#M/M/F

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 4042

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, and alcohol abuse.

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

5. Jiggly Soufflé Cake

Steve

“I should be in there,” Bucky says again, making Steve roll his eyes.

They’re sitting next to each other, out in the waiting room at the Center. It’s been over an hour, but Steve remembers how the intake worker had told them that Mary’s evaluation wouldn’t be short. Already, he’s read through half the crappy magazine selection. He lets the edge of an outdated issue of Dominant Monthly flop down to his lap. “Babe …”

“It’s taking too long. What if they’re harassing her or—”

“You know that’s not true. The people here are good. You’re just trying to control everything,” he reminds Bucky.

“If I was in there I could—”

“Get in the way. She needs to feel like she can express herself.”

“What if she’s not honest? What if Linda’s not asking her the right—”

“Buck, stop,” Steve says, injecting some command into his voice. Bucky might be the Dom, but Steve can put his foot down with his husband when needed. “The therapist knows what she’s doing. All the people here do. This is what they do.”

They’re at the Center for Designated Peoples, the place where people like Bucky go for … well, anything related to their dominance or submission needs. That’s all Steve really knows. He knows that Bucky has been in and out of CDPs since he was a kid. “It took almost a week to get her this appointment, alright? You want to mess that up?”

Bucky grumbles. “No.”

“Good. Cause they don’t need you in there, interfering in her assessment. So sit tight.”

Bucky shuts up after that, satisfying Steve that he’s made his point.

“Well, what do you think?” Bucky eventually says, when another ten minutes have passed and the door to the therapist’s office is still closed. “Of her?”

Steve glances over. “You mean in general?”

“Sure. Whatever.”

Steve can tell when Bucky’s being defensive. “You like her,” he says. “And not just cause of her lemon tarts.” He’d seen him looking at weighted blankets on Amazon, yesterday. “Admit it,” he prods, nudging Bucky’s shoe with his. “You can tell me how you feel. Why d’you need me to qualify it for you, first?

“Because I’m married to you, not her,” Bucky snaps. “Jesus, Rogers. Never met a man with less self-preservation instincts than you.”

“Mmhm. Aand?”

“... Okay I’m drawn to her,” Bucky says. “But I can’t tell how much of that is instinct and how much is normal people stuff.”

“‘Normal people stuff’,” Steve echoes, amused.

“I want to know what you think of her.” Bucky kicks his shoe back. “Tell me.”

“I like her too,” Steve concedes. “It’s not just you.” He can see as Bucky’s shoulders relaxing a little bit, knows that his opinion matters to his husband. “She’s different. Plain, but …” Steve searches for the right word. ‘Cute’ doesn’t seem right. She’s too prickly for that and too old besides. She’s a woman, not a girl, and he’s not just trying to describe her physical appearance. “I don’t know,” he says. “Editorial?”

“Editorial?” Bucky scowls. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I dunno, just, not off the rack. Different.” Bucky snatches the magazine out of his lap and chucks it back to the coffee table. Steve rolls his eyes. “Wish she wasn’t so defensive, though. And I wish we could’ve met her … you know, like on a date or at the gym or something.”

Bucky snorts. “Yeah.”

“She grows on you,” Steve decides. Like an angry, stray cat. That’s dirty and scraggy a little.

“She’s pretty,” Bucky offers, but the words fall flat. They can both see that she’s attractive, that isn’t news. Bucky and Steve are attractive people themselves. They aren’t hurting for opportunities to be with attractive women (or men), if they want to. And it’s been a while since they invited another person into their bed. But …

“I haven’t been with a woman since my twenties,” Steve mumbles, thinking about it. He glances at Bucky. “You have.”

They both know Bucky was dating women casually when he met Steve, years ago. “Yeah,” he says simply.

“You ever miss ‘em? Women?” Steve kind of does sometimes. He likes how soft they are; the contrast. It had taken him a couple of dates and a few glasses of wine, back when they’d first gotten together, to admit to Bucky that he was bi. Steve had told him that, and then Bucky had disclosed his designation status. “We used to talk about the whole poly thing a lot more.”

“Hm, yeah I guess.” Bucky shrugs and reaches to take his hand. Steve gives it a squeeze. “I dunno babe. Kind of hard to think about anybody else when I’ve got you around.” He gives him a lecherous look that makes Steve glad they’re the only ones in the waiting room. “Your hot body’s been enough to keep my attention.” His eyes drag up and down Steve, mentally undressing him.

Steve feels heat creep up his neck and he chuckles, pushing Bucky’s hand away. “Stoppit. Jerk. I’m a person.”

“Punk,” Buck smirks. “You like it.”

“Shuddup. Not here. God, you’re such a creep.” They’re both grinning—probably like complete, horny letches—when the door to the therapist’s office opens.

The professionally dressed woman offers them a friendly smile. “Bucky, Steve.”

“Hey Linda,” Bucky greets.

“How’d it go, Doctor?” Steve asks, not on as informal terms with the CDP staff as his husband is. “Is she …”

“Mary is fine. Would you like to come in and talk with us?”

Bucky is immediately standing from his chair. “Yep.”

Steve has to refrain from rolling his eyes. He grabs Bucky’s wrist. “Hang on now, Buck. Maybe she doesn’t want us in there. We should try and give her choices where we can.”

Doctor Linda surprises him by saying, “Actually, Mary says she’s fine with discussing this all together.”

Bucky shoots him a smug look and tugs his wrist back. “See?”

This time Steve does roll his eyes, but he nods at Linda and gets up to follow her back into the office.

Bucky

Bucky can recall very clearly the first time he’d been told he had a mental illness. He’d been ten, had been sent to the school shrink for misbehavior. He remembers how his mom had come in, harried about being called off from work when her kid wasn’t even sick. Bucky had felt bad about that, had felt like he’d done something wrong (well, he had scrubbed Trixie Wallace’s face into a mud puddle at recess).

But still, even at ten years old he’d been smart enough to know that this meeting with his mom and the counselor was more serious than another simple admonition or in-school suspension.

Long story short, His mom wound up reacting with something like embarrassment, and Bucky had wound up internalizing that for a long time, feeling like his “condition” was something to be kept private and not discussed.

Now, he sits in Linda’s office and makes sure to exude an air of calm and acceptance. He doesn’t want Mary to be embarrassed about this like he was. It helps that times have changed a bit since Bucky was a kid, and he knows this particular Center very well. They do good work with the designated community. Bucky knows that no one here is going to announce to Mary that she’s a deviant.

Mary’s sitting in her own chair, separate from where Bucky and Steve share the couch. Even though Bucky’s instinct is to tell her to come sit with them, he holds back. He knows that the seating arrangement is likely purposeful on Linda’s part. He tries to remember Steve’s words about giving Mary choices where they can. Domination may be what she needs, but too much of a good thing, administered too fast, can still be harmful.

“High needs,” Steve is saying, echoing what Linda’s just told them. “... So, she’s like Bucky, but submissive?”

“Yes,” Linda confirms. “We did the assessment twice, and both times Mary tested at the far end of the spectrum.”

“Fantastic,” Mary mutters.

“We’ve been discussing what this might mean for her care plan, going forward. Mary has several other issues that I believe tie into her unfulfilled needs as a submissive.”

“I don’t understand how it went undiagnosed for so long,” Bucky says, feeling vaguely upset about it. “Doc?”

She shrugs. “Mary’s from a part of the country where mental health awareness isn’t so advanced. They didn’t test in the public school system where she grew up.” Mary makes a quiet noise of discontent and Linda adds, “So we’ve been talking about the physiology of it, the role of neurotransmitters and how important it is for her to be dropped regularly. And we’ve discussed what that might look like, different options she has.”

“Options?”

Here, Linda hesitates. “Well … Mary has expressed an interest in taking advantage of the Center’s social programs.”

“No,” Bucky says right away. “Absolutely not.”

“She said you do it,” Mary counters, and when Bucky looks over he finds her glaring at him. “Apparently, I don’t need you after all. I can just come here and hook up with any old body.”

“I’m your legal guardian right now,” Bucky reminds her. “And the clubs are for people who know what they’re doing. It’s too unstructured for you. You need more stability than that.”

Mary scoffs and crosses her arms, but Dr. Linda is already nodding in agreement. “I think Bucky’s right, Mary,” she says gently. “A reliable, dominant partner and regular drops in a safe space are what you need right now.”

“Why can’t you just write me a prescription or something?” Mary complains. “You said it was a brain chemistry thing, so why not?”

Linda looks uncomfortable as she explains, “Medication is usually only considered as a last ditch treatment option … and with your substance use disorder and other issues I'd rather not —”

“I am not an alcoholic!”

“No meds,” Bucky says, hating that idea. “Come on, Mary. You don’t want to be drugged up, do you?”

She glares at him. “You just want to control me.”

He fights very, very hard not to roll his eyes. “Yeah,” he quips. “That’s kind of the whole point.”

Mary groans and slumps back into the cushions of her chair, looking put out. “This sucks.”

“It’s manageable,” Linda reminds gently.

"I don't want to be this way," she mumbles. "'High needs'. It's embarrassing."

“It's no different than needing air, or food or sleep,” Steve supplies. “You guys just have this extra thing.”

Mary makes a face, probably at being lumped into the ‘you guys’ category with Bucky. “So, what’s the plan then?” she asks mulishly, crossing her arms. “We go back to your place and you break out the whips and chains?”

Bucky barks out a laugh before he can stop himself. “Oh, honey. I promise there aren’t any chains.” He winks at her. “I prefer leather.”

Mary

After the therapist, it gets a little easier to be around Steve and Bucky. Mary’s still quick to anger, thinking about the situation that she's managed to get herself into, but there are some ameliorating factors to the situation.

Having an official diagnosis—no matter how much she doesn’t want this diagnosis—is at least a starting point. Mary doesn’t have to keep exhausting herself, arguing with Bucky that she’s not a sub. She is. That’s that.

And when he takes it upon himself to speak with Mary’s boss about her situation (effectively getting him to unfire her for the multiple days of work she’s missed) some more of Mary’s contempt for Bucky slips away.

“Thank you,” she says quietly once they leave the café, her next shift already scheduled for that upcoming Monday. “ I … this job, it means a lot to me.”

“I know.” Bucky says simply, though Mary can see the self-satisfaction in his posture. He takes her hand as they walk together down the sidewalk, and to Mary it feels like some sort of test, like he’s waiting for her to pull away.

So she forces herself to curl her fingers around his and keep holding his hand.

Again, she can practically feel the reaction coming off of him. He’s pleased with her. Mary’s cheeks flush from the domineering squeeze he gives her hand from time to time as they walk, and she’s grateful that she can blame it on the day’s chilly air.

Doctor Linda had explained everything, of course, when Mary went in for the assessment. The testing hadn’t been what she was expecting, hadn’t been embarrassing or invasive. And, perhaps most disappointing of all, it hadn’t been predictable. Mary hadn’t felt like she knew which way to fake her responses, to get the test to declare her mentally fit. So she’d answered honestly. 

And where had that gotten her? Lumped into the same group of deviants as James Bucky Barnes. “High needs”—God it sounds awful.

“It’s not necessarily sexual,” Linda tells her at her second appointment. “Or, well … it doesn’t have to be, at least. There are ways around it, if you really need an asexual dynamic.”

Mary nods along, but inside she thinks about the last time Bucky scolded her or praised her or held her hand on the sidewalk. She thinks about when he’d put his hand on her throat and applied pressure. Thinking about those things doesn’t make her feel asexual at all.

The first time Bucky doms her in a coordinated manner, she’s actually unaware of what he’s doing at first. It’s one of Mary’s  three days off and she’s terribly bored, researching how to make grapefruit soda caviar and wondering if there’s a gym nearby that she could join. She hasn’t exercised in weeks, and honestly, if there’s even the slightest chance that she’s going to wind up being naked in front of Bucky or Steve (or, oh god, both of them), then she really feels like she needs to work out.

Scratching fingernails over the skin of her lower stomach, she googles nearby gyms, finds one that looks decent, and tells Steve that she’s headed out to go join. She’s tying one sneaker when Steve objects.

“Oh but wait,” he says. “Um, Bucky’s going to be home soon. And I think he uh, I think he had plans. … For us.”

Mary raises an eyebrow. She likes Steve—thinks he’s kind of a big, beefy sweetheart, actually—but sometimes his devotion to Bucky and what Bucky wants is annoying. “Fine, you stay here and tell him where I went. I’ve got to get out of this apartment.” And out from under you and your bossy husband’s constant supervision. “Got to … I dunno, burn off some steam.”

Bucky’s timing is impeccable. He comes through the door just as she’s bending over to lace up her other sneaker. His arms are full of plastic grocery bags, which he dumps onto the kitchen counter with fanfare. "Honey, I'm home."

“What happened to using the reusable bags?” Steve drawls, earning an eye roll from Bucky.

“Forgot 'em.”

“Mmhm.”

“Shut up.” Bucky’s grinning at his husband, until he catches sight of Mary crouched in her gym clothes. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asks her.

“None of your business,” she snips, standing back up and heading for the front door.

“Stop right there, Princess.”

Oh. Well that’s a new one. Mary turns back around with what she’s sure is an incredulous look. “‘Princess’?”

Bucky smiles warmly and drags her over to inspect the groceries that are in the bags. She’s quick to catalog: eggs, butter, flour, sugar, milk. “What?” she asks, looking up at him. “You think I’m going to cook for you?”

“Oh I know you’re going to cook for me,” he says calmly, taking dry goods out of one of the bags and arranging them in the pantry. “Bake, in fact.”

Mary might stare a little, maybe with her lips parted. She feels equal parts annoyed and intrigued by his audacity. Something vaguely squirmy and warm stirs in her. She's planning on throwing some haughty quip back at him, maybe casually threatening poisoning, but somehow what comes out of her mouth is a subservient, “Well … what do you want me to make?”

He turns back around with bright eyes. “Oh, I’m sure you can come up with something,” he practically purrs. He gets right up in her space and says, “Something … delectable.”

Mary has to avert her gaze and turn away. She says a quick prayer that he hadn’t been close enough to hear the little hitch in her breath, then tries to focus her attention on cataloging the ingredients the jerk has brought her. Eggs, butter, flour, sugar, milk …

Hadn’t she … hadn’t she been going out somewhere? Oh yeah, right. The gym.

She squeaks when Bucky claps a cheerful hand on her shoulder and gives her a squeeze. “Good girl,” he simpers, then walks over to the couch and flops down next to Steve, giving him a kiss hello. They proceed to chat with each other and chat about their days like Mary isn’t standing less than twenty feet away in the kitchen.

She suddenly feels like some 1950’s housewife. … One with damp panties, now that Bucky’s called her that right in her ear. Christ. Had Steve heard? She glances back over to them, but they’re not looking her way. Mary flushes and looks back down at the countertop. Eggs, butter, flour, sugar, milk. She tries to think if she has everything she might need for soufflé cakes.

“How can something so plain be so good?” Steve wonders at the dinner table, where he’s squinting closely at his third helping of dessert like he can glean answers from it. “And what is it?”

“Satisfying,” Bucky says sagely. “That’s the secret.”

“The secret is buttermilk. And it’s cake, Steve. Just eat it.”

“How’re those dishes coming, Doll?” Bucky calls back, shooting her a sly look from over his shoulder. Mary resists the urge to stick her tongue out at him and dunks her hands back into the soapy sink water. 

Steve pokes the jiggly cake with his fork. “What are yooou?” 

By the time they’re finished with dinner and dessert (and dishes), she’s figured it out. All the pet names, the casual touches and the confident demands? Bucky’s trying to dominate her. She thinks about calling him out on it, but promptly forgets to do that when they go into the living room to watch a movie and Bucky firmly suggests that she make herself comfortable on the floor instead of the couch. At his and Steve’s feet.

Forget about damp panties, she just hopes it doesn’t start to show through her leggings.

Asexual dynamic her ass.

Mary had only held onto the illusion that the guys were gay gay for about two whole days, before it became very apparent that they actually like women, too. Steve’s comments alone about Daenerys while watching Game of Thrones are enough to broadcast that he swings both ways.

So that takes it from regrettable to just plain insulting when, as time goes by, Bucky doesn’t initiate anything sexual with her. He keeps doing his whole Dom thing, aided and abetted by Steve, and almost always in ways that take Mary off guard. He’s never mean, never does any of the intimidating things she’d imagined a dom would do to a submissive. 

And Mary won’t admit it, but she’s starting to look forward to when Bucky gets home from work at the end of the day. She spends more time than she’ll ever admit planning out something new to make for dessert, all the while anticipating the beginning of Bucky’s early evening commands and how they elicit those first tendrils of effervescent, pink fizz giddiness. 

It’s the later commands—the ones that come after dinner and during tv time, that tend to bring on the warm, sunken bathwater feelings. Marys pretty sure that Steve is a bit of a voyeur, because he seems fascinated by it all, watching every night as Bucky bosses her around, sometimes even joining in his own small ways, by petting her hair or telling her she’s sweet, or something like that.

Every evening, they play this strange game. And every evening Bucky and Steve each give her a kiss on the cheek and send her dazed little self off to bed, the two of them retiring to their own room. In the beginning, being left alone to go to bed is nice. She ignores the arousal between her legs in favor of floating in her syrupy sea of sweet feelings. Going to bed in subspace gives her the most solid sleep she’s ever had in her life. But after another week of it, and then another, the arousal starts to linger a little more at bedtime. She starts to fantasize about what it would be like to keep things going, to take Steve’s hand at the end of the night and let him guide her into his and Bucky’s bedroom, rather than her own; be held between their two big bodies while they whisper more sweet things to her and touch her in new places …

Maybe Steve and Bucky really do just want this to be platonic, she thinks, as another week of the same goes by and her dreams are getting dirtier by the minute. She’d surreptitiously stuffed her vibrator into a bag when they’d gone back to her apartment to retrieve her belongings, but she’s been too afraid to use it when Steve and Bucky are right across the hallway in their room, mortified to think that they might hear the buzzing and know what she’s doing.

Best not to add fuel to the fire, she thinks, when she ignores how increasingly horny she’s becoming and forces herself to lie still and count sheep and not fantasize about the two insanely hot, not-gay-gay men in the next room. They’re still a happily married couple, she tells herself. They’ve got no interest in her as of yet, and she’ll just be making herself into a homewrecker if she pushes for more.

… Or maybe they’re just not attracted to her that way, she eventually starts to think. Steve and Bucky are both in amazing shape, and they’re very good looking. They probably see her as like … maybe a solid five—with makeup and a blowout. 

She gets a little down in the dumps about it, realizing that all the heavy drinking and crap diet of this past year and a half has taken its toll on her, and she’s just not physically their type. She convinces Bucky to start adding salmon to the grocery list, she researches the pros and cons of lip filler, and starts whitening her teeth with one of those nasty little gel kits.

She stands in front of her bathroom mirror each night and scrutinizes her naked body, dragging her nails absentmindedly against the skin of her lower stomach and cataloging everything that’s not as good as it could be. She considers the scars on her hip that have no new slices added to the roster, wonders if Bucky ever wound up telling Steve about how … how awful they are …

“Night, Mary!” Steve chirps from across the hall, making her inhale and flinch in surprise.

“N-night!” she calls back through the wall, feeling the pleasant effects of that night’s drop fading away faster than she’d like.

Maybe she should just be happy that she’s getting at least this much attention from them, that things have improved a little and she at least isn’t drinking herself into a stupor each night anymore. That’s a positive, even if she is still left pining after them like a fool every night. Steve and Bucky are okay guys, but they probably just don’t want anything more than this from her. They’re helping her because she shares this mental illness with Bucky, and that’s super nice of them, but it doesn’t mean they have to be attracted to her, too. Mary’s not entitled to anything.

She joins a 24 hour gym and takes to binge exercising in the middle of the night to push away the uncertainty.

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Laces for a Lady - 18th century poly shifter romance (Part one, sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me. 

Well folks, here it is. You said you were interested, so I hope it meets expectations! Here's part one for you, of a multi part story. If you want to kno wmore about it, you can find some more info here, as well as a little 'mood board'.

Content: sfw, the daughter of a country gentleman from Sussex relocates to a sleepy fishing village in Cornwall in order to become the paid companion of a young widow, and meets some of the locals on her arrival. Wordcount: 3972

Five and twenty ponies, Trotting through the dark - Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk. Laces for a lady; letters for a spy, Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by! ~ from ‘A Smugglers’ Song’, Rudyard Kipling (1906)

In the cool, lavender light of a late spring dawn, a gaff-rigged cutter drew into the sheltering arms of a small bay at high tide, and quietly dropped anchor. As if the soft splash had awoken him, a cockerel spluttered to life in a farmyard somewhere inland, but most of the villagers were already up and awake and steering their small, secret fleet of boats out from the golden crescent of sand beneath the cliffs to meet the waiting ship fresh from Roscoff.

Beneath the waves, where churning kelp moored itself in unyielding handfuls to the ancient granite of the sea floor, a long, serpentine shadow snaked between the stalks, and the currents of the coastline subtly shifted. Any revenue men trying to sail along the coast from Fowey to catch the smugglers would have found the wind and tide set dead against them, and in the subtle wake that wafted from the mottled, eel-like tail as it passed unseen, the waters of the secluded inlet calmed beneath the keels of the scurrying fishing boats. The drag of the oars through the waves lessened, and muscles already tired from heaving and hefting goods up the cliff moved a fraction easier for the unexpected boon.

Between them over the next hour, the gathered men and women shifted their haul of half anker barrels and dozens of crates and boxes of goods ashore. The small kegs of rich, French cognac would fetch a pretty price all across Cornwall, and along with the liquor came smaller luxuries like lace and silk, and bundles of tobacco and spiced tea, all meticulously wrapped in oil cloth to keep the sea and the salt and the water out.

And when the speedy, slender ship was riding noticeably higher in the water, the locals simply melted away into the countryside like so many mice from a late summer granary before the excise men even knew the ship from Guernsey had visited the cove at all.

Fifteen miles away, as the sun breached the horizon and cast its first rays of warmth along bellies of fleecy clouds and the flanks of blossoming hedgerows below, a stagecoach lurched and rumbled westwards along potholed roads, and a young woman stared out of the grimy window as the horses carried her into a new chapter of her life.

After leapfrogging some two hundred miles or so along the staging stations that dotted the South Coast, with nothing but a small trunk of her belongings and a thrice-read, dog-eared novel for company, Eleanor Bywater was more than ready to see the back of that infernal stagecoach. Had it not been for the small but inconveniently bulky travelling case sitting at her feet, she might have hired a horse and ridden from the last staging inn at Plymouth to reach the secluded fishing village of Polgarrack, but given that the trunk held all her worldly belongings, she had not been quite desperate enough to escape the discomfort of hard seats and poor suspension to abandon it.

Bouncing along in the nearly-empty stagecoach, she studiously tried to ignore the older woman sitting opposite her. She’d stared intently at Nel since they'd left Plymouth behind that morning, and her scrutiny had begun to make that last twenty mile stretch feel much, much longer.

Finally, after jouncing over a pothole deep enough to start prospecting for copper ore at the bottom, Nel gasped and then raised her eyes to meet the woman’s openly curious stare. She found sympathy for her own discomfort, and a small degree of kindly amusement too. 

“Where are you headed, miss?” the stranger asked after Nel raised the hint of an eyebrow at her as the silence stretched.

“Polgarrack.”

At that, the woman’s grey eyes narrowed in confusion. “Now what takes a young miss like you to an old fishing village like Polgarrack?”

She looked to be in her fifties, though a life beside the harsh sea had weathered her features somewhat, and her wiry grey hair was covered by a simple linen cap. Her dress was dark and plain, though there was a hint of tired lace around the neck and cuffs. Her hands had the tough, reddened look of someone who scrubbed pots and salted fish, while Nel’s own hands were smooth and soft, if a little ink stained from sending a letter to her friend before leaving the inn that morning.

Nel laughed quietly and shrugged. “There’s no mystery to it,” she said. “I am to be employed as a companion to the widowed Lady Penrose at Heath Top House. I am expected there this afternoon.”

Given that only ladies of relatively high social standing themselves tended to become a ‘lady’s companion’, the older woman made a hasty re-evaluation of her fellow traveller, and her already ruddy cheeks flushed a darker shade as she cleared her throat and looked away.

“Begging your pardon, miss,” she said. “We don’t get many new faces in Polgarrack, is all. I didn’t mean to pry or cause offence with my questions.”

“No harm in a little curiosity,” Nel said, trying to put the stranger at ease to avoid any further awkwardness between them on the remainder of their journey. “I take it you’re from Polgarrack yourself then?”

“Oh, born and raised, miss,” she chortled. She eyed the forest green redingote Nel wore, with its rather masculine high collar, wide lapels and small, gold pocket watch dangling on a chain, and the contrasting sage green skirts beneath, and no doubt made one or two judgements of her own about the young lady. “And yourself? You don’t sound as though you’re from these parts at all, if I may be so bold.”

Nel smiled. “I’ve come from Sussex.”

The woman’s watery, grey-blue eyes widened almost comically and she gasped. “’at's a bloody long way, miss! And all on your own?” She shook her head but remembered herself and mumbled, “Begging your pardon.”

“You’re right,” Nel sighed, letting her gaze slide to the window to watch the countryside roll past in a blur of salt-bleached grass and vibrant yellow gorse flowers. “It is a bloody long way.” And her spine and backside felt every lump and bump and lurch of the stagecoaches from Sussex to Cornwall. With a warmer smile, she turned back to the woman. “My name is Eleanor, but most people call me Nel.”

“Agatha,” she replied with a grandmotherly smile of her own for the young woman. “But everyone calls me Aggie. My husband, Martin, is the village carter and smith, and we’ve got four boys, all of them either fishermen or miners. They all married too, so I’ve got nine grandchildren, if you can believe it!”

Nel offered Aggie her congratulations and another little smile, and then ventured to ask, “Will you tell me a bit about the place? I should like to know more about it, since it is to be my home for the foreseeable future.”

Aggie brightened even more and shuffled her plain, dark skirts, giving a wince and a grunt as the coach lurched over a pothole and the driver cursed audibly above them. Settled, if not entirely comfortable, she began.

“Well, see now. Folks has been fishing these waters for time out of mind. Pilchards is our mainstay, o’course, but the folks over St. Austell way mine clay, and obviously there’s copper and tin mines all over in the north of Cornwall. Mining here is as old as fishing, but it’s starting to dry up here and there now, o’course.”

She barely paused to draw breath before barrelling on, and Nel sat and listened while the older woman talked.

“Now, your Lady Penrose married into the Penrose family — see, she’s from Bath herself originally, though I can’t rightly remember what her family name was, but…” Nel let Agatha's potted history of the fishing and mining community wash over her, paying just enough attention to make polite sounds at the right pauses, but the discomfort of the journey and a decided lack of sleep was beginning to wear her attention span down to a single, fraying thread.

After two hours in the swaying, rolling coach, she felt woozy and weak-stomached, but with Aggie’s near-constant chatter, she at least had a better understanding of the politics of the little village than she’d ever have gained in six months on her own. She’d also learned why Aggie had been in Plymouth, since most folks never had any reason to travel further than the bounds of their own parish. Agatha’s sister’s husband had apparently been killed in the American Revolutionary War some ten years earlier, and since the widow’s health wasn’t the best these days, Aggie made the trip along the coast when she could to see her and take care of her.

Nel’s ticket took her as far as Whitcross, a desolate intersection of paler roads on a clifftop overlooking the tightly-nestled fishing port below, and away across the heather and tufted grass of the heath, she could just see an old manor house in the distance, flanked by tall copper beeches and ash trees. It looked slightly further away than she had anticipated, and she glanced apprehensively down at the travelling trunk at her feet.

Still, she was aching for fresh air and to be free of the sickening motion of the carriage, so she took the driver’s hand and allowed him to guide her safely down onto the hard-packed surface of the road before he lifted her case down for her as well.

From inside, Aggie peered out and scowled disapprovingly. “Now just you wait a moment,” she barked at the driver, who cocked an eyebrow but did pause. “Did they not send someone for you, dearie?” she asked Nel, still leaning out of the doorway and peering about like a disgruntled badger, and using the endearment freely. Apparently, two hours of talking non-stop at Nel had removed any pretence of formality or sense of social distance. Nel might as well have been adopted into Aggie Carter’s family as a niece by that point, and she couldn’t help but smile at the warmth it conjured in her chest.

“I… I never thought that far through,” she admitted, with her hand atop her bonnet as the wind gusted up from the sea below, soaring delightedly over the edge of the cliff and racing on inland as if to continue the momentum of the great rolling breakers that foamed and thundered against the shore. The coachman glanced at his pocket watch and groused something about a schedule that was almost immediately lost to the next inward gust.

“No, no, dearie,” the old woman scoffed. “No, you must come into the village. It’s far too far to go all by yourself, and with that case as well. Here, let me —”

“I can manage the case, I assure you,” Nel said with a gentle smile as Aggie half-toppled, half-leaned out of the coach to pick up the case. “How far is it to the house?”

“Two miles up that hill yonder,” Agatha said, pointing with one gnarled and arthritic finger towards the house on the rise to the north. “Come to the Lantern, and we’ll have one of the lads take you up once you’ve caught your breath.” The Lantern, as Nel now knew thanks to Aggie’s detailed prattling, was the inn at the centre of the village, right on the water near the harbour.

She had been about to protest, but with a sigh, she simply nodded. The constant journeying and jolting had worn her down more than she cared to admit, and while she wasn’t the kind of wallflower she’d met any number of times in London during the Season, a life led mostly indoors with few opportunities for physical activity had not prepared her for a two mile walk in heavy, too-fine clothes, carrying an unwieldy case in gusty conditions. Her family had been invited a number of times to Goodwood House to walk the large park there, and she had frequently ridden a rather spirited mare through the parkland of Lavington Hall with her dear friend William, so she was not entirely unused to the great outdoors, but she did have to admit that her experiences had been rather more curated and sanitised than the wild expanse of heathland visible on all sides of the stagecoach from Whitcross.

“You’re kind, Agatha,” she said, and let the woman heft her case into the otherwise empty coach.

The thing about a tiny village was that an outsider stood out a mile, and a young lady in her mid twenties and dressed in impractical, rich green clothes, stood out like a beacon in a dark night. Everyone turned to watch her as she disembarked from the coach. At home, she had barely garnered a look from anyone. Being the centre of everyone’s curiosity there was novel and, in a word, horrifying.

She almost blurted aloud that one would think she was a revenue man come inspecting for smuggled goods, but she bit it back just in time. Cornwall’s so-called ‘free trade’ and smuggling rackets were absolutely none of her concern as an outsider, infamous though they may be, and it would do her no good to start sticking her nose where it did not belong.

The Lantern was a half-timbered, two-storey building that faced the walled harbour. Its painted sign was peeling and sun-bleached, and it squawked something dreadful as it swung back and forth in the squalling wind. Mullioned windows glinted and shimmered, though the small, diamond panes were caked with a haze of salt spray, and alongside the inn, a hand-cart rumbled down from a narrow side alley towards the harbour beyond, where fishing boats bobbed on their mooring lines at the lapping high tide.

Agatha pushed open the black-painted door but came to an abrupt halt as someone appeared to be leaving the inn at the exact same moment, and nearly barrelled into her and Nel.

“Oh, excuse me,” came a young man’s hoarse tenor, and he stepped aside within the inn’s small porch to allow the two women to enter before he left.

Nel noted briefly that he wore well-made but plain clothes, and carried a hefty looking cane in his left hand, upon which he leaned while he waited for them to pass. He was pale and thin, his undyed linen shirt hanging loosely off his shoulders, and his light brown hair was tied back at the nape of his neck into a horsetail. The moment he met her eye, he inhaled in surprise and almost immediately looked away, his large, dark brown eyes turning shy and uncertain. “M’lady,” he mumbled without looking up.

She didn’t have time to correct him and tell him she had no such title, because the moment she had stepped inside, he was off out into the day beyond, limping markedly on his right leg as he went.

Nel turned back to find Agatha waiting for her, watching. “That there was young Edmund Nancarrow,” she supplied as Nel caught up with her. “Local lad. Lots of Nancarrows in this area,” she chuckled. “Can’t move for tripping over a Nancarrow. He was a shy, skittish thing even before he went off to war in the Colonies and came back with a bad leg,” she added. “But he’s a sweetheart if ever I saw one. Tailor’s ’prentice he is now.”

At that, Nel just nodded. Something in her ached when she realised she probably wouldn’t have much to do with the folk from the village once she was ensconced up at Heath Top House, and she half wised she could. They already sounded far more interesting than the Lady Winnifred Penrose, with whom Nel had only exchanged a short flurry of letters before becoming formally engaged as her ‘companion’. 

Still, an unmarried woman of Nel’s age and social standing was considered almost past her prime, and given that the few marriage proposals she had received had faded into the mists of her very early adulthood, she had had to find another respectable way to support herself. Hence, Heath Top House.

Aggie bustled her into the main room of the pub, and their arrival caused a flurry of activity that drew the eyes of a good few patrons. 

Seated at the wooden bar inside, hunched over a pewter tankard, sat a tall, bulky man in his late-thirties or early forties, with long, thick, dark grey hair shot through with a shimmer of silver white. He had it tied back off his face in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck and as he turned to regard Nel’s arrival, she met unusually deep green eyes surrounded by a web of crows’ feet lines in a tanned, weathered face. His scowl was dark and full of suspicion, but even the storm clouds in his expression couldn’t mask the fact that he was handsome, in a rugged, rough-hewn kind of way.

When she saw where Nel’s attention had snagged, Aggie let out a little gasp and snatched her by the upper arm to steer her towards an empty table in a bay window, about as far from the wooden bar where the man still sat and glared at them as it was possible to be. 

“And that’s Locryn Trevethan,” Aggie hissed as she saw Nel settled into a seat. “Can’t say as I’ve seen him in here more than a handful of times this year though. He’s usually out on the water. Lives alone in an old stone cottage round the bay from here, up at Pilchard Sands. You’d probably best be giving him a wide berth, miss. Not that he should give you any trouble, mind,” she amended carefully, “But he’s not for the likes of you to go mingling with.”

Nel smiled at the protective tone in the older woman’s voice, and nodded once.

With her warning given, Aggie raised her voice and called over to the old man behind the bar. “’ere, Tom! This young lady needs a ride up to Heath Top. You think you can arrange that for her?”

The stoop-shouldered, white-haired man nodded and knuckled his forehead at Nel across the space. “Not the finest, but we got a cart.”

“If you have a horse, I could ride,” she said, trying to be helpful.

“Ain’t got a saddle for a lady,” he said regretfully.

Memories of galloping through the leafy trees of Lavington Hall’s parkland with William flashed across her mind and she suppressed a smile. She certainly hadn’t ridden the grey mare side-saddle while keeping up with her childhood friend, and although it had been a year or so since she’d sat astride a horse instead of side-saddle, she thought she could manage well enough. “I know how to ride a man’s saddle,” she said, “But I do have a travel case I’d need to send someone back for.”

“I could get one of the lads to bring that up for you after,” said Tom, “But it’s almost as much effort to hitch up a cart as it is to tack up a horse for riding, ma’am.”

“Whatever is the least trouble for you will do fine,” she said, and the stoic, weather-beaten old man’s red cheeks darkened and he ducked his head.

While Tom left to sort out transportation to the house, Aggie flapped about getting some refreshments for Nel, leaving her to wait at the table alone.

In the wake of the hubbub and pother Agatha left behind her, Nel took a long, deep breath looked around to find Locryn Trevethan still staring across the room at her. Taken aback by his directness and the intensity of his glare, she tried to smile, but his expression remained thunderous beneath strong, dark brows, and she quickly looked away, embarrassed.

In a face turned to leather by the sun and sea-wind, wide cheekbones and a heavy brow framed his piercingly green eyes. Never mind that marked crow’s feet around his eyes that made him look like he would rather have been laughing; the contrast between the dark, hostile glower and the soft laughter lines unnerved her and made her feel off-balance, as though her stranger’s presence in their local pub had unknowingly raised the ire of a usually gentle man. 

He had a short, neatly-trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard around full lips that were currently turned down at the corners and which bore a silver-pink scar across the middle. Despite the warm day, he wore a fisherman’s dense, woollen sweater, and when she risked another look back at him, she found him still frowning openly across the bar at her.

Nel didn’t relax until Aggie returned, at which point the man snapped abruptly out of his trance, slammed a coin down on the bar, and strode from the pub on long legs that were thick as tree trucks at the thigh. The door bounced back off the plasterwork in his wake and his boots rang on the flagstones outside.

“Not one to welcome strangers, I take it,” Nel muttered, and downed half of the cheap, watered-down wine that Agatha had set on the table for her.

“Oh don’t you pay him no mind, miss,” Aggie scoffed, settling herself down into the seat opposite her like a brooding hen and glaring at the pub door. “He don’t seem to like no one in Polgarrack save for sweet Ned Nancarrow, strangely enough. Then again, I ain’t met no one who’s taken a disliking to sweet Ned. Now, Tom will have the horse and cart ready for you in just a moment, but you just take your time and recover after your journey.”

Nel, who had felt ten times better the moment she’d taken her first proper lungful of sea air on stepping out of the swaying stagecoach, looked across the table into the older woman’s face and found a mother’s kindness and compassion in her wrinkled face, and something twisted in her gut. “You’re very kind,” she whispered, unable to muster anything more. “Thank you.”

She chuckled. “You know, and don’t you take this amiss, but you remind me of my niece a little, though she’s a little younger than you.”

Nel’s eyebrows twitched in wry amusement, and Agatha blushed at the impropriety of her words. Nel didn’t get the chance to reassure her because Tom shuffled back in and told her the cart was ready for her.

She laid a coin on the table for the wine and stood, following the innkeep out into the yard and clambering up with her case into the back of the cart. It was hardly a very dignified mode of transport for someone of her station, and when Tom said as much while they rumbled out of the inn’s yard, Nel just laughed and said she didn’t mind.

“Anything is better than that awful rolling stagecoach,” she beamed, and swung her legs back and forth like a child off the back of the cart bed while Tom clucked his tongue at the horse to hurry up.

As they trundled up the narrow, cobbled street from the harbour, they passed Edmund Nancarrow standing outside a tailor’s shop, talking with the beast of a man from the bar. Both men looked up and watched her pass like she was some kind of rare spectacle.

In a way, she supposed she was. 

Still, she smiled at them despite her nerves, and Edmund knuckled a non-existent cap at her with a shy smile, while Locryn just glared.

She sighed and wondered what this next chapter in her life would bring.

___

Next chapter ->

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[robinewe]

Two Soulmates

Prompt #22-- Doubles

My heart was pounding amid the quiet, the occasional creak of metal or far off shouting. The light was dim, I could tell even under my blindfold, but even though I couldn’t see I could sense that I was alone. My fingers worked at the knots at my wrists. I’d always been good at knots, I had a Girl Scouts badge to prove it. The rope was slick, synthetic fiber, so it came easily undone.

I yanked off the blindfold and blinked while I willed my eyes to adjust faster. The room was much as I’d expected. Cavernous, dim, no windows, light only from a flickering fluorescent bulb somewhere high above. Lots of entrances and exits to choose from. Rusting metal and clouds of dust everywhere.

I checked my wrist, still feeling the bite of the ropes, and saw that the number etched in white across the skin there read a clear 00:00:00:00:02:46. I yanked the sleeve of my jacket down over it, heat rising to my face. That was just so soon, and I couldn’t imagine the most momentous occasion of my life occurring in such a place as this, an abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Just my luck.

Seeing as I was alone, I had some searching to do. I dashed out of the room, following those distant shouts with a growing apprehension in my stomach. What happened after I found them? How were we to escape?

00:00:00:00:01:25 read the counter on my wrist. A part of the infrastructure collapsed and sent a storm of dust and debris through the corridor. I coughed, hacking into my elbow and squeezing my eyes shut.

There was now a gaping hole in the wall, and artificial light streamed through. The sounds of fighting were much louder now. They were through there.

I took a deep breath and braced myself and climbed over the metallic shrapnel through the wall. I could hear nothing but shouting, weapons firing, metal hitting metal, objects raining to the floor. I caught sight of neither combatant, only finding the evidence of their battle.

The timer on my wrist ticked down as a blast of heated energy hit the platform above me, and the supports gave out from under one side. It came swinging down towards me, and I screamed, throwing my arms over my face. The thing exploded in the air above me, but a clear glowing shield of energy surrounded me then, the debris bouncing harmlessly away. I found myself on the ground regardless.

I opened my eyes to see two concerned faces as the timer struck zero. There were warm, dark brown eyes further away, amidst curly light hair and an orange scarf covering the bottom half of his face. He held a long, thin gun that radiated heat and distorted the air around it, recently used. Much closer to me were eyes that were icy blue, set in a face with gaunt cheekbones, under dark hair, hidden with no mask. Emanating from his hand was the energy shielding me from harm.

The moment stood still, frozen, while we watched each other with wide eyes.

The villain spoke first, recovering his calculated posture and withdrawing the energy. “So it’s you.”

The hero took a second to recover, but then he took a stilted step towards us. “I-”

A look of irritation passed across the villain’s face. “This is a private moment, if you wouldn’t mind.” He snapped his fingers and a flash of ice erupted from his palms, encasing the hero’s entire body in a jagged block of ice.

I was still on the ground, and I started pushing myself backwards, away from the villain. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I wasn’t sure if the hero was dead or not. I knew that I was afraid of the villain. I had seen what he’d done before.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, holding up his hands placatingly. “Look.” His sleeve slipped down to reveal a timer ticking up, only a minute or so in. I quickly looked down to my own wrist, and saw a duplicate of the same number: 00:00:00:00:03:11. They counted up in tandem. They had since the moment I had first locked eyes with the villain. The notion made me feel something in my stomach, a sort of nausea, though whether it was giddiness or dread I couldn’t say.

I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t say anything, and I was worried that my soulmate had just killed someone in front of me not moments after we had met. I was afraid that my soulmate was a murderer, and I didn’t know what that meant about me. I still found myself on the ground, unable to move away further.

“I would never hurt my own soulmate,” the villain said. “I’ve been waiting an awfully long time to meet you. Haven’t you?” Cautiously, he offered me a hand, stepping closer to do so. He was tall and slight, bending like a tree to lean over me and extending a hand tipped with long, graceful fingers. I placed my hand in his, and he easily pulled me to my feet and then close into his side, wrapping an arm around me. My head didn’t reach the height of his shoulders.

“Is this some kind of trick?” I asked, once I could force my lips to move again. His face fell.

“Of course not,” he said. “How does one trick fate itself?”

“Why would I fall in love with a supervillain?”

His lip twitched. “Now that’s stereotyping. It’s rude, you don’t even know me.”

“I’ve seen what you do,” I protested.

“We don’t have time for this. Hero’s already thawing himself out,” he jerked a thumb towards his ice sculpture. Those brown eyes were still frozen staring at me, looking almost frantic, as the ice around him dripped. The tip of his heat gun had already freed itself, sticking out of the ice and a little streak of fire coming out of the end. Soon the hero’s hands would be free, and then the rest of him.

I couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. He was alive. I took a step towards him, to go and make sure that he would stay that way, but the villain blocked my path.

“Please, we can talk more about this somewhere else where it’s safer. Look, you’ve already got me begging. That’s something I don’t do every day.” My eyes drifted back up to him.

“Fine.”

He replaced his arm around my shoulder and guided me swiftly out of the warehouse, to where a car awaited us. It hovered above the ground with a gentle hum of air, and the windows were tinted entirely black. The villain opened the rounded door, gesturing me inside with a bow and a quirk of his lips. I stepped inside, and found it well-kept and clean, a newer expensive model of the podcar that I would never have expected to see in my lifetime. My friends all had the first generation, with all their faults and peculiarities, most of them full of patched repair jobs and junk filling the space.

It had an automatic pilot, so the villain needed only to duck in behind me, and order, “Drive us home.”

The ice eventually thawed to the point where the hero’s wrist was out and visible. It counted upwards in perfect synchronicity with the villain’s and mine. But he was powerless to stop as his worst enemy stole away his true love.

[luthien-under-bough]

like light refracted - Aegon II Targaryen x Daemon Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen (complete)

This fic was written as a gift for the brilliant and talented @anamazingangie. Thanks to her wisdom, I have seen the light, and have hopped aboard the Daegonyra train. 🚂

Warnings: Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M, M/M, Multi Relationships: Aegon II Targaryen/Daemon Targaryen/Rhaenyra Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen/Rhaenyra Targaryen Additional Tags:  Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e08 The Lord of the Tides (House of the Dragon), No Dance of the Dragons | War For Succession Between Aegon II and Rhaenyra Targaryen Never Happens, rhaenyra and daemon avert war through the power of bisexuality, Aegon II Targaryen is Not a Rapist, he is just a sad baby in need of hands-on parenting, Mommy Issues, Daddy Issues, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, sad man jerking off, medieval butt plug, Threesome - F/M/M, Brother/Sister Incest, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Uncle/Niece Incest, Everyone is Bisexual, Pregnancy Kink, Lactation Kink, POV Aegon II Targaryen, Praise Kink

Summary:

He had scarcely seen them since he was a boy — since the scandal of their wedding. But it was immediately obvious how much they adored one other. The casual intimacy between them, the way they always found a way to touch. Aegon swore he could see the sparks wherever their skin met. His father had been a fool to ever deny them their match. It was plain to see that they were utterly besotted with each other — even after six years of marriage. He wondered, despairingly, what it must feel like, to have someone, anyone, love you best in all the world. — In which Aegon is deeply depressed, and the only remedy is the healing power of Daemyra threesome. 

Chapter Links:

🤍chapter 1 🤍chapter 2 (mostly smut)

*banners by @anamazingangie! 🤍

[thetaleofsirpercival]

Oh, to be a lone traveler stumbling upon a chateau after days of nothing but the endless fields and the darkest woods

The lord and the lady take you in and make sure that you have everything you need. The old laws of hospitality are sacred in this house, they tell you as you eat your dinner, the most delicate of meats paired with the most flavorful of wines.

Soon, a pleasant buzz fills your head, making your eyelids heavy and your heart light, so much so that you hardly notice that your hosts have hardly taken a bite. You see them exchange glances. A proposition is extended. Consent is freely given.

Later, among the luxurious silks of the master bedroom, you’re so focused on pleasuring the lady that you hardly notice the sheets rustling and a vial being opened until you feel oiled fingers massaging your entrance, slowly finding their way inside. You moan against the lady’s clit and she gasps, her fingers entangling themselves in your hair to bring your face even closer. You resume your efforts as the lord slowly works you open, pliant under his touch. After what feels like an eternity, you feel his cock teasing your entrance, just enough to make you moan. The lord hums, amused at your neediness until finally, finally he pushes in. Eventually, you fall into a steady rhythm, his cock hitting something inside you that makes you whimper.

And just as the heat at the bottom of your stomach starts to unravel, he leans over you, enveloping your silhouette in his. You feel a flash of pain as his teeth break the skin at the crook of your neck but it’s then when your orgasm sweeps over you, turning the pain into the sweetest pleasure. You feel your body relax into it, mind sky high as your hosts both give and take in a well practiced dance.

They do not leave you unattended after. You feel satisfied, spent, too weak to stand on your own two feet. They offer you drink and allow you to doze off in their embrace until the sun climbs high in the sky. It is time for you to go.

The chateau will still be there on your way back home.

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"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.

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@ot3-week day 4: The knight, the princess, and the dragon are all actually together

My true OT3. Loves of my life! This prompt fit them so well!

DO NOT REPOST! Reblogs encouraged! All other uses please ask.

[monstersandmaw]

Laces for a Lady - 18th century, poly, shifters x human romance - Chapter Three (sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me. 

Thank you so much for the interest and sweet comments you left about the last chapter! Things are picking up speed just a touch, and we get to see a bit of Locryn this time while our girl makes a daring rescue!

Content: near-drowning in the sea, slight head injury, protectiveness and some rudeness, Blackthorn (my beloved) Wordcount: 3223

Part One (sfw), Part Two (sfw)

Nel leapt off Blackthorns’ back, having no choice but to leave the mare untethered up on the windy cliff, and she raced down the tiny, winding path towards the rocky shore below.

Countless times she slipped and skidded on the loose grit, landing hard on her backside every time, but eventually she hit the smooth sand at a run and ploughed down the beach into the rough surf where the young man floated on his back amid the foaming white horses. Those waves thundered hungrily up the beach with all the lingering strength of the storm. The water was icy cold too as she waded in, and the shock of it drew a choked yelp from her as a wave smashed into her thighs and hips.

As she’d suspected, she could see now that the unconscious man was Edmund Nancarrow, but before she could reach for him, another pounding wave hit her in the midsection and this time it swept her off her feet. She floundered beneath the rushing surf, acrid saltwater filling her mouth and terror wiping her mind blank before she was somehow able to get her feet underneath her and stagger upright once again, coughing and gasping. She was soaked through, and the weight of the water-drenched fabric was enough to suck her under again, but when she got herself upright a second time, she set her feet a little wider and struggled back out to where he was floating on his back.

Just before another breaker rolled in, she saw that he had a wound on his forehead, though it had long since stopped bleeding; washed clean by the saltwater. His silver-brown hair was loose and streamed like kelp around him as she fought her way between the oncoming waves to hook her arms under his and tow him towards the shore.

She fell twice, sitting down in the surf and clamping her mouth and eyes shut as another wave sloshed over her head before she was able to get upright again.

She had no idea whether the tide was coming or going, but once she was out of the jealous, reaching sea, she dragged him as far as she could up the length of the sandy beach until her arms were shaking from the strain of it. She hauled him just a little further onwards, past the line of seaweed that lay scattered like dark lace between the hard wet sand and the dry, powdery sand of the last stretches of the beach, and carefully lowered him down. Her lungs burned and her throat was raw from inhaling mouthfuls of sea water. She coughed and retched reflexively, spitting and heaving onto the shore before she could even try to catch her breath or see to Edmund Nancarrow.

Her chest constricted and spasmed, and her limbs felt like lead, and she crashed to her knees on the wet sand beside him. The swathes of wet fabric swamped her, and she felt as if her dress carried enough fabric to rig a whole schooner. It was ruined now, if not from the salt then from the myriad rips and tears from the brambles and sharp stone on her frantic journey down the narrow cliff path.

Terrified that he would be dead, she reached out a trembling hand and pressed her fingertips to his pulse. She almost collapsed when she felt a steady, if slow, beat beneath his skin. “He lives yet…” she whispered, eyes closing. Salt and sand prickled along her lashes and her hair had come loose, falling in messy, wet curls around her face. “How do I help you now?” she hissed.

Breathing quickly as a new kind of panic set in, Nel looked around her and then back up at the path. Despite his slenderness, there was no way she would ever get him back up there on her own, but as a tiny drift of smoke wafted across the blue sky along the nearby cliff edge, she recalled that stone cottage which sat there like an autumn mushroom, all alone in a sea of grasses and gorse. If memory served her, that was Locryn Trevethan’s home.

“Any port in a storm,” she mused with a wry, dark grimace to herself, and she staggered to her feet. Immediately, she tripped and fell over the wet expanse of cloth, and with another grimace, she grabbed sodden fistfuls of the fabric and hauled them out of the way to show a shocking amount of calf, had anyone been there or conscious to see it.

She lost count of the number of times she still tripped over the heavy skirts on the narrow, twisting path back up the cliff. She had to stop twice just to catch her breath but it was fear for Edmund Nancarrow’s fading life that drove her on again before she’d fully recovered. By the time she had finally scrabbled to the top of the path again she was dirty, sweaty, shaking, and covered in grit and leaves.

At long last, she staggered over the rough ground at the top of the cliff and floundered to a halt on the flagstone threshold of the quiet cottage.

Hammering on the door felt like sacrilege in the peace of that place but she hardly had any choice, and there was every chance that Edmund had little time, so she bashed her fists on the door and yelled for help until it opened.

“Calm down, calm down,” a deep, gravelly voice rumbled as Locryn Trevethan pulled open the door to his house and glared at her. “What in the —?”

“I need your help,” she interrupted before he could slam the door in her face. “It’s Edmund. He’s hurt.”

At that, Locryn’s rough face blanched and all trace of hostility evaporated. “Where, lass? Where is he?” he demanded, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her, as if that would make the answer tumble out of her faster.

“Down on the beach,” she croaked and pointed. “He was floating face-up in the surf. I dragged him up the sand but I can’t get him up the cliff. He’s suffered a blow to the head, but he’s alive. Just.”

Ashen-faced, Locryn charged out through the doorway like a passing winter storm, almost knocking her off her feet as he went, and in only a fraction of the time it had taken her to reach the bottom, he was sprinting out over the sand on his thick, powerful legs to where she’d left Edmund’s corpse-still body. She’d never seen anyone run that fast, and might have been impressed if she wasn’t starting to show signs of shock herself.

For a while, Nel watched from the distant clifftop, exhausted and shivering from cold and lingering fear. It felt like watching a play from the upper circle of a theatre, only this one had every chance of turning into a genuine tragedy, and the men below weren’t acting. Locryn pumped Edmund’s chest in a rhythmic motion, and when Edmund eventually jerked and half-rolled sideways, Nel relaxed just a fraction.

A few minutes later, Locryn had scooped Edmund up from the sand and was marching back up the path again with him lying cradled in his arms like a bride after church. Only, Edmund looked pale to the point of death, and he was soaked through. He wore simple brown trousers and a linen shirt that stuck to every sharp angle of his skinny torso and revealed the delicate arches of his collarbones where it flopped open at the neck, and his head lolled alarmingly in Locryn’s massive arms, hair dangling and dripping.

“Move,” Locryn growled as he reached the top of the path and found her half-blocking his way as she just stared at them and tried to stop shivering. The wind bit through her wet clothes as they clung horribly to her body. She skittered sideways to let him pass. He didn’t stop as he elbowed his front door open again and trudged in, heedless of the sand he tracked in from his boots.

Nel hung back awkwardly in the doorway, watching as Locryn laid Edmund down on top of his covers and inspected the wound in his hairline with surprisingly delicate hands, given their roughness and size. “Can you hear me?” she heard him rumble and watched as Edmund’s eyelids flickered.

“My mare should still be a little way off,” she bleated. “I can ride for a doctor if —”

“No,” Locryn barked, straightening from his stoop over the bed to glare at her. “No need.”

“You’re sure?”

He actually lifted his lip at her and she held up her palms.

“I’m only trying to help,” she shot in a tremulous voice, fighting off tears of shock more than anything else in the face of his gruff temper. She hugged her arms around her middle to stop herself falling apart in front of the huge stranger, and she sucked her cheeks to keep from crying.

At the sight of her, Locryn’s whole demeanour changed. His massive shoulders sagged and he let his head hang. “I know,” he sighed, the sound gusting out of him in a rush. “I’m sorry. Come here then. Draw up a chair and hold his head while I try and get him to drink something. He’ll be alright.”

“You’re sure?” she said. “He looks like he’s been bludgeoned half to death.”

“Probably was,” he said. “Probably one of those damned revenue men with a fucking cudgel.”

Her eyebrows rose and her gaze slid unbidden to his right leg. “He was out in the storm too?”

“Most of them were out in it last night,” he said, fetching a simple, wooden cup from a shelf and returning to the bed while Nel crossed to meet him and slid her hand under Edmund’s head.

At the moment her fingers touched him, his eyes fluttered open and he took a deeper breath. “That’s it,” she smiled shakily. “Welcome back.”

He blinked groggily up at her and it took him a long while to focus properly on her face. When he did though, his lips parted and he inhaled so suddenly he started coughing.

“Here, love,” Locryn purred as he leaned in, heedless of Nel being close enough to hear the endearment. “Drink this.”

Nel supported his wet, salty, sandy head while Locryn let small amounts of liquid dribble into Edmund’s mouth. When he was satisfied, Locryn nodded at her, and she let him lie back on the pillow. While Edmund caught his breath, she tried to afford them both what privacy she could, and looked around her at the small, stone cottage.

A shimmering, silver sealskin was the first thing that snagged her gaze, draped over the back of a chair like a lady’s stole, and when Locryn saw her looking at it, he growled openly at her. He actually lifted one side of his lips fully this time and exposed a thick canine at her, and his green eyes seemed to flash silver in the quiet stillness of the room. The sound that accompanied the gesture wasn’t human at all, more like the rumbling of a guard mastiff. “Don’t you go touching anything in here,” he said.

Again, she just held up her hands mutely and realised why Aggie had been so keen to warn her away from him. He was more like a wild man from a fairytale than a fisherman.

From the bed, Edmund croaked, “Lock?”

“I’m here, love,” he said, again using the endearment freely in front of Nel. Perhaps a man who was happy enough to growl like an animal at young ladies was less than concerned over what society would think of him calling another man ‘love’.

“Took a bit of a crack on the head, I think,” Edmund said. “One of those revenue men in their damned cutter. She’s quick, Lock.”

“I should have been there,” he growled fiercely.

“Storm was too strong last night, even for you, sweetheart,” Ned smiled, his consonants were softened and worn down by exhaustion, like a wave-worn pebble in his mouth. He smiled though, and Nel relaxed a little when she saw it.

Locryn catalogued the movement of her shoulders out of the corner of his eye. “You got this young lady to thank for finding you,” he said and Nel flushed despite the cold that soaked into her muscles and started to make them stiff and her hands clumsy.

Edmund turned his dark brown eyes on her and smiled so sweetly and so openly that she felt her stomach flip over. “Th…Thank you,” he whispered, his eyes fluttering as a riptide of tiredness threatened to take him under.

“I’m glad I found you in time. And it was lucky you were on your back, or you might have drowned,” she said.

Something passed over Edmund’s sharp, thin features at that, and he turned even paler, if that was possible. “Yes,” he whispered faintly. His eyes darted across the room, seeing past her towards something on the other side that drew her attention with it, but she saw only the sealskin on the chair.

Nel took a deep breath and stood. She was shivering violently now and it was an effort to speak. “If you don’t need me, I’ll get out of your way,” she said to Locryn. “I need to get back to Heath Top,” she added, but he said nothing at all as she made her way to the door, and didn't break the rhythm of stroking his hand over Edmund’s head.

When she glanced back over her shoulder, she found him pressing a kiss of pure relief to Edmund’s forehead and she felt again that sharp ache in her chest. Knowing she’d overstayed her welcome, she stumbled away from the homely cottage and out towards the heath, and prayed that Blackthorn would be grazing where she’d left her.

To her immense relief, the mare spotted her at some distance across the meadow on the clifftop and jerked her head into the air, whickering around a huge mouthful of dandelions, and came trotting over with her nostrils flared wide in indignation at being so abruptly abandoned.

“There you are,” Nel laughed, rubbing circles on the pretty whorl between the horse’s eyes. “Look at you,” she added, pulling stray stalks and stems out of the bit and bridle where the mare had clearly been gorging herself on the meadow’s summer bounty. “Well, thank you for not wandering off, but how the Hell am I going to get back on?”

“I’ll give you a boost,” came a deep voice from behind her and she fairly leapt out of her skin.

Blackthorn immediately nipped her shoulder in sharp rebuke for also startling her in the process, and Nel jerked around.

There, standing on the shorter grass of the coastal path was Locryn. “Sorry,” he added. To be fair, he did actually look genuinely contrite despite his beastly size and dark glower.

Nel bowed her head and rested her forehead against the mare’s sun-warmed neck for a moment and let out a whickering laugh of her own. “I didn't hear you there,” she said. “You startled me.”

“Sorry,” he said again.

“Will… Will he be alright?” she asked, letting her gaze slide away from the ruggedly handsome man towards his stone house a way off down the grassy incline.

“Yes. He’s a whole lot tougher than he looks, I promise you. But he owes you his life, for sure.”

“I’m just glad I happened to come this way today,” she said. Again, she shivered as the wind gusted and tore through the sea-soaked fabric of her skirts as if they weren’t there at all.

In the strong sunlight, she could see that the colour of Locryn’s eyes perfectly matched that of the blue-green of the sea behind, and, set in his weathered, sun-bronzed face, they looked like the long-lost gems from a pirate hoard. She nearly scoffed at the comparison and chalked it up to hysteria brought on by the day’s ordeal.

The wind tugged insistently at his long, thick ponytail, and at six foot five or six, he absolutely towered over her. Yet, for all his gruff appearance and earlier rudeness, he smiled kindly at her for the first time. Then, his full, slightly scarred lips parted and he spoke falteringly.

“I… believe we might have got off on the wrong foot, miss,” he said in his harsh, gravelly bass. “I can be a mite short with people I don’t know — folk who aren’t from round here — and I’m damned protective of… of those I care for, but I apologise for making you feel unwelcome.”

His rough, heartfelt apology made her beam up at him, and she laughed in light-headed relief, pushing her brown, wind-tangled hair out of her eyes. What a state she was in. If anyone saw her now, she dreaded to think what their opinion of her would be. “It’s a small community, and you look out for your own,” she said. “I can’t blame you for that.”

“You’re kind, miss,” was all he said to that.

“Nel, please.”

“Nel?”

“Well, ‘Eleanor’, but only my family calls me that, and usually when I’ve been up to mischief.”

He laughed and jutted his chin at the mare beside her. “Best get you back aboard, Miss. Nel,” he said. “Wind’s picking up, and you need to get out of those wet clothes afore you get sick.”

Locryn dropped stiffly to one knee beside the mare and laced his fingers to give her a leg up. Tentatively, she set her sandy, wet boot in his palm and let him boost her upwards into the saddle in a single, smooth motion. Something in her core tightened at the thought of how strong he must be to lift her without so much as a grunt of effort. She wasn’t anywhere near as slim as Winnie, but her skirts had to weigh almost as much as she did with all the seawater still saturating every stitch and hem.

Once she was settled astride Blackthorn though, and those wet skirts were accommodated as comfortably out of the way as she could get them, she adjusted the reins and looked down at him. Blackthorn stamped her hoof into the grass and snorted, eager to be off.

“Tell Edmund I’ll be thinking of him as he recovers,” she blurted. “He’s… He’s lucky to have you to look after him.”

“I will,” Locryn said, settling her left boot in the stirrup with a firm grip that lingered on the joint of her ankle a moment too long and a touch too firmly. “He’ll be back to his old self in no time, you’ll see.”

Smiling faintly, she reined the mare around and trotted her a few paces up the path before urging her into an easy canter.

She felt the ghost of his strong fingers around her left ankle all day.

That night, Nel dreamed of thundering surf and scarred, weathered hands wandering in places she’d certainly never felt the hands of another; of low-frequency growls right in her ear and teeth nipping at skin; and of gentle, gasping moans escaping pale, slender, exposed throats and of running her fingertips along a sharp jawline, and she woke sweaty and tingling all over in the pre-dawn light.

___

Next chapter ->

Oh ho ho there, Nel... Next time we get to see a bit more of Edmund, and the harvest festival dance at Heath Top House is just around the corner. I wonder if all the local residents will come...?

I hope you're enjoying it and I hope you’ll consider reblogging as well as leaving a like if you enjoyed it. Take care of yourselves, and I hope you have a lovely day/night wherever you are, and whenever you read this.

| Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

[negansbackdoorwhore]

Belong To Us

A/N: So I wrote this a while back but never posted it with the combination of JDM characters, Ray Lasalle and Ike Evans. Along with the fact this has bisexual men and it’s a threesome piece. But please enjoy this

Warnings: M/M/F threesome, bisexual men, smut, teasing, daddy kink

The daytime was full of busy bodies and responsibilities. The sun was bright in rhe sky and beaming down with the heat. Very dull and repetitive but at night was when the fun really happened. You awaited the touch of both your Daddies, Ray and Ike. The men whom formed a polyamorous relationship with you. At first the thought was strange but having those two all over you and each other made you enjoy it immensely. With them being busy throughout their days, you were left alone at either Ike’s or Ray’s. Tonight it was Ray’s penthouse.

You smiled at your phone and slipped on the leopard print robe Ray gifted you. Not to mention the emerald colored lingerie set that Ike picked out. You sat in the king sized bed as the sound of the door opening made your ears perk up.

“Y/N? You here Babygirl?” Ike was here first and you rushed out to hug him. Your arms went into his suit jacket and felt the warmth of his body. He was quick to plant a kiss on top of your head.

“Someone’s happy to see me.” Ike teased and brought you to kiss his lips.

“You look beautiful in this, I wonder what’s hiding underneath this.” His fingers teased the tied bow and you pulled away before he could undo it.

“Nope. Let’s be fair and wait for Ray. Remember how mad he was last we didn’t wait?”

Ike shook his head and went into the bathroom to undress. You followed behind him and brung the robe that matched your own. Ray decided to get a matching set for each person, cute. As Ike stripped away his clothes you heard the door again.

“Fuck, today was hetic. I really need my lovers to get me out of this funk.” You both giggle and Ike brought the robe over his shoulders. You see Ray tossed off his jacket on the kitchen counter.

“There’s lover number one. Now where is number two little lady?”

He commented as a hand put on your waist to pull you into his body. Ike was going to leave the bedroom but saw Ray leading you back in.

“Why am I number two mister? Am I just a piece of meat?”

“C’mon now, you know I love you both the same.” Ray kissed Ike and leaned to kiss you too. Your fingers began unbuttoning his white dress shirt and he smirked down at you. His hands stopped your own and you pouted.

“Ike, baby. I recall our girl was texting me about having us on her mind all day.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. Y/N, why don’t you show us how much you want us.”

“Go on, be our good girl.”

Ike winked and you knew exactly what to do. You undid your robe and allowed to fall to your feet. Their eyes were predatory as they focused on your body moving on the bed. The lingerie that was on your body went well enough to compliment your skin and how the lace lined your curves. It had Ray rushing his motions to get off his clothes. You display yourself by standing your weight on your knees. Ray approached the edge of the bed and you get closer by wrapping your arms on his neck. His lips were already on yours and he groaned with how Ike was reaching to caress his crotch. You gently moved his shirt off his shoulders and touched over his tattooed body.

“You need Daddy’s help with this?” Ike purred into Ray’s ear. His fingers undoing the confines of his pants and running his palm down his shaft.

“Fuck.” Ray mumbled against your lips and you started kissing his neck. He groaned as you were both pampering his body. You felt his hands on your hips and urging you to lay down. His body laid over you and your hands touched his skin. He gave a firm tug on your thighs so your legs wrapped onto his waist. As you both got distracted by one another Ike had his hands on Ray’s ass.

“I’m feeling a little neglected back here.”

“Should’ve acted faster.” Ike reached forward and tugged Ray’s hair causing him growl.

“You two play nice.”

You beckoned as you pull Ray back into a kiss. Ike took control by pulling down Ray’s pants and underwear in one pull. His fingers touching his bare bum and giving a nice smack. He let out a whimper and leaned up from growing impatient. You giggled as he was trying to get off your panties. They were tossed on the ground and you took it further by taking off the bra. Ray couldn’t help himself when him wanting a taste of your body. You moan as his lips were all over your chest. Your hips koved up to try and feel his cock. He moaned against your skin along with feeling Ike leaning down to kiss his back.

Ike’s hands rested on his hips and let his tongue run along the back of his neck.

“I think we should really get this started.” Ike said while leaning up and reached into the nightstand for some lubricant. Ray felt him nudge his legs apart while you were guiding Ray’s cock to your entrance. He groaned when feeling your sweet juices on his tip. Ray took back control by pinning your wrists above your head and thrusting into you.

“Fuck! I really needed this.” He bit his lip and felt Ike’s lubed cock teasing him ass. He whimpered at his touch while the grip of Ike’s fingers on his hip. You held on his torso and moaned as he stroked into you. The sight of him enjoying Ike’s attention was so hot. Ike finally pushed into Ray and suddenly he had to stop. Ray’s fingers squeezed your skin and the other hand gripped the comforter.

“Shit! Fuck!” Ray cursed and Ike leaned over while pulling his hair. Ike bit his earlobe and whispered into his whisper.

“Quit tensing up baby. It won’t feel as good, try and relax.”

Your hands held Ray’s face and caressed his beard. He let out a shaky breath and continued by slowly thrust into you.

“Good boy.” Ike praised while speeding up his hip movements. It encouraged Ray to go faster inside you, you felt your body arch up into his thrusts that made him go crazy.

“Ray! Just like that, it feels so good.”

You cry out and tighten the grip of your thighs on his waist. His eyes squeezed shut while Ike held a hand on his shoulder and the other on his hip to pull him back into his hips. Ike licked his lips watching you experience Ray and feeling him on his dick was making him grow closer to his release. Ray couldn’t help the way his movements grew sloppy along with Ike going harder inside him. You were already coming once Ray groaned out your name and how his cock was buried inside you. You quivered at the feeling of his cum was loading into you.

But Ike wasn’t done as he was still thrusting in Ray and he whimpered. You helped Ray by guiding him out of your pussy but he had an idea. You pushed further on the bed and Ray put your legs on his shoulders. You whined as he started to lick your opening. His moans vibrated against that made your thighs squeeze his head.

Ike moaned loudly as he got closer and gave Ray a few smacks on his ass. It made him pull away from you to wince and you sat up to pull him into sloppy kiss. Ray rested his head in the crook of your neck and held your body as he came around Ike.

“Fuck, baby!” Ike rasped out as he pulled out of Ray to release onto his lower back. The heavy sound of your breathing filled the room and you watched Ike step away to light a cigarette. Ray was still on top of you and nuzzling his head into your neck.

“I needed that shit. You both felt amazing.” Ray said with a smirk and stood from your body. You sat up and watched your men indulge in simple pleasure of a smoke and some liquor. While you slid underneath the covers of the bed and patiently waited for them to join. Ray went on one side to spoon you while Ike went on the other to pull you into his arms.

For a few minutes it was nice and cuddly until Ray was sucking on your skin. Ike pulled you to slowly makeout with him. Both of them groping at your body and you had you pull away from them.

“We just finished. Haven’t you had enough?”

“You know we can’t get enough.” They both reply and kept going, this was going to be a long night.

[honkygay]

what happens when u put an incredibly affectionate and open married couple with a repressed traumatised man who hasn’t felt romantic physical affection beyond sex in years? u get perfection. that’s what.

forgot to EVER mention that just cuz i ship robert hunter and carlos garcia it does NOT mean i am ‘killing the wife/gf/woman’ to force my yaoi ship. I THINK THEY ALL KISS AND SLEEP IN A FUCKING HUGE BED WITH AN ABUNDANCE OF BLANKETS AND PILLOWS AND MAKE COFFEE AND BUY FLOWERS AND WINE FOR EACHOTHER AND HAVE CUTE LITTLE DATE NIGHTS. I AM VERY PASSIONATE ABOUT THEM!!! so i finally got around to drawing anna <33 anna garcia my beloved u will ALWAYS be special to me

[alexagirlie]

The One Where Paul is Made to Wait

A/N: Finally the Part Two for the Paul gets Wrecked Series. This will be the final part of this series.

(Masterlist)

Fandom: Dune

Pairing: Chani x Duncan x Paul

Rating: E

Words: 1.2k

TW: Threesome. Rimming. Oral Sex. Face Sitting. Anal Fingering. Orgasm Delay. Sex Toys. Vaginal Sex. Anal Sex. BDSM dynamics. Dom Chani. Dom Duncan. Sub Paul.

Summary: Chani and Duncan make Paul wait to cum.

Taglist: @gatoenlaciudad @softhecreator @almostg

Chani could hear them before she even got in the room. Or more accurately she could hear Paul, his moans loud and clear from the inner chamber of their room. It seemed like Duncan had started in on their boy without her, again. She grinned and shook her head to herself. Men.

She silently disrobed, leaving her robe folded neatly over the of their dining table before she made her way into the other room on light feet. She wanted to get a good look at what Duncan was putting Paul through before he noticed she was there, to see what they were like without her around.

She need not be worried, he was very much occupied and probably wouldn't have noticed if their home was suddenly invaded by Harkonnen soldiers. 

Duncan had Paul face down over the padded bench they had in the corner of the room. His chest was pressed to the elaborately embroidered fabric, Paul's long fingers gripping the edge so hard his knuckles were white. She got a good look at his pleasure filled face and already she could feel how her core got wet at the sight. It wasn't good water discipline for a fremen but Chani could hardly be blamed, her paramours struck such a very lovely image.

Paul's face was an alluring shade of pink, the colour dusted across his cheeks and spreading down his neck and chest. His mouth hung open and each breath escaped his mouth in a soft whine, desperate, needy, beautiful.

Duncan was kneeling behind him on the floor, his large hands holding Paul's ass cheek and apart and his rugged face buried between them. The wet slurping sound told Chani that Duncan was eating him out with enthusiasm, and had been for a while. His grip on Paul's hips kept him immobile, pinned to the bench and unable to rock forward for friction on his cock or back onto Duncan tongue. Their boy both loved and despaired being held down. 

Suddenly Duncan's eyes met hers over the curve of Paul's body and even without being able to see the bottom half of his face Chani recognized the mischief shining there. The muscles in his shoulder rippled with movement, one hand falling away from its grip on Paul's hips then Paul moaned. Duncan must have added fingers to the mix, working Paul open even more than his tongue alone could do.

When Duncan sat back on his heels Chani could see how his beard glistened with saliva. His lips were red and puffy, proof that he had been rimming Paul for a long time. She walked around the bench, trailing her fingers along Paul sweat slick skin so she can see what Duncan has done to their boy. She can see how wet and open his hole is, his cheeks and inner thighs pink from the scrap of Duncan's beard. 

Duncan reached down and pulled a slender plug from the basket of toys at his knee. The plug wasn't the biggest they used but would be a pleasant stretch inside Paul and had a gleaming green gem on the end. The coloured matched the shade of Paul's eyes when Chani had first met him, before spice had changed them.

Duncan turned his face up to her and she leaned down to press a lingering kiss to his lips, chasing the taste of Paul skin from his mouth before she pulled back.

She turned to look at Paul, at the disheveled state of him, sprawled on his back. 

“You are not to finish,” she commanded him, “not until Duncan gives you permission. Understood?”

Paul nodded eagerly, scrambling up as Chani arranged them all how she wanted.

She ended up sprawled across the bench, her back arched in a sharp curve as Paul slid his cock inside her aching core. It was always a surprise how large Paul felt inside her, his cock long and surprisingly thick given his stature. She loved the feeling of it stretching her walls open, filling her just right as he pressed their hips flushed together, her legs wrapped around his waist. 

He fucked her with slow, steady thrusts. Adjusting the angle until he was pressing against her sweet spot with each slide of his cock and she was gasping and sighing his name. 

Her back arched even more as a wicked mouth wrapped around a perk nipple and sucked. Duncan used the perfect amount of suction as his fingers reached between their bodies and he rolled her clit under the pad of his thumb. Tight little circles that pushed her closer and slower to the edge. 

A nip of teeth, the jolt of pain just right and she comes, wet and squirming around Paul's cock. 

She was still panting, still trying to calm her racing heart and trembling limbs when Duncan picked her up and tossed her on the bed where she bounced with a shriek.

She rolled over onto her stomach with a huff and watched as Duncan manhandled Paul onto the bed as well. He ended up on his back next to Chani, Duncan wedged between his thighs and manipulating the plug buried in his ass. Pulling it out until only the tip remained then burying it deep within him again. 

She peppered kisses across Paul's face and neck as he panted and whined, rocking his hips down into each thrust of the toy inside him.

“Poor boy,” she soothed, “do you want our swordmaster to fuck you?”

Paul nodded and spread his legs even wider to accommodate the larger man between them. 

Duncan pulled the plug out and tossed it carelessly onto the floor. He gripped Paul by the thighs and spread his legs even wider. 

Duncan rubbed his hard cock against Paul's relaxed rim, teasing him with the promise of his cock. 

“Look at me my boy,” he commanded and waited for Paul's hazy eyes to meet his, “get Chani off again and I will consider letting you finish.”

“Yes please…” Paul replied, voice fucked out and hoarse already.

Chani carefully climbed over his face, knee's on either side of his head and she lowered her aching core to his mouth. She rocked her hips steadily against his lips and the perfect curve of his nose. His tongue speared into her as she chased another orgasm. 

Paul gripped her hips tightly and encouraged her to rock down against his face even faster, even harder until with a drawn out moan she finished again. Shuddering and weak as she tumbled to the bed, panting and spent as her men finished. 

Duncan pulled out, then flipped Paul over onto hands and knees before he pressed his cock back inside Paul's hole. He set a punishing pace, fucking Paul hard and fast. No more playing, just chasing his release. 

“You finish with me, or not at all” he growled, fucking Paul even faster.

Chani watched as Duncan's rhythm began to falter, his muscles strained and his hips jerked before he still with a deep groan. His head fell back and he pressed as deep inside their boy as he could, pumping Paul full of his seed. 

Paul moaned and followed Duncan over the edge, painting the bed below him in stripes of white.

[sitp-recs]

Hi Liv, this is very specific so no worries if you don’t have any recs for me. I’m looking for a fic where H/D are not together (yet hehe) but end up somehow in a F/M/M threesome. They’re not gay , they think they are there for the girl you know, until they’re not.

I read a fic by marguerite_26 (I think the name was just a little faith) with this plot and now I’m craving for more.

Ohh what a juicy scenario, anon! Love it. That marguerite fic is delicious, I’m a big fan of their work. I don’t know any fics exactly like that but a few M/M/F came to mind. Some are actually triad fics, so I’ve marked the ones that have endgame Drarry if that’s your main focus:

Sharing by Alisanne (E, 3.5k) - Harry/Draco/Pansy, endgame Drarry

Harry is tense, and his houseguests help him to relax.

Something More Than Tin by tryslora (E, 3.6k) - Draco/Pansy + Harry

Pansy knows Draco better than he is willing to admit, and manages to obtain the perfect anniversary gift: one Harry Potter.

At the Edge of the Crossroads and Leaning by @lqtraintracks (E, 7k) - Harry/Hermione + Draco

When Harry sees something he shouldn't in the Pensieve, it changes his relationship with Hermione (and Draco Malfoy's life) forever.

Better Than by marguerite_26 (E, 11k) - Harry/Ginny + Draco

Ginny offers Harry something a little different for their anniversary.

Bespoke by DoubleApple (E, 12k) - Harry/Ginny + Draco

Bespoke: adjective meaning custom-made, one-of-a-kind, tailored perfectly. Something rare and precious, carefully crafted to precise specifications. Often used to describe clothing; in this case, used to describe a dynamic between three powerful people about to spend an ill-advised evening together.

Dancing on a Volcano by Lomonaaeren (M, 17k) - Draco/Astoria + Harry

Having Astoria Malfoy assigned as his Auror partner is certainly a surprise, but not an unpleasant one for Harry, it turns out. As he and Astoria learn to guard each other’s backs, save each other’s lives, and even spend ordinary days together, Harry discovers that he’s being invited into something fragile and rare…something that also involves Astoria’s husband, Draco.

The Waiting by @oknowkiss (E, 43k) - Harry/Draco/OFC, endgame Drarry

It’s been almost ten years since Draco Malfoy disappeared during a routine Curse Breaker training exercise. Harry, his partner in more ways than one, is determined to figure out why. As the past resurfaces and the present fades into confusion, Harry discovers the only thing more unreliable than memory is love.

[kind-hufflepuff]

KATNISS EVERDEEN AS A VAMPIRE WITH A TRACKING GIFT

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 5461

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, and alcohol abuse.

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

9. Honey-mascarpone crêpes

A.N. : Disappeared by my staff troll without notice or reason other than that she abuses her privileges at the company. Complaint email sent, and it's back up now.

Bucky

Once Steve talks him off the cliff of domspace (not the good kind), Bucky's able to calm down and see things more rationally.

First off, he stops being mad at Mary. He has to remember that she's going through right now what he went through as a kid. She's dealing with the loss of her freedom, shifting self-perception, horribly unbalanced (probably) neurotransmitters, and the complete—if temporary—restructuring of her life. Sure, she's bratting, but subs brat as a coping mechanism, and Bucky knows he needs to be a good dom for her, not an overreacting hothead. He can do that. He can totally do that.

(Having Steve around certainly helps, though.)

Mary is clearly surprised when he gets home from work and doesn't immediately set in to scolding her. But Steve was right: they have to wait to get a discipline plan in place. Mary might have a good sense of what'll piss Bucky off, but they've never explicitly sat down and defined the rules, their roles, or the consequences for misbehavior.

So Bucky just acts neutrally that evening and they eat dinner together and relax in front of the tv until bedtime. Mary seems to expect him to do something, punish her somehow. The thing is, he should. It's what's good and healthy for her. Bucky knows submissives very well, is very attuned to them, so he's sure that Mary's actually aching for a little correction by the time he and Steve calmly bid her goodnight and head off to their own bedroom. Bucky wishes he could give her what she needs, but he consoles himself with the fact that soon he'll be able to.

The next morning, Steve and Mary are both quiet. Bucky doesn't think too much about it. When he gets out to the kitchen, Steve informs him that they have an appointment at the Center that evening, and Mary pushes a plate of crêpes at him without meeting his eyes and then turns away.

"What's this?" Bucky asks, picking up his fork and prodding at the—frankly, delicious-looking—pile of folded cakes. He takes a bite and his eyes slip closed momentarily as he forces himself not to moan. When he opens his eyes again, Mary's watching him from over by the sink, biting her lip.

"Stop biting your lip," he says.

She stops.

Bucky gets that nice, warmth-after-whiskey rush in his chest at the obedience. He gets to work in cutting off another bite of the crêpes. "Are these an apology?" he asks, eyebrow arched at her. "For your behavior yesterday?" He puts the bite of crêpe in his mouth and chews, smug about the fact that she's flushing in embarrassment.

"They're crêpes," she mumbles. "With mascarpone and honey."

"Hmm." Bucky nods along and chews, enjoying the flavors while he maintains solid eye contact with her. After he pauses to swallow, he says, "Apology crêpes, then. Good girl. Apology accepted."

She doesn't say anything back to that, just gets pink in the face at the 'good girl' and whirls around to face the sink and do dishes.

Bucky smirks in satisfaction, then meets Steve's eyes. His husband looks deep in thought, but when Bucky prompts him with a questioning look, Steve just shakes his head and smiles avoidantly. "I already ate mine," he says, then pushes off from the counter. "I'm gonna go grab a shower."

Shrugging, Bucky goes back to eating his apology crêpes. "These are really good, Mare," he says. Over by the sink, he sees her head bob in a little nod. "You okay, Honey?"

She nods again, using the sprayer to rinse a dish. "Do we really have to go?" she complains, almost shyly and in a way that makes Bucky think that maybe his apology crêpes are actually 'please don't take me to go get a blood test' crêpes. "I hate needles."

"Don't be a baby," Bucky chides