.

When a soulmate dies, the soul animal dies too.

The little Robin died, crying in your lap.

You had never looked at vigilantes the same way again.

There was no point in denial, not after that. Your bat became the Bat, the eldest robin named Wing. A few days later, your youngest soul animal developed new feathers. Green… and red. You didn't have a name for the bird, but you suspected you would soon.

You took a week off school.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Please be quiet, this time.” You muttered down to the green bird resting in your bag. It started at you with a condescending gaze. Ugh. Younger soulmates.

You'd sigh, but you've been doing that far too much lately as is.

Time to get this over with.

You enter the supermarket, one of your very few weekly outings. You start perusing the shelves, picking out what was in your list. As you're walking though, you hear a frustrated bark. You peak out from the shelves, spotting a lone woman tugging a leashed dog along.

Ah. You knew what this was. Everyone did. The other shoppers in the store paused too, staring at what was going on.

It was a rejected bond. When feelings between single soulbonded individuals become too bitter, the soul animal dissipates. Well, it was supposed to, and then reappear when feelings improve. But if the animal was constrained in some manner, then the animal can't disappear and is forced to remain in a physical form.

Judging from the leash on the dog’s neck, this was that same scenario. It was rather bold of the woman to bring the soul animal out in public if it was rejecting her like this. Almost brave.

Gothamites rarely helped each other, but things became a little sensitive with soul animals. You wouldn't be too surprised if there wasn't at least one attempt to free the dog today. It certainly caught attention. It could even catch.. vigilante attention.

You frowned. It was a shame to cut one of your few outings short. Sometimes there was no alternative though. You certainly wouldn't be sticking around.

You jumped at the sound of a shriek, eyes darting down to your bag where Robin rested. Robin glared venomously at your shoulder, and you glanced at it.

Your shoulder where… Ah. That would do it. Your shoulder where Red rested. Your third robin. You felt like crying. Why, why this pair?

You didn't even feel the bird as it appeared. Was that a testament to Red's stealth or your lacking observational skills?

Robin glared daggers at Red, practically hissing. You didn't even know birds could hiss. Red paid him no mind, instead looking very settled on your shoulder. The bird even snuggled your face a little. What a smug guy.

Another bark caught your attention. You glanced forward, remembering the scene. Your soul animal’s squabbling would draw too much attention. If any of the vigilantes were watching, you'd be in trouble. One robin soul animal was potentially excusable. But two? That would get you caught.

You tried to shush the two, a small signal for them to knock it off. Naturally, because it was these two, they ignored you. You groaned. This was far too public.

You grabbed Red, snatching him off your shoulder as gently as you could. Placing him gently into your shoulder bag, you tried your best to pretend the resulting screech from Robin wasn’t noticeable. The flap of your bag was closed, so no one could spot them… They could certainly hear if they came close enough though.

Time to leave. You paid for what you picked up and dashed out. The sight of rejected soulmates was generally considered disturbing, so anyone watching could just attribute your rush to that.

Were you paranoid?

Mayhaps a little.

You've justified it by the fact that you're probably soulmates with Batman and 4 robins, so paranoia is practically a requirement for your soul.

____

Hello ^ ^ welcome to my soulmate au! I do hope you enjoyed.

If you have any questions about the au, please feel free to reach out :D

421 notes · View notes

bonefall · 1 day

Text

Oh my God I'm so glad that others are going through Onestar's Concussion and seeing all the same shit I did. Since it's been a while I was worried maybe I overreacted but NO it really does all that

Narrative HAMMERING IN their unnecessary family tree update making Heathertail and Breezepelt first cousins once removed

Whitetail's personality being Wife and the sheer amount of emphasis on Onestar thinking about His Wife

The way it seems to be avoiding Onestar's bond with Firestar as the central theme of the book, in lieu of focusing on Onestar's Wife, who they assure you is VERY important to him

The bald-faced double standard in how Onestar is treated by the narrative vs Yellowfang and literally any other woman

Darktail Born Evil. Just. Everything about Darktail, from his evil baby blue eyes, to how he attacked a human seemingly unprovoked, to Onestar's "destiny" in life to kill his child and he never could have saved him from the Evil Baby Essence inside him anyway

Its general lack of drama and awful pacing simply making it an unpleasant read

It's bad Todd. One of the worst SEs that's been put out yet, imo. It should go in a special tier with other "Retcap" SEs that just recap and retcon material we've already covered.

#Onestar's Confession #Warrior cats analysis

120 notes · View notes

i-am-trying-my-best-okay · 3 months

Text

Season Three Bridgerton Predictions (Mostly Just Stuff I Want To Happen)

With Charithra Chandran not coming back in season three, they're going to excuse Edwina's absence by saying she married the prince and is living with him in Prussia.

We get flashbacks of Colin and Penelope as kids, where they were closer, but then we see them get distant because of ✨️society✨️ sending them on different paths.

Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth start having a few relevant and independent character moments and actions other than just being 'the younger ones' and have a greater impact on the story.

So. Much. Jealousy. From. Colin. And he doesn't even know it. He sees all their lessons paying off, and he gets jealous, but then he has no idea what he's even feeling. He'll act so passive aggressive with a potential suitor and Penelope's will be like, "What's wrong with you; we had a plan?" And he's like, "I don't know??" "Well stop." "I can't????" He'll land to the conclusion that he just think these men aren't good enough for Penelope for so long. It'll come up in a big argument and she's all like, "Well whose good enough for me? Someone like you?" And then he's like "Yes! Oh." And Penelope is so annoyed because NOW this guy likes her? Just as she was trying to move on? But the thing is she still likes him, so things progress.

Eloise and Penelope avoid each other like the plague, but when Eloise finds out Penelope and Colin are kind of having a thing, and she flips out. She doesn't want Colin to get hurt, so she tells Penelope to steer clear from Colin or she'll tell everyone she's Lady Whistledown. So she does and Colin is very confused and hurt. Then Penelope and Eloise go through some sort of shenanigan and end up having a deep conversation, making up and are once again friends. But then Colin accidently does find out Penelope is Lady Whistledown and is hurt, and Eloise becomes Penelope's #1 defender.

Kate's pregnant, and has the baby within the season. Anthony is freaking out about this; about being a dad, about the baby being okay, about Kate being okay, and how difficult the birthing process will be (trauma from Hyacinth being born). Meanwhile, while Kate is worried about the baby, she's more so focused on what responsibilities she now has as a Viscountess.

They don't reveal the Whistledown secret, at least not to the general public. I think the Bridgerton's will find out, as well as the Featherington's; so when Portia finds out, she sees Penelope in a completely different light, and they have a bonding moment. Maybe in lieu of a big reveal like in the book, at the end of the season the Queen finds out, and instead of exposing her, now she and Penelope sort of work together, aligning their agendas. This elevates the importance of Penelope's work, low key spying for the Queen and reporting on things to manipulate general society. BUT I think Eloise is leaning more to the politically radical side of things, and Penelope's work is now sort of leaning in the opposite direction of that. Despite this, they still find a way to be close friends, despite their very different agendas.

Colin does a big gesture on how he's proud of being with Penelope, that he'll flaunt it in public for all to know.

#bridgerton #polin #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington #eloise bridgerton #edwina sharma #francesca bridgerton #gregory bridgerton #hyacinth bridgerton #anthony bridgerton #kate sharma

291 notes · View notes

hwanchaesong · 26 days

Text

━⁠☞🍽️First Course: It's always this, it's always that. The never ending demands you have failed to meet. How much more can you take of this bitter situation? 🥢

🎧: Olivia Rodrigo - Enough For You

wc: 1.4k

genre & warnings: angst angst angst (no happy ending here with hj), reader learns how love must work in a relationship, lovers to exes, marriage, other idols appearance, cursing, insecurity, just pure angst :D

a/n: this is a part of The Sour Restaurant series. if y'all want, you can read the other album inspired fics of other groups here.

You watch Seonghwa and Mina sway to the romantic music for their first dance as a newly wed couple, and your heart flutters with joy seeing them so happy.

No, jealousy was never an option for this one because you've seen their journey together. How their relationship blossomed and now, they are entering a new phase of their lives together. It was truly magnificent.

"Hey. Mind if I join you?" a voice brought you out of your reminiscing, turning your head to look at the source and you were dumbfounded to the core.

The man that you have been avoiding for the rest of the day is standing in front of you in his full glory, an awkward yet hopeful smile on his face as he awaits your answer.

"Yeah, Hongjoong. Go Ahead." you replied, returning the smile before sipping the now warm champagne in the goblet that you have been ignoring for the past few minutes in lieu of admiring the pair in the middle of the reception area.

A moment of silence, and he dared to break it.

"It's been a while since I last saw you. How's life?" he inquired, making small talk and you fight off the urge to leave him there alone, but no can do, you're not gonna be childish in the presence of your ex-boyfriend.

"It was good," then you paused, blinking and correcting yourself, "no actually, I have been living the best life."

He was taken aback at your slightly ironic tone, not used to the way you're speaking, like you're a completely different person after your separation, and only a month has passed since.

"Well, as for me.."

He trails and you roll your eyes, you did not ask how he's doing and certainly not interested. But you maintain your poise, not wanting him to see that he's having a negative effect on you.

"I've been miserable... without you, at least."

You whipped your head to look at him incredulously, an aghast scoff coming out of you unconsciously at his audacity to tell you that.

Wasn't he the one who decided to end your relationship? He was the one who destroyed a 5-year long bond, so what the fuck is he on about?

"Are you serious?" he looked offended when you asked him that, like he was pulling a stunt or something but who could blame you?

"Why would I even joke about that?" he mutters back, frowning when your confused expression turns into an appalled one.

He really isn't serious, right?

After all the shit that you have to go through because he's always wanting, needing, and looking for more in you.

You've never really seen the importance of going outside all glammed up, your friends and family have always complimented your bare face. A natural beauty, as they liked to call you. Then you saw the girls that he dated back when he was younger, and it made you insecure.

So you learned how to do hair and make-up. Buying expensive ass hair curlers, eyeshadows, foundations, lipstick, brushes and all that shit just for him to say to not notice what you have been doing.

You observed him to no end, taking notes of his likes and dislikes. His favorite dishes and drinks, colors and style of clothing, heck, you even memorized the song that he's been humming to for days.

The books beside his bed and on his shelves weren't left untouched by you. Every page was read dutifully so you could relate to him whenever he tells you a story about a recent book that he had bought.

But it seems that your efforts were all in vain, as there is always something that is lacking in you.

"The colors of your outfit are not matching."

"Oh, I'm actually trying a new kind of coffee today."

"No, wrong author, I can't believe you'll make a mistake about this."

It may be the emotional attachment or the undying commitment that you hold dear for him are the reasons why you continued to change yourself for him. In your eyes, he is absolutely perfect, and you're determined to fit in his aesthetic.

You were determined to make him accept you.

But as they all say, the more you burn, the more you turn yourself into ashes that will inevitably crumble.

And the snapping point was nigh when you're tired and he couldn't even bat an eye on your well-being.

"Is that what you're wearing tonight?" Hongjoong eyes your appearance, black dress and clean hair and make-up, and if you ask anyone, they'll say that it's simple yet elegant.

Truth to be told, you don't have the energy to go all out for the event that you're attending. Still, you did your best to look presentable, and you did a great job, you think.

It was a hellish week for you. Finals are coming up and you're dying from all the studying, you're also struggling in your part-time job because of the lack of sleep. The worst one was the nagging of your parents, constantly asking you about your plans for the future.

Everything was taking a toll on you and the last thing that you wanna hear came from the very same person that should have been a source of comfort.

Hongjoong sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Just.. stay put in one place. I can't have you embarrassing me further than this."

There you go, you lost it.

"Embarrass you?" a deriding tone rode along with your words, "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Y/N, do you see yourself? I told you to do your best, and this isn't what I envisioned." he mumbles, expression souring when you exuded such an attitude in his words.

"Ah." it was flat, the way you said it, as you were suddenly hit with the realization that even when you restart and destroy yourself, it will never be fucking enough for him.

Gosh, he could've at least acted better. Feigned care and faked affection, but he can't even give you that.

And you're so fucking done with his bullshit.

"I will not come with you anymore. Go alone." you muttered, turning in your heels and heading to the bedroom.

"What? Y/N, stop being a child."

"No, Hongjoong. I need you to stop being a know-it-all, go fuck yourself."

That was the first time you stood up for yourself, and damn did it feel good. Like you're finally free from his restraints, and it's addicting.

He rolls his eyes at you, muttering a 'Suit yourself.' and exiting the house, not even an ounce of concern at your sudden outburst, and that was all you needed to make a cathartic decision.

That was the day you left without a trace, and you can finally breathe without him cursing you into the darkness of being inadequate.

He blew your phone up, messaging and calling you, and you were disappointed when it ceased just after a day. It says a lot about him though, on how much of an asshole he is.

Especially after a mere three days and he's already posting a new bimbo in his social media accounts.

At the present time, you're tempted to spill the alcohol in his face and probably ruin his expensive suit.

How could you even believe him that he's serious, that he's not kidding when he made you feel like a clown.

You chuckle, staring straight ahead, "Did your new girl dump you or something?"

"No. I just realized that it's different, you know? If it's not with you then it doesn't feel right." he admits, looking down at his shoes because frankly, he is ashamed of gazing into your eyes.

You couldn't help but ridicule him, standing up from your seat and straightening your dress, shooting him a dangerous glare, "I told you this before, and I'd repeat it a thousand times."

You smile wickedly, flipping him off, "Go fuck yourself."

You walk away, not paying attention to his desperate calls, the polite facade is gone in the wind and the only thing that you could think of is that you're not gonna allow him to break your heart and soul anymore.

You have only started to regain your true self, not the image that he wanted you to have, and you'll be damned if you'll let him get inside your head again.

Kim Hongjoong was a lesson, one that you'll never forget and never forgive. Maybe you loved him too much, but at least you now know that if someone truly loves you, that person will accept you for who and what you are.

taglist:

@acciocriativity @iarayara @stolasisyourparent @shakalakaboomboo @xdannix @nsixns

117 notes · View notes

iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia · 4 months

Text

The Arcana HCs: M6 with an MC who's been through SA

~ here's some angst/hurt/comfort, friends. I've held off on writing this for so long because I know it's a heavy topic, but considering how I've yet to meet a femme-presenting person who hasn't been through this and how unacknowledged masc-presenting survivors are, I figured it was worth a shot. you are seen, you are loved, you did not deserve it, and you are more than worthy of good things <3 ~

CW for, obviously, references to SA (sexual assault) and descriptions of related triggers. Rated PG-13

PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS IF IT WOULD DO YOU MORE HARM THAN GOOD

-- for headcanon purposes, the details of MC's experience (what happened and when) are up to the reader's interpretation and comfort level. However, MC is able to remember it by the beginning of the prologue --

Julian

When you first tell him about it, you can almost hear his heart cracking with every word. He's pained and horrified

And he's not going to interrupt or make it about him. He carefully navigates himself to put all of his attention into listening to you without his presence being suffocating or overwhelming

Heartbroken

Waits until you've finished talking, and gently asks if he can ask you a few more questions in a medical capacity

He'll never, ever press you to share details that you're not comfortable with, but he understands the human body and given how much he cares about yours, he wants to make sure you're ok

If there's anything medical/physical that needs to be addressed and if you're comfortable with it, he'll do the gentlest, safest job of taking care of you that he's ever done in his life

His greatest impulse is to wrap you up in a hug and tuck your head under his chin and swirl his cloak around you like a pair of wings until you're all bundled up and safe

But he doesn't want to touch without permission, and - oh, please tell him his particularly blatant brand of flirting didn't bother you. Or if it did, please do tell him, because he never wants to hurt you

Walks on eggshells for each physical progression of your relationship because he's terrified of discovering your boundaries the wrong way, quick to establish that none of it is your fault

Never, ever lets you think less of yourself for it

Asra

When they first heard about it, they physically froze in place

He said very little. The only spoken words on his end were either to invite you to talk about it, or to comfort you. He spent most of the time with his hand over his mouth and pain and anger in his eyes

Their determination to never impose their feelings on you tripled, and much of their tendency to leave on such physically distanced trips came from wanting to preserve your personal living space

Made sure to teach self defense moves, both physical and magical

Long after your relationship turns from friendship to romance, he continues to ask every time he shares a sleeping space with you if it's okay, and is always happy to snooze nearby instead

Double and triple checks which kinds of touch you're okay with when they want to be affectionate with you. They can hold your hand, but please don't grab your wrist? They won't even touch it

Given how connected your bond makes you, both emotionally and physically, he's very careful about establishing boundaries

They can tell you're struggling emotionally - is it okay if they try feeling it with you?

He's on a trip, and wants you to feel a hug - is it okay if he sends his touch to you like that? Would you rather touch him instead?

Both versatile and creative when it comes to finding ways to share love without triggering you - wrapping their shawl around you in lieu of a hug, playfully sitting on their hands to share a kiss

If time heals all wounds, love turns the wreckage into a garden

Nadia

Her chin snapped up and the look in her eyes became so fierce when you first mentioned it that you almost became afraid

Which is why her whole demeanor shifted into something both soft and protective for the rest of the conversation. Tell her everything you're willing to, and then please let her take care of you

She's extremely gentle with you afterwards, until she's once again sure of what kind of physical and relational dynamic you want

She knows there's nothing wrong with her liking to take the lead, but she loves you and the last thing she wants is for her preference to play into your trauma. She does bring this up in conversation

What are you comfortable with her initiating? What are things she can change about how she initiates touch to make you feel safer and give you more freedom to speak your preferences?

Very, very gently asks if there's anything she's done so far that has bothered you, and offers you the most loving, sincere apology

Goes out of her way to make sure that you always have accommodations to let you ensure your own safety

Crowded party? She's got a quiet room to slip into if you need it, with a guard at the entrance and a signal if you need to retire

You don't like to feel restricted/touched in certain ways? Everything from your clothing to the jewels she gifts you are tailored to feel as safe and protected as possible

Nobody knows what happened to the person who harmed you, but you never hear from them again. At all

Muriel

You swear you could see him shrink a little when he first heard

It was like a little bit of life left his eyes, and all that was leftover was a deep, respectful, shared grief

It's not as if he can relate to the type of harm you experienced specifically, but he knows what it's like to have his body exploited and objectified for someone else's gain, and he knows it hurts

That's most of how things proceed at first - he doesn't drastically alter his behavior around you (let's be honest, he never touched you without knowing it was safe for both of you to do so)

But he does move differently around you. Even fewer sudden noises, body language designed to be as non-threatening as possible, a small, reassuring nod anytime you make eye contact

(though in that last case, the nod happens as he's flicking his eyes away and blushing at being caught)

Anything he can do to acknowledge your personal space and physical autonomy, he does, and he doesn't stop doing it

The more you find yourself comfortable opening up about what happened, or at least, how what happened has affected you, the more easy he finds it to open up to you in turn

Hypervigilant about how other people perceive you and their intentions with your personal space. Can and will scare off anybody shady with his perfected stinkeye

Always, always, always touches you like you're something precious, never without asking, with gentleness and reverence

Portia

She still feels a little bad about how extreme her outburst was when you first talked to her about it, when what she really wanted to do was give you a safe space to express yourself

Jaw dropped, a loud indignant "What?!", and then her chin wobbling with rage while her eyes began to well up with tears

Oh she wanted to scoop you into a hug so bad while she cried for you, but she knew that wasn't what you needed

Quick to make a time and space as calm and cozy and safe as possible to talk about it more with you, with fuzzy blankets and tea and snacks to make it a little less unpleasant

Not pushy at all, but not hesitant to ask you questions, both about what happened, and about how you feel about it and how that changes the way you do relationships and touch

Couldn't help crying for you on and off the whole time, but used her handkerchief quietly and refused to take attention from you

She's the most touchy-feely, so she's quick to ask you questions about what kinds of affection you're okay with receiving in general, what kinds you'd like to be asked about first, what to avoid, etc

Already the type of person who picks up on social vibes quickly, she never hesitates to steer you away from a shady character

And now that she's seen how it impacts your life, she's quick to ask around about people with weird vibes, and warn both you and anyone who seems like they might be vulnerable to them

Dedicated to reminding you how important you are every day

Lucio

He didn't get what you were talking about (beyond being able to tell that you were describing a past unpleasant experience) until you straight up told him without beating around the bush

Shocked, and later, furious

It ends up being a conversation you have to come back to, because once he gets a rough idea of what happened, he's spending half an hour pacing and brandishing his gauntlet and spewing threats

How dare they - how dare anyone think for a moment that treating someone as incredible as you is okay? He is throwing them in the dungeon. He's not Count anymore, but he'll find a way!

Doesn't think for a second that you could be remotely to blame

Which means he also doesn't think to remind you that it's not your fault and that you haven't somehow become worse for the experience until you bring up those feelings

He will happily rage about all the good things you deserve if you do

He knows you're strong and capable, but the thing he intuitively wants to do is make you feel safe. Whether that be by keeping watch while you sleep, or standing between you and strangers

Not very used to restraining himself when he wants to fling himself at you for a hug, and it takes a little trial and error for both of you to figure out what sudden affection feels safe and what doesn't

Won't hesitate to pull his sword on anyone crowding into your space or making you uncomfortable

Never sees you in the shadow of your pain. You are you - that's all

#ask arcana brainrot #the arcana #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #the arcana game #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

191 notes · View notes

guywrestlingaddiction · 3 months

Text

What Turned me Gay: The first BGeast match I purchased - Troy & Brian Baker v Vinny Trevino & Joshua Goodman (bgeast.com)

It's no secret that Bgeast turned me gay. The combination of hot men in compromising situations, muscles straining, humiliating holds; all summed up to ignite something inside of me. Now while all of that is worth a post in itself, I wanted to devote this time to rekindle a memory specifically about the first Bgeast match I watched, Tag Team Torture 3.

What turned me gay (not really) ...

Troy & Brian Baker v Vinny Trevino & Joshua Goodman (bgeast.com)

This post, inspired by the sidelineland.com blog, takes a tongue and cheek look into "what made me gay (not really)" and in thinking about the topic of gay wrestling, it's helpful to go back to the beginning - at least my beginning as a gay wrestling fan.

The Background Now, when I first viewed Tag Team Torture 3, I had no idea what to expect. Sure I had watched porn before, but the default for porn back then (and now) was a cheesy few minutes of story line followed by emotionless hard core action. In those scenes the guys refused eye contact with each other, closed their eyes, and probably thought of their girlfriends or something while they did the deed so in a very big way, bgeast was different.

Baker and Baker - two reasons why I purchased this match. Beefier Brian and Tasty Troy.

In hindsight, I love the Backstreet Boy Look on Mr. Joshua. This was a very popular look back then - Highlights and a Soul Patch.

And boy was Tag Team Torture 3 different, from the opening scene I realized that the focus was on the wrestling and everything, from the guys lifting weights, to the trash talk; all of this led up to struggle between men.

Troy and Brian bonding before the match. They build each other up saying stuff in the tone of 'you're the best, no you're the best'. They support and encourage each other ... at least for now.

Compare that to the other team, bragging about how much they can bench or talking shit about their opponents the "beach boys". There's no building anyone up here, simply tearing the pretty boys down.

In lieu of porn which hurried to climax and rushed to "get the job done", gay wrestling highlighted the emotions exchanged between our guys and what is sex really except a bundle of intense emotions.

The Action Finally, 20 minutes in the guys start to wrestle. I told you that gay wrestling takes it's time and slowly savors each and every popping bicep and ab and now we have the Troy Baker reveal and boy was it worth the wait...

Troy knows what we're all here for.

And later, Troy swooning over himself. The man and I are on the same wave length when it comes to admiring that body.

But all that muscle just begs to be abused.

Brian Baker is the powerhouse but he can't fight off two men by himself and it's clear that Troy is more interested in himself than on the match.

Mr. Joshua multitasking by dominating and making his infamous "adjustment". I love how the back of his hand goes straight from his package to smacking Brian on the back of his head.

Brian: [exasperated]: Lookout Troy!

Vinny: You like that surfer boy? Troy: *Moan*

The Finale At this point our heroes are done for. All that camaraderie, the hours at the gym spent sculpting those muscles, all of that vanishes and we are left with a beaten Troy Baker.

To further the point, our heels double team the helpless Troy while his brother watches on. Further emphasizing that there is no coming back from this one.

Troy's abs of steel are put to the test with yet another barrage of abuse. That golden tan is starting to turn a shade of pink as even those abs of steel have their limits.

But the real crescendo for this match comes at the end. When Brian seems to triumph despite the odds and an upset looks possible, that is until a weakened Troy folds under our heels. It's that moment followed by a betrayal when our gay wrestling saga is complete and the Baker Brothers are finally broken with sound and fury.

In hindsight it's obvious to see why gay wrestling sucked me in and became my obsession. I've always loved the emotional highs when I wrestled in high school and bgeast perfectly captured those stories of struggle and dominance multiplied by like 1,000. You see this story, told through sweat and humiliation is so vivid, so real, that the feelings I get now from watching a 20 year old tag team match are the same as when I first saw them and is undoubtedly what turned me gay (not really).

#gay wrestling #bgeast.com #Troy Baker #Brian Baker #Vinny Trevino #Joshua Goodman

123 notes · View notes

cx-boxbox · 25 days

Text

I was going to write a fic about Lando wanting to wear pretty clothes, but I gave up after a couple scenes. Anyway, here's the only part I kept:

Lando’s fingers twitch nervously as he collects his packages, fiddling with the corners and ducking under the tape sealing the flaps shut, but he’s careful not to accidentally open them where anyone can see. It was already embarrassing enough to ask the concierge for them, and he cringed at the heavily branded boxes. The lady probably now thinks he has a secret girlfriend or something.

It’s nice out in Melbourne, and Lando is more than happy to swap the polo and jeans he wore to the paddock for a new purple v-neck that’s so soft and light to the touch it might disintegrate between his fingers and shorts that are just a tad bit shorter than the ones he ran around the city in. He has already been photographed without his shirt within days of arriving, so if he does bump into someone, it shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise.

But it is really just Lando’s luck that he quite literally smacks into his teammate’s back as he rounds the corner.

Oscar straightens with his bucket of ice, blinks at him, and asks, “Where are you going in such a rush?”

Lando folds his arms over his chest.

“Dinner. Not a foreign concept to you, hopefully.”

“‘Course not.” What is a foreign concept is how Oscar’s gaze keeps drifting south, flickering between the plunging neckline of Lando’s shirt and his upper thighs.

Oh, how interesting, he thinks, amused. Out loud, he asks, “Wanna come with? I have no idea which places are trainer-approved.”

It takes a moment for Oscar to shrug and respond, “Sure, why not. Teammate bonding and such, right?”

Lando gasps and plucks the bucket from Oscar’s hands. He pokes Oscar’s shoulder for good measure. “We’re plenty bonded, mate!” Not as much as he’d like, but still. “Just admit that you’re simply leaping at the idea of spending time with me away from the paddock.”

“I’m going to bring you to a seafood restaurant.”

“Aah! No, no, don't do that. I dressed up so pretty, I even shaved, and you’re not ruining my hard work with, eugh, fish.”

Once again, Oscar’s gaze travels over Lando’s figure, and Lando is incredibly delighted to see red tinting his cheeks. He preens a little, which he cannot be blamed for.

It’s so flattering that it more than makes up for Oscar’s simple affirming, “Hm.”

God, Lando would be so over this whole flirting-not-quite-boyfriends thing if it wasn’t so entertaining. He just hopes that Oscar’s patience doesn’t run out before either one of them gives in and just confesses. He also hopes that he isn’t misreading anything either. That would be fucking humiliating.

The little smiles and full-body laughter Lando regularly receives from him keeps him hopeful at best and delusional at worst.

On the way to Oscar’s hotel room, Lando asks what he planned on doing with the ice, and he only receives a shrug and a mumbled, “You never know when you just need a bucket of ice.”

“That’s fair.”

“Speaking of ice, are you going to be cold in just that? It gets cooler in the evenings, and your circulation sucks.”

“A price I’m willing to pay. Have you considered that maybe your circulation is working overtime? That it might be doing too much?” Lando retorts in lieu of admitting that he didn’t actually think that far ahead in his nervous excitement. A green hoodie promptly hits him in the face.

It’s not McLaren merch. It’s OP81 merch, and it smells like Oscar. Lando resists the urge to ball it up and shove his face into it.

“Just hold onto it if you don’t wanna wear it now,” Oscar says before disappearing into the bathroom. He re-emerges in a long-sleeved shirt and trousers that don’t have drawstrings. Lando almost breathes a sigh of relief. Small mercies.

Oscar’s hoodie also ends up being one of those small mercies, and Lando burrows into it comfortably as they take a longer route back to the hotel because the city after dark is nice. Oscar raises an eyebrow at him in his subtly gloating fashion, which Lando ignores in favor of tucking his nose into the collar.

“You look prettier in my hoodie,” Oscar mumbles.

“Huh?”

“Never mind. We’re here anyway.”

#ln4 #op81 #my fics #landoscar #twinklaren

71 notes · View notes

withoutyouimsaskia · 1 month

Text

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 6)

GIF: Originally posted by @harleytudinous

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Nudity. Language. Mentions of sex.

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: Hello there! We're back in Morpheus' POV for this chapter. I've really enjoyed exploring the softer side of Morpheus with the aftercare but still keeping that foreboding undertones. Hope you like it too. Let me know what you think! All my love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

---------------------------------------------

Morpheus can see he has pushed your body to breaking point.

The only movements you are able to make are those that are involuntary. The intake of breath, sharp and shallow. The blink of eyelids, slow and drowsy. And the aftershocks feathering along the walls that still hug his softening cock.

The rapture of his own high vibrates in every cell, the humanoid form he takes being the epicentre, with waves of it expanding out across the expanse of the Dreaming, bathing it all in euphoria. He smiles faintly - anyone asleep during your union would have been privy to it in some aspect. Flashes of noises and sensations perhaps, or images of you entangled with him.

With a tender gaze, he looks at your exhausted form. He takes time to notice the details that others might have overlooked. The gradient of the dip of your navel. The vellus hair gracing your skin. The delicate lines on your face brought on by years of smiles. Every inch of you is perfection, the starshine streaming down enhancing your already incandescent air. Soulmate or not, you are the most remarkable person he has met.

There is no denying that you are to be his muse. Now that he has introduced you to his world he can resume work on creating new dreams, and your temperament and features are inspiring him already. His dreamers will be spoiled once the concepts are given life and sent forth into the Dreaming.

He is pulled away from observing your body by the sudden overflowing of silent tears. In the glow of the room, as they track down your cheeks, their lustre is like pearls washed up on a lonely seashore.

He's searching your expression for an indication to the source before they get close to wetting the sheets, cupping your face instinctually as feverous fear infects him. Is pain afflicting you?

His initial assessment gleans that they are falling despite there being no tangible signs of pain or sorrow, anger nor disgust. Further investigation is required.

He drops his register to the mellowest he can manage, whispering your name first, next asking, "Are you alright?"

You dip your chin in a solitary nod. A truthful nod.

You then take a deep breath, voice hoarse as you speak, "I just -"

Words fail you and you look down at your chest in lieu of finding the desired descriptors, hoping that he would catch on.

Your soul.

You make a little high-pitched sound in the back of your throat as he places a palm over its housing. Still very sensitive. With good reason.

Those last layers of defences that had been protecting you from the intensity of the soul bond had been steadfast in their resistance. Of course, they were never going to prevail over him, being the Endless that he is, yet the challenge could not be denied.

And now the conquest was over. He had you exactly where he wanted; physical form in the Dreaming, the Fates' prophecy fulfilled, soul tie complete.

He zeros in on your soul, using his aptitude for the metaphysical to see it in its actual form. The ball of light, two centimetres in diameter, that not too long ago was shattered, now criss-crossed with threads of rich blue, reminiscent of Kintsugi pottery. A mark of the small amount of his power - power that he'd quite literally fucked into you, that was slowly spreading out from your soul through your body, altering as it went. Only time would tell as to what enhancements it would bring if any.

His own soul was cleaved open at the end too, now infused with your essence; twines of seafoam green that he can feel rebalancing the constitution left so weary and depleted by his imprisonment.

It also appears that your mortality has been removed in the process; you are as eternal as he is now. He's against broaching this with you presently, feeling it would be misguided to do so. At this point in time you deserve the most diligent and gentle aftercare. It was your first time; you had trusted him with your wellbeing and that meant the moments after as well.

He will make his touches and movements so very delicate from here, continuing to keep his focus on your facial expressions and body language as much as possible.

Beginning with how he rises out of the position he had held over your body, giving him the ability to ease your crossed ankles out of the firm grip around his waist. Reluctantly, he withdraws himself from the warmth of your core, more trembles breaking free from the fluidity of the movement.

It makes you whimper loudly, the unintended stimulation and the way he guides your legs down to the mattress, as the recognition of how locked up your thigh and calf muscles are bark in your nerve endings.

"Would you allow me to clean you?" He asks, gesturing to the fluids that are now leaking from your cunt.

You seem surprised yet you agree nonetheless.

He conjures a bowl of water and a linen cloth, setting the former to the side of your right hip. The display has you propping yourself up on your forearms, fascinated by the shaping of form that comes so naturally to him. He moistens the fabric, pitter patters emanating erratically as he squeezes out the excess.

"I will stop if it is too much." A promise made while holding eye contact before beginning a gentle yet meticulous cleanse, re-dunking the cloth when needed.

Aside from a couple of flinches early on when he brushes over your clit, you cope with the touches very well, and Morpheus shows he acknowledges this in the murmured praises he looses with the completion of each swipe.

A stumble in your breathing has him stopping immediately though, drawing his attention to your startled face, eyes wide as you take in the pinkish tinge of colour in the water.

"Shit. I'm so sorry. I can finish taking care of it," your voice is warbled as you try and fail to close your trembling legs.

He puts a steady hand on your knee. "You have no reason to apologise."

A little dimple forms between your eyebrows, lips pulled thin by a grimace; evidently you are unconvinced.

"I want to take care of your needs. Please let me," he says with gentle candidness.

You blow out an unsteady breath as you struggle to look at him, attention darting all around the room, actively choosing to go anywhere but towards him.

These hallmarks of humiliation, vulnerability, they unreservedly rile him. Who had made you feel like this was unacceptable? No doubt your world's societal norms. Though Morpheus has seen improvements in them in recent years, there are lingering, foolish ideals on what was decorous when it came to the human body.

He relays his thoughts on the matter, "It is a natural occurrence, as natural as any other bleeding from broken skin. There is nothing to be ashamed of, Y/N."

He lets the reassurance settle in as he rubs his free hand up and down the outside of your left thigh.

"You know I speak the truth," he adds when you still remain silent.

Eventually you let your head slump back. "You're right."

His chest swells with pride at his successful reframing. "May I continue?"

You make a noise of affirmation.

Once he is done, the bowl and cloth de-materialise along with the patches of fluid that had been glistening on the sheets.

He leaves the space between your splayed legs, pausing as he kneels next you. You look like a ragdoll that has been dropped from a great height, limbs askew and head limp. He wishes to scoop you into his arms and re-arrange you, cocooning your beautiful body in the most luxurious fabrics his mind can create. So he does just that.

With a hand flat between your shoulder blades and another under your knees, he moves you to lay further up the bed, fashioning a sumptuous silk sheet to settle over you, a twin of the one tucked over the mattress. A knitted cashmere throw weighs down the sheet to seal in warmth. The last step is a plump pillow; he cradles your head carefully as he positions it.

"Thank you," you say shyly as he puts his head on an identical pillow, laying on his side so he can watch you.

"You are most welcome, my soulmate."

A beat. "Is there something I can do for you, Morpheus?"

He feels a thrill go through him, lust rising once more. Hearing his name on your lips is everything. Undoubtedly it always will be. He's instantly grappling with the urge to fuck you again and it is by sheer force of will he just manages to leash his lust.

"All I require is proximity to you," his words sounding much more gallant than he feels.

With visible effort, you roll onto your side, intent on providing him with delightful closeness despite the aches. Face to face, he decides now is time for a debrief.

"Is there anything you wish to discuss about the acts we performed together?"

You fiddle with your fingers, tentatively asking, "Did I do okay?"

The question is so endearing, it makes his chest tighten.

"Yes. You were, are perfection."

He catches the bashful glance your throw towards him and he draws even closer.

You had done so very well, taking everything in your stride since he found you in the waking world. Gone through a myriad of emotions, dealt with intense, sometimes painful physical reactions. And the sex... Well.

He runs a hand from your temple to jaw a few times to distract from the ever-mounting desires, thankfully taking the edge off with the affections.

"It is true. You are so trusting, communicative, generous. Receptive."

You huff out a noise of amusement. "How do you know that I wouldn't respond like that to everyone?"

Possessive jealousy drives a dagger into his heart, stiffening every part of his being, hackles rising as the sickening idea of anyone else touching you takes form in his expert imagination. Your question had been teasing - obvious from the impish quality in your eyes yet he cannot stop the rage that flares at the idea.

He extinguishes his temper, pushing it into the usual spot deep within, speaking with a level and authoritative cadence.

"You were not meant to be touched by anyone but me."

He holds your gaze resolutely, fascinated by how your pupils dilate from the covetous statement, fingers digging into the softness of your behind to add further weight to his claim.

"You derive pleasure from hearing me say that."

"Yes," you confirm, a telling half-smile appearing. "Though it would appear I am not the only one."

You nudge against the growing erection hidden by the sheets with your knuckles. The simple touch is a catalyst, his restraint almost breaking, eyes shifting to match the backdrop of the night sky above you both.

"Not right now," you assert.

His answering glare makes you raise your eyebrows. But you do not back down.

"Very well. I will keep myself contained. For the time being."

You press a sweet, quick kiss to his cheek. "I appreciate you enduring such hardship."

You laugh a little at the end of the teasing sentence. It is an effervescent sound, one that makes him feel so alive. When was the last time he truly felt like that?

He would do anything to keep you laughing like that, make you happy.

Inspired by that sentiment, he drapes an arm over your body and pulls you closer. You sigh in contentment, smiling warmly at him.

A crescent moon rises to accompany the stars in the ceiling sky. The slip of light it reflects is as peace-giving as your skin against his. Quiet descends.

Finally - after the frenzied events of the past couple of hours, the delirium that had ensnared the both of you in body and mind, spurring him to reveal the truth to you and initiate the binding of your souls - finally everything stills.

And in this stillness, after a considerable number of minutes, Morpheus begins to register the results of the soul bond between you; a direct line broadcasting your every emotion to him even though you are awake.

They are not particularly stable right now, kaleidoscopic in how quickly they evolve from one to the next. He is accustomed to knowing humanity's emotions, exposed to every facet of them for millennia yet this is different. With the dreamers there is a certain level of detachment. Being his soulmate, the impartiality is gone.

He is peering around the curtain.

And the emotions you are feeling are about him, directly influenced by him.

Exhilaration, fondness, trepidation, pensiveness.

His eyelids flutter at the intimacy, mouth dropping open with a shaky sigh.

"What is it?" You ask immediately as worry enters the mix. How adorable that your reflex was concern for him.

"Our soul bond is strengthening. I can feel your emotions."

You blink, stimulated by the notion first, then disappointed. "I can't feel anything coming from you."

"Give it time," he reassures.

"How much time?"

A little smile quirks his lips from your charming impatience.

"A few hours. Perhaps more."

Curiosity dances in your eyes as well as your mind; you study him closely, teeth nibbling on your bottom lip. "What's it like?"

"It is quite diverting."

In fact, it is the sort of thing that has potential to consume his every thought. He will have to be cautious of how much time he is dialled into the bond. As long as he makes the rules now then he will be okay. No over-use. No over-reliance.

A brush of fingers across the back of his hand, the inside of his wrist. "Tell me what you're feeling, Morpheus," you whisper.

He pulls himself from the compelling information flowing from you and takes a reading of his own internal state.

It's tempting to lay it all on the table. To tell you of the powerful emotional reactions happening. But he won't. The emotions must be compressed into something more regulated. He chooses the words carefully:

"I am wholly contented."

Joy and relief swirl from you and you kiss him. The softness of your lips help soothe the fierce feelings and when you part, Morpheus is fully reigned in.

He notes that your eyes are drifting now, glassy with oncoming sleep.

He rubs a thumb across your cheekbone.

"It is okay if you want to fall asleep," he murmurs. "My only request is that you permit me to hold you, so I may monitor how things progress."

There is much acclimation to be made. The scalding heat that had been rampant under his own skin has only just dropped to a simmer, let alone all the things to come. He must not leave your side until your body has adjusted to the energy within you.

"I wouldn't say no to sleep," you say with a lethargic smile.

He eases you into a nearer proximity. An arm slung across your middle. Legs tangling together. You nuzzle against the skin of his neck, inhaling deeply as if his scent could knock you right out.

"Good night, soulmate."

He kisses the top of your head, replying with the same.

You place a palm over his soul. "Thank you, Morpheus. For answering all my questions and being so patient with me."

"It is the least I can do, Y/N."

Morpheus keeps still as you sink into subconsciousness. Not a hard feat for him; he mastered that art long ago. Crossing the threshold into sleep is smooth for you, exhaustion efficiently picking the lock.

As soon as you are fully under he peers at you, cheeks already rosy from the warmth of the sheets and his body, lips parted. You appear serene on the surface - he decides to lean into that link one last time for tonight.

Yes. There it is. Evidence that you feel safe and happy. He has done his job well. Now to maintain this level of performance. For your sake as well as his own.

Your presence is the first rain after a drought. A lighthouse on a treacherous stormy night. You are an antidote to a poison that he hadn't realised he was choking on. You are healing him, just as he knew you would.

And there are measures that must be taken to keep it that way.

-------------------------------------

Tag list: @herfantasyworldd @kpopgirlbtssvt @littleblackcatinwonderland @1950schick @lollipopsandlandmines

"Controlling my feelings for too long. Forcing our darkest souls to unfold. Pushing us into self destruction. They make me, make me dream your dreams."

123 notes · View notes

sarahowritesostucky · 3 months

Text

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 4861

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, referenced childhood abuse and resultant mental health issues, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, childhood abuse, self-harm, mental illness, and alcohol abuse.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter of this fic! Story Masterpost

10. S'mores

It’s the “sex play” (God, that term is so cringe) thing being on the table that builds the tension in the apartment, all of them knowing about it but none of them talking about it. Mary sure as shit doesn’t have the guts to break that ice, and now Bucky’s always deep in thought and quiet around her. And Steve, well.

Steve is like a big, mopey golden retriever who knows its humans are upset but doesn’t know how to help besides headbutting things affectionately.

Mary’s feelings for him only grow when she realizes that he really hasn’t told Bucky about that night in the kitchen: the things she’d confided about the razor and her nightmares and sneaking out to the gym. Knowing that Steve’s stuck by his word like that makes her like him and trust him a whole heck of a lot more.

But it doesn’t solve the underlying problem.

There’s a court hearing in front of a judge next month to revisit the custody arrangement—Next month. And one afternoon while Bucky’s out of the apartment, Steve gently informs Mary that Dr. Linda is recommending the order be extended. Jesus fucking Christ.

And then the results to that test Linda made her take, the “Submissive Sexual Interests and Tendencies Assessment”, arrive in the mail (addressed to Bucky, because of course they would be), and Mary gets her hands on them after Bucky and Steve read them, and she’s mortified at what it says about her.

Tendencies: Passive aggression (reactive aggression in lieu of submission), emotional outbursts, low self-esteem, impulsive sexual promiscuity, self-harm, alcohol use disorder, possible co-morbidity (OCD, EDNOS, BDD). Dynamic Preferences: single dominant authority figure, structured domestic routine, service, discipline, monogamous relationship, emotional bonding. Recommendations: Following assessment review, patient is most likely to benefit from continued domestic control in a consistent (24/7) environment. Transfer of custody not recommended. Continued therapy sessions and educational courses at CDP highly recommended. Most beneficial therapeutic modalities include limited corporal discipline, sex play, and reward-based service routine.

There’s a ton of infuriating psycho babble bullshit packed into those results that she could get upset about, and she does, but Mary’s eyes track over that one, most-horrible phrase over and over again:

“Transfer of custody not recommended.”

Fuck.

She loses sleep over it, sneaks out of the apartment in the middle of the night and does cardio at the gym until she’s exhausted enough to head back home and pass out. It pisses her off that this is such a thing now. She doesn’t want to be special needs, she should have the right to choose whether she even wants treatment or not! She resents the hell out of Bucky and Steve for having custody of her the way that they do. They’re clearly expecting her to blow up or something, after the news from Linda and the SSITA results come in. It’s so obvious that they’re walking on eggshells around her, Mary halfway wishes they’d just do something. One way or the other, it’d be better than this.

Linda claims that they’ve expressed “positive feelings” about a sexual dynamic, but if they have, they sure aren’t expressing it to Mary. She suspects that most of that positivity has come from Steve, and probably only because he’s a golden retriever in human form who just wants to do what’s right and good, not because he or Bucky are particularly attracted to her.

While she has managed to clean herself up quite a bit since moving in with them, Mary isn’t delusional: she realizes that Steve and Bucky are very attractive men, whereas she’s just average. She tries to tell herself she’s fine with that. She knows Bucky and Steve could probably get like, a supermodel to sleep with them if they really wanted to. Mary’s not in their league, and that’s okay.

But if they’re not attracted to her that way then they should at least have the decency to just say so! At least then she could find someone else, get back on Tinder, or even sign up for one of those ProDoms that the CDP has. Darcy said Thor was good, so maybe Mary could request him? The way that Darcy had described the guy, he sounds like he's a hunka hunka burning Nordic god. Mary could go for that.

She brings it up casually over dinner, framing it lightheartedly, and Bucky literally crushes his water glass in his prosthetic hand. “What?” he snaps, frowning down at the mess he’s just made. “No.”

Mary huffs and goes to fetch the desserts while Steve gets the waste bin and begins scraping the broken pieces of glass into it like it’s just another Tuesday. “I don’t see why not,” Mary complains from over at the counter. She’s pulled the plates out from the fridge and grabs the butane torch for the meringue.

“Jesus,” Bucky exclaims when he sees the industrial sized torch she's wielding. “Where’d you get that?”

Mary purses her lips as she focuses on achieving the perfect amount of toastedness. “Hardware store,” she mutters. “So why can’t I go see one of the ProDom’s again?” She purposefully over-torches Bucky’s meringue, because she can tell that this isn’t going to go her way. “Sounds like a win-win. You don’t have to deal with me, I can meet new people, and insurance pays for it. What exactly is the problem?” She’s trying to force him to admit that he doesn’t want to Dom her sexually, trying to get him to see that something’s gotta give and he’ll have to let her use one of the ProDoms eventually if that’s what the severity of her “condition” requires (gigantic ‘Ew’).

But frustratingly, he refuses to engage with her on the topic. “It’s a no, Mare,” he tells her sternly. “Pros are for people who have more experience. You don’t.”

Mary seriously doubts that. “Linda didn’t say that,” she argues, carrying the plates over to the table and handing the nice one to Steve and the burnt one to Bucky.

He pulls it closer to himself and raises an eyebrow at it. “Linda’s being diplomatic,” he mutters. “I thought you said you were making s’mores?”

Yesterday, Bucky had been talking with Steve about how much they both missed their old camping trips they used to take. The two of them must’ve waxed poetic over campfire s’mores for ten whole minutes. So Mary thought this would be an excellent way to butter them up. Apparently not.

She sniffs and picks up her fork. “They are s’mores. It’s a plated dessert, Bucky. An interpretation. It’s not literal.”

He grunts and peers at his portion, poking it dubiously with his fork. “What’s it made of?”

Mary heaves a sigh and snottily recites: “Honey Sablé, 70% Valrhona cremeux, cold-smoked Italian meringue, torched ‘mallow, Graham crumb streusel, and tempered chocolate stick for garnish." Both Bucky and Steve stop poking at their plates and just stare at her for a second.

“Sounds good,” Steve chirps, and digs into his.

Mary stares Bucky down, until he too, deigns to eat the apparently too fancy for him version of a s’more. “Oh, damn,” he says after the first bite, looking taken-aback. “I can taste the smoke.”

Mary preens, then asks again about the ProDom. “Well if I’m not getting it there then who the heck’s supposed to fuck me?” she winds up blurting out of frustration.

When that direct reference doesn’t elicit any response from Bucky besides a barrage of bossy instructions for after-dinner cleanup, Mary loses a bit of the hope she’d been holding onto that maybe Linda was right about them being attracted to her. She just gave him the perfect fucking opening, and he didn’t take it. She gets the kitchen cleaned up from dinner, resigning herself to another evening of platonic domination that doesn’t quite hit the spot.

Nightly drops are nice. Not as nice as they were in the beginning, the effects having waned quite a bit from what they once were, but still better than no drops at all.

Mary sits on her pillow on the floor, head on the couch cushion next to Bucky’s thigh, listening vaguely to the sound of the television while she enjoys the feeling of his fingers carding through her hair, lightly massaging her scalp. It’s been a while now, and she doesn’t think she’s going to get any deeper. It’s late, already they’ve watched two full episodes of their show, and Mary’s got work tomorrow. It’ll be bedtime soon.

A big yawn works its way up in her throat, and Bucky chuckles when it finally breaks free. “Tired?” he asks.

“Mmhm.” She inhales deeply and sits up, sleepy and squinting. It takes a moment before her eyes adjust to the darkness of the room and Bucky’s form sitting right in front of her. Wow, she’d been really close to him, hadn’t realized just how close. Had she been … hugging his shin? God, she hopes not. Not like she hasn’t spent whole evenings fantasizing about rubbing her face all over his thighs and his— Nope. Not gonna think about that when he’s sitting right there. She tears her eyes away and forces that train of thought to stop right in its metaphorical tracks.

“You good, Hon?” Bucky asks, his soft voice drawing her attention back from her own head. She looks up and sees his fond expression, his relaxed posture. Wonders if he’s in Domspace at all. Probably not.

Then her eyes land on the line of his cock at the front of his pants.

He’s hard. Not very, but some. Underneath his sweats his dick is chubbed up enough that it creates a slight bulge against the fabric. Mary freezes, staring for too long before she’s able to tear her eyes away. When she does, and she looks up, Bucky’s watching her with an inscrutable expression. Her breath catches and her mind goes absolutely dumb.

Does he want ..? Should she ..?

She looks back down at it, at the relaxed splay of his thighs. She wets her lips and thinks about reaching forward and sliding her hand over it, what it would feel like, if it would twitch, if Bucky would shiver or make a sound. She wants to touch it, and seriously considers doing so, but when she looks up at Bucky again, he doesn’t look like he’s excited, or anticipating her touching him. He looks … resigned.

“Tired?” he asks kindly. "Do you maybe ... Do you need anything else tonight? From me?"

Mary's lips part, heart leaping at what that might mean ... but then Bucky looks over at Steve with visible yearning in his eyes, and the two of them share one of their silent conversations, brows pinched and expectant.

Oh. Right. Bucky’s just horny and eager to get Steve into bed, wants to wrap this up. Mary wonders if he really can’t tell that she's not far down like she used to get. Maybe he thinks this is all she needs and he really isn’t going to take Linda’s advice seriously. Mary should be happy about that. After all, it’s what she wanted. Isn’t it?

She balls up the hand that she’d been imagining touching Bucky with and nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I’m tired. Think I’m gonna … go get ready for bed.”

She glances over at Steve, but he looks mopey and eager to get out of the room just like his husband does, cementing the notion in Mary’s mind that they don’t want to be with her that way. No doubt they will if push comes to shove, because Linda’s told them Mary needs a sexual dynamic, but it’s not something they’re excited about. Mary knows men: They’re not the sort to sit around and wait for a girl they like to make the first move. And certainly not a man like Bucky, of all people.

She tries not to be hurt by it, but still gets a little weepy while brushing her teeth, the unintended rejection stinging more when she’s down in the tingly, vulnerable throes of subspace. She spits, rinses, flosses, rinses. Grabs the mouthwash that she hates to use but that Bucky has ordered her to always use after brushing her teeth at night.

She says goodnight to Steve and Bucky through the safety of her closed bedroom door, and despite her voice being warbly, neither one of them knocks on the door to see what’s up. That drives the point home, and Mary tucks herself into bed with the mindset that she’ll let them know they don’t have to sleep with her just to be nice or to help her or whatever. She’ll just find a way to convince them that she really is fine with going to one of the ProDoms, and that it really is a better arrangement.

Better than a pity fuck, at least.

It’s disappointing to know that Mary prefers the ProDom, that she doesn’t want to make their relationship sexual, but Bucky gets it, and he knows that he shouldn’t be surprised. He’s not exactly an easy person to get along with, after all. He’s prickly as fuck, grumpy, bossy, selfish. And aside from her natural submission, Mary’s personality clashes with his horribly. Steve is essential, but he just isn’t enough to successfully buffer between the two of them—not enough to make her want them that way, at least.

Bucky can see the profound disappointment in Steve’s eyes that night, as Mary doesn’t react the way they were both hoping, doesn’t take the offerings Bucky puts out.

They have to let it be her choice, of course, having planned it out and discussed it between just the two of them. It's all anybody ever talks about in the D/s community these days: making sure subs are the initiators at key moments like this, not letting domination creep in and become manipulation-so easy to do with how naturally vulnerable and people pleasing submissives are. Gone are the days when Doms like Bucky were encouraged to guide new partners in the "right" direction. That leads to too much trauma, too many subs in situations they don't really want. Mary has to be left to make the choice on her own, it's her right.

But it's still the hardest fucking thing for him to do, to just sit there and wait passively. And it still stings when she looks straight at his erection and declares that she’s ready for bed. Well, if it wasn’t clear before.

Steve looks like a friggin’ kicked puppy, as he stands outside of Mary’s closed bedroom door and bids her goodnight. Bucky nudges him in the direction of their own room and murmurs, “Come on, Sweetheart.”

In their bedroom, they each get undressed. Steve continues to mope, so Bucky goes up to him and places a hand on his shoulder and rubs. “Hey. Don’t sulk. You’ve still got me.” Steve’s mouth twitches in a small smile and Bucky’s heart flares with fondness for him. “You wanna play a game?” he offers, leaning in and kissing him once on the lips. “Mm?” He looks down pointedly to both of their boners that haven’t completely lagged since tv time ended.

“Okay.”

Bucky hums and turns, putting his left shoulder out. “Lend a guy a hand?” Steve obliges. He removes the prosthetic arm with practiced motions. Bucky moans quietly at how good it feels to get the heavy weight off. “Fuck.” He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck each way with a blissed out groan. “Yes.”

“You’ve been wearing it more than usual, lately,” Steve points out, going over to set it on the table at Bucky’s side of the bed. “Why?”

He already knows: Bucky can tell from the way he asks it. He grunts and looks away, refraining from answering. He normally only wears the arm to work and to the gym, skipping it around the house or when he’s just got simple errands to run. There’s a surprising amount he can do just fine without the use of two arms, and he’s been confident about being seen in public without it for a long time now, thanks to Steve and their friends at the V.A. Being self conscious about it again after all these years isn’t something Bucky wants to admit out loud or think about, but Steve isn’t stupid. He can put two and two together.

“Babe,” he says softly, walking back over to stand behind him. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist and noses into his neck. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Bucky inhales deeply. “I know. I’m not.” Steve makes a sound that clearly says he doesn’t believe that. But Bucky doesn’t want to talk about it, so he reaches back with the only arm he has to grab playfully at the side of Steve’s ass. “Go in the bathroom. Get the water going how I like.”

Steve groans and thunks his forehead against the back of Bucky’s neck. “Not that game,” he complains, though there’s no conviction to it. He slinks off towards the bathroom to go do as he’s been told. “I hate that game.”

“Fuck you. You love that game.”

Steve shoots him the finger from over his shoulder, but something about his naked body and tight little ass being on display strips the gesture of its animosity. He disappears into the bathroom and Bucky walks over to their bedroom dresser to grab a hair tie, still snickering. He sobers when he takes one from the valet tray and realizes that he’ll have to have Steve tie his hair back. That’s one thing he never could figure out how to do one handed. He stands there and looks in the mirror above the dresser, studying the left side of his body in a way that he rarely does anymore.

He’s gotten so used to it: his life with Steve, whom he knows down to his bones accepts him unconditionally. He’s almost forgotten what it feels like to be self conscious about his body. Bucky hasn’t known how to talk about it, and Mary hasn’t asked. She’s seen him with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, or in tee shirts at the gym, but that’s all so far. Sometimes he’ll catch her looking, but he’s got no clue what she’s thinking. He considers his reflection, looks at the scars and puckered skin, the implanted base of the arm where his stump used to be. He doesn’t like the uncomfortability of being critical of his body again. In a way, he almost resents Mary for it, for making that feeling come back after all these years. Silly, he knows.

“Babe?” Steve’s voice calls out from the bathroom. Bucky’s ears register the sound of rushing water. “You coming?”

Bucky inhales deeply and decides it doesn’t matter anyway. Mary wants a ProDom, not them, so he doesn’t have to stress over what she thinks about any part of his body, let alone the one part he doesn’t have.

“Yeah.” He turns his back to the judgmental mirror and heads towards his very non-judgmental best guy.

“Okay. Stop clenching.”

Steve exhales shakily, but he does obey, body slumping back against the end of the tub as he relaxes his muscles. “Fuck,” he breathes, overwhelmed.

“Hand too, Baby.”

His hand abandons his dick in the bathwater. “Ungh.”

Bucky smiles lazily and rubs the side of his foot against Steve’s hip in praise. “Good boy.”

They’re in the bathtub together, opposite ends, legs tangled. Their combined bulk displaces the water all the way up to above their shoulders, but that’s part of the game: they’re not allowed to splash on the floor, so they can’t jerk off very hard or fast. First one to splash water on the floor is the automatic loser and has to bottom the next time they fuck (Bucky added that little caveat because he’s very good at not splashing, whereas Steve is hopelessly clumsy and overeager ). “How you doing, Sweetheart?” he asks, drinking in the sight of Steve with his lips parted, chest heaving, squirming. He’s pink from temple to tits, flushed from the bathwater and arousal both, and Bucky loves it. “You’re not close already, are you?” he tuts, grinning. “So sensitive.”

“Buck,” Steve croaks, heated eyes dragging over Bucky’s body at the other end of the tub where he’s still gently jerking himself off. “Please.”

Bucky affords himself another toe-curlingly good swipe over the head of his dick before he nods. “Okay. Slow. Just like me”

Steve huffs and wraps his hand back around himself, stroking his dick in slow, measured strokes, just like Bucky said. Bucky’s guts warm and another heady rush of dominance swirls low in his belly at watching Steve do exactly as he says. “You can start workin’ it again, too,” he says.

Steve moans gratefully. “Thank you. Fuck.” His abs start clenching, his body straining again with visible tension as he works the Aneros that’s seated up inside him. Under the water, his knees move in and out in that instinctive motion as he tries to rock it just right. But it’s hard to do it with the water so high, and more than once he catches himself and holds back at the sight of the bathwater sloshing precariously close to the lip of the tub. At one point he gasps and his eyes slam shut, and Bucky figures the toy must’ve shifted to press even more directly against his prostate.

“Ooh, does that feel good, Stevie?”

Steve peeks his eyes open, glaring across the way at him. “You know it does.”

Bucky does, in fact, know exactly how good it feels—because he’s got another of the exact same toy inside of himself, right now. “I don’t know why you still agree to play this game,” he taunts, grunting from the effort of holding back his own moan as his prostate gets a firm prod from the head of the toy. “You—nngh—you always wind up losing.”

“Yeah, well …” Steve’s throat bobs as he swallows heavily. “Maybe I don’t mind you coming out on top, sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Bucky scoffs, but he’s breathing heavier than he was thirty minutes ago, his composure slipping the longer he works the toy inside himself and jerks himself off agonizingly slowly underneath the water. In fact, he’s not even sure it even counts as jerking off at this slow a pace.

Edging is something he’d introduced Steve to early on in their relationship, as soon as he’d realized how delightfully sensitive his new boyfriend was. And Steve, the big idiot, had worried Bucky wouldn’t like it, had actually thought of it as a negative! An absurd notion that Bucky promptly disabused him of. Watching his ungodly sexy blond behemoth of a husband whine and squirm and struggle to hold himself in check is one of the fucking hottest things Bucky’s ever seen—and he’s seen a lot. He’d been a bit of a manwhore back in his heyday, racking up the bodies as he fought to find himself as a Dom and accept the body an IED had left him with.

Steve, his overly-sensitive, glorious hunk of a then-boyfriend, had helped him to do both. And it’s times like this where Bucky remembers just how goddamn lucky he is. Having Steve to love and fuck around with feels like the best gift in the world.

At the other end of the tub, the water sloshes as something he’s done to himself makes Steve’s breath hitch in another helpless moan. He tosses his head back for a moment, eyes clamped shut as his expression crumples beautifully and he whimpers. Bucky’s ass clenches down hard in arousal at the sight, which only makes the toy in his ass rub over his prostate that much better. His cock throbs as his pleasure flares dangerously high. Fuck, he wants to come.

Licking his lips, he decides it's time to end this. His balls are pulled up too close to his body, taut and full and aching for release. Trying to school his breathing into something resembling nonchalance is a lost cause, and his face feels almost as flushed as Steve’s looks right now. Bucky decides to call it, because even though he’s the automatic favorite to win this game every time, he is capable of losing, if he gets too caught up in ogling Steve’s body and reactions and doesn’t focus enough on playing his cards right. “Okay,” he finally says, smirking when Steve’s head jerks back to attention, his irises visibly flaring in excitement. “Yeah, Baby. It’s time.”

“Fuck.”

“You ready for the home stretch?” He waggles his eyebrows and lets his head rest back against the tub, spreading his legs wider and keeping his eyes on Steve. “Gotta keep up,” he instructs, even though Steve already knows how this goes. When Bucky tightens his hand and speeds up the pace of how fast he’s jerking himself off, Steve copies him. That’s how it is at the end of this—totally-rigged-in-Bucky’s-favor—game. They both jerk off at the pace that Bucky sets, and the first one to splash water on the floor or come is the loser. It’s not very fair, but Bucky never claimed he was a fair guy. He is, in fact, selfish as fuck.

Lucky for him, Steve’s into that.

“Fuck,” Steve pants from his end of the tub. He slides down lower, keeping more of his body under the water in an attempt to prevent splashing. It’s a futile effort, though, because he’s doomed to lose anyway with the faster pace that Bucky’s set. Already, he’s going lobster red in the face, brow pinched and desperate, knees knocking the sides of the tub as he compulsively works the toy in his ass.

The arousal in Bucky’s gut coils tighter at the sight. “Watch my hand,” he warns, when he notices Steve slacking off. “Gotta match it, Baby.”

“I am.”

“Tighter,” he says, eyes gleaming. “And stop avoiding the head. I can see you cheatin’ over there, Punk.”

Steve whimpers, and Bucky knows that he really wasn’t going as tight as he is, because Steve’s hand changes its hold and he starts getting the head of his dick with the same intensity that Bucky is. Bucky grins open mouthed, panting. “Atta boy.”

“You should—ugn.” Steve grimaces. “Should get a penalty, for being cut. I should get an extra, nnnh, th-thirty seconds, at least.”

Bucky laughs, because trust Steve to think of a sportsman’s solution to the inequity of their dicks. Steve being uncut means that it takes less intense stimulation for him to come. They both know this, Bucky loves this, and again: he never claimed the game was fair. “No penalty,” he grunts, speeding up his pace even further. Steve’s eyes widen but he matches it. Bucky grits his teeth. He can hold out long enough. Steve’ll blow in seconds at this pace.

And sure enough, it’s not even twenty seconds later when Steve is crying out, body tensing and muscles straining gorgeously as he seizes up and starts to come. “Agh!” His knees fling out hard and hit the sides of the tub, splashing water over the lip to the floor below. But he hasn’t even noticed, he’s so lost to his orgasm. His asshole is twitching, sucking on the Aneros as the contractions of his body pull the toy up against his prostate again and again, drawing the pleasure out. He shoves down hard in the water and shouts louder, as though he’s getting a second orgasm on top of the first. “Ohnfuck …”

Bucky groans as he watches it happen: Steve’s gorgeous face and juddering hips, big hand wringing up hard underneath the head the whole way through. The fucking sounds he makes, Jesus wept. It’s leagues better than any porn Bucky’s ever seen. “Fuck, Baby,” he praises. “Yes. Fuck that’s so hot …”

Steve’s hand keeps working the whole way through, only abandoning his cock once it’s fully spent and softening, the cloudy ribbons of his cum floating away in the bathwater. “Fuck,” he exhales hugely once it’s done, letting his body go lax and slump so far down that only his face is above the waterline.

Bucky grunts and spreads his legs wider, not heeding the splashing rule now that he’s already won. The water splashes precariously as he shoves his hips down and down and down, squeezing the shape of the toy inside so fucking perfectly. Fuck, it feels fucking good working over his spot like that. “Oghnnn,” he pants, grunting and groaning and jerking his cock hard. “Fuck, Baby. You’re so fucking pretty. Fuck. M’gonna cum …”

Steve gives a sated hum from his end of the tub. Bucky can sense him shifting in the water, and then gasps when he feels the ball of Steve’s foot gently press up on his balls. His eyes fly open and he looks down. “Oh, shit,” he whispers. “Fuck, fuck.”

Steve grins and rubs his foot against him. And Bucky doesn’t have that fetish, but there’s something so fucking perverse about seeing Steve’s toes up against his balls that it turns his brain to mush anyway and pushes him right on over into orgasm. He shoots off beneath the water, stroking and thrusting and moaning—and probably splashing water all over the floor just as badly as Steve ever has.

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

🍵Consider tipping your friendly neighborhood starving artist smut author!

✍🏻Commissions: reach out via Tumblr DM or contact here

This has been a fill for:

@marvel-smash-bingo

card: sarah-writes-stucky

Square B5: Sex toys

@sebastianstanbingo

Card: @sarahowritesostucky

Square I4: Orgasm Denial

@ultimatechrisbingo

Card: @sarahowritesostucky

Square I5: Edging Kink

@matchat3a @bethexo07

93 notes · View notes

slutforsilverfoxes · 1 year

Text

Polaroids & Promises

When your mother had first met your boyfriend, she had made two very astute observations: He was incredibly distinguished (read: much older than she’d expected) and he was definitely a heartbreaker. At the time she’d meant the latter as a testament to his devilishly good looks, but her statement had turned out to be true in a much more literal sense.

Letting out a sigh as you toed your shoes off by the front door, you settled your winter gear and house keys on their respective hooks before making your way to the kitchen. The contents of your fridge left much to be desired, a box of Chinese takeout and an unfinished bottle of wine sitting pretty on the second shelf, a sad cast of recurring characters in your post-breakup misery. Pointing at the Merlot, you declared, “I’ll be back for you soon.”

Although you wanted nothing more than to curl up with a trashy romance novel and the cheap wine, your career didn’t care how sad you were; work needed doing and therefore laundry needed washing. After shedding your work attire and scrubbing the day from your body with a hot shower, you carried the sizable buildup of clothes down the hall to the laundry room. You began sorting the delicates from your regular wash, pausing mid-squat at an unfamiliar shade of red peeking out from the bottom of the hamper. Tossing t-shirts and work pants aside, a traitorous prickle of hot tears momentarily blurred the stark white USMC before you. Releasing a ragged breath, you pulled the hoodie to your face and inhaled deeply, the fabric muffling your sob as the smell that you had come to think of as home overwhelmed your senses. Seven months of memories played in your head in the span of mere seconds, quiet nights on the couch, steaks cooked by the fire, the scraping of a sander against wood.

You missed Jethro more than words could describe. You missed his warmth, his touch, his teasing remarks. You missed visiting him at work, and sharing entire conversations with Tony consisting only of movie quotes, and nerding out with Tim over the latest Game of Thrones episode, and bonding with Ziva over a few hours at the range, and going to concerts with Abby, and trading interesting cases with Jimmy. You missed insightful talks with Ducky about life and opera and the enigma that is his friend and your lover. You missed the sight of matching keys on the hook next to yours and work boots in the hallway. You missed trading sections of the paper over morning coffee. You missed the quiet protest of the bed when he slipped in beside you well past midnight.

You missed having someone to come home to.

Swiping at your eyes, you abandoned the task at hand in lieu of moping in your bedroom, but first doubling back to enlist the company of your trusty red. You settled down on the floor at the foot of your bed and eased the cork out of the mouth of the bottle, taking a hearty swig as you pulled your wooden memory box into your lap. Running your fingers over the intricate pattern on top, you recalled the day Jethro had gifted you the handcrafted piece for all of those pictures you force me to be in, he had admitted with a begrudging smile. You took out the stack of Polaroids, spreading them out on the floor before you as you gulped down another mouthful of wine. Although the dates were printed at the bottom of each photo, you could easily track the progression of your relationship by the way Jethro’s visage grew less grumpy and more smiley over time. A teardrop splattered across the shiny surface of one of your pictures, and you were quick to wipe it off without smudging the writing on the bottom. You finished off the last dregs of red wine and with it, your crumbling resolve, and you dialed ten digits on your cellphone purely via muscle memory.

Jethro’s voice in your ear made your heart twinge, even if it was just to tell you to leave a message. Taking in a shuddering breath, you opened with a brilliant, “Hey, it’s me.” Cringing, you soldiered on. “You’re probably still at work, because that’s- that’s what you do, isn’t it? Work yourself to the bone, people who care about you be damned. Sorry,” you sighed, immediately reneging on the snarky comment. “That’s not fair of me to say. I admire you and the work you do, you know that, right? It’s just that, well, Ducky had warned me this would happen, that you have a hard time separating yourself from the job. I guess I thought I could stop it or delay it or something, but I couldn’t. And now it’s-” You paused to squint at the digital clock on your nightstand. “-a quarter after ten on a Wednesday night, and I’m wine drunk, and I miss you so much that I called just to hear your voice on a goddamn answering machine. I mean, c’mon, Jet, who still has a landline these days? Christ, this is fucking pathetic. Maybe I should get a cat or some-” The phone beeped at you, indicating that you’d reached the time limit on the machine. Dropping your head into your hands, you groaned out, “Oh my god.”

You heaved a sigh, then delicately returned your treasured memories to their keepsake box before replacing it on the desk. Deciding that the crisp winter air would do you good, you slipped into your coat and boots, locked up, and headed outside for a late night walk.

_______

“I mean, c’mon, Jet, who still has a landline these days?” Jethro chuckled softly at the incredulity in your tone, tuning back in to your message just as it got cut off. He poured himself another splash of bourbon, then downed it in one go, finger already itching to replay the rambling message for the third time in as many minutes just to bask in the sound of your voice for a few more precious moments. He heard the stairs creak and emptied out a mug of miscellaneous screws and fasteners under the assumption that Tobias was joining him to discuss their progress on the case. Instead, the voice he was so desperately craving to hear floated downstairs to him.

“You really should lock your doors. Never know what sort of unsavory character could wander in off the street.”

Turning to face you as you reached the bottom step, he rumbled out, “So that’s where my favorite hoodie’s been hiding.” There was a distinct edge to his voice as he silently took in your bleary eyes and slightly disheveled appearance.

“I took a cab,” you said softly, immediately recognizing the heat in his glare as concern at the thought of you driving in your current state. “Can I come in?”

“You’re already in,” he responded, not quite curt, but not exactly warm either. Still, he hooked his ankle around the stool beside him and pulled it out, simultaneously pouring two fingers of his signature bourbon into the awaiting mug on the workbench. You took that as an invitation to join him, closing the remainder of the space between you and accepting the amber liquid as you perched on the seat. Gathering your courage, you took a sip and offered, “I missed this gasoline with a side of tetanus.”

“I missed your unparalleled wit,” he shot back, the corner of his mouth lifting with mirth.

“Hey, so, random question,” you forced out through a laugh, “have you checked your messages yet today? Just wondering cause I-” Your words caught in your throat when Jethro suddenly framed your face with his hand, the familiar ridges of his callouses pressing against your skin as he molded his mouth to yours. He pulled back just as abruptly, eyes wide with the realization of the wounds he had reopened and muttered, “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” you whispered, entwining your fingers with his on the workbench. Not yet able to meet his gaze, you clarified, “Don’t apologize. Not for that, at least.”

“Y/N-”

“No, actually, you know what?” You finally dared to look up at him, taking in the scruff dotting his cheeks and the dark circles beneath his lower lids that no doubt mirrored your own. Hot tears brimmed at your water line as you continued with a ferocity, “You don’t get to turn those pretty blue eyes on me and kiss me and make me forget about the terrible month I’ve had without you. I’m so mad at you. So mad.” You punctuated this thought with a sharp prod to his firm chest. “I wanted you to fight for me. For us. But no! You decided the best course of action was inaction, and I had to be the bad guy. And you know what the worst fucking part about all this is?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, shaking his head before pulling you into his arms. You melted into his embrace, all of the fight draining out of you as you confessed, “I’m not really mad at you. I’m mad at myself for being so naive.”

“Oh, my love,” he breathed out, squeezing you tight until your tears subsided. “You deserve so much better.”

Pulling back so you could look into his shiny eyes, you huffed, “That’s just it, you idiot. I want you to be better.” Lifting your joined hands to your lips, you pressed kisses to his knuckles before whispering, “I need you to choose me, just like I choose you every day. I want to build a life with you, to grow old with you-”

“One of us is already old,” he cut in with a cheeky grin, forcing a laugh out of you.

“Fine,” you amended, “I want to grow older with you, grumpy.”

“I want that, too,” he confessed quietly, the intensity in his eyes stealing your breath away. “The thing is, angel, I did choose you. I just thought you would be better off without me, and that if you left you’d be angry instead of hurt.”

“You- what?” you spluttered. “I should smack you upside the head for that, you stupid, infuriating man. What kind of dumb reverse psychology is that, Jethro? I just thought you would be better off without me,” you mimicked in a deep voice. Jabbing your finger into his chest again, you repeated, “Stupid.”

Grabbing your outraged finger as leverage, he pulled you closer and pressed his lips against yours once more, hands coming up to cup your cheeks and thumbs rubbing soothingly against your skin until your righteous anger boiled down to a controlled simmer. You let out a sigh as his mouth left yours, then beckoned him forward again. “One more.” He placed a kiss on the corner of your mouth. “Another.” This time, the opposite side. “Keep ‘em coming.” He chuckled warmly before dotting gentle kisses all over your face until you graced him with a smile.

“Honey, listen,” Jethro said, growing serious as he guided you back down to sit across from him but keeping a firm grip on your hand, “I know I went about this in entirely the wrong way, and I’ll spend every day for the rest of my life making up for it.”

“Yeah, you’d better,” you grumbled playfully, squeezing his hand.

“And you know I’m not big on moon phases and star signs and all that-”

“We’ll work on it.”

Fixing you with a look and tweaking your nose affectionately, he continued, “But I’m pretty sure most people don’t get lucky enough to find two soulmates in one lifetime. Shannon would never let me hear the end of it if I let you get away again.”

“Oh, Jet,” you sighed, leaning forward to press your forehead against his. “The day I realized I was in love with you, I made your girls a promise that I would take care of you. Help me keep that promise, okay?”

“I will,” he whispered, two simple words, a solemn pledge. “Now let’s go upstairs so you can tell me what I’ve missed and call me stupid a bunch more times.”

“Deal,” you laughed, taking his hand so he could help you up. “Can I just check the answering machine real quick before we-”

“Nope,” Jethro cut you off, pulling you into his side and squeezing your hip as you ascended the stairs together. “I’m keeping that message forever. Maybe even quote it in my vows one day.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

#jethro gibbs #jethro gibbs x reader #jethro gibbs x you #jethro gibbs x y/n #jethro gibbs imagine #leroy jethro gibbs #leroy jethro gibbs x reader #leroy jethro gibbs x you #leroy jethro gibbs x y/n #leroy jethro gibbs imagine #gibbs x reader #ncis #ncis imagine #ncis fanfiction #ncis gibbs #ncis x reader #hurt/comfort

492 notes · View notes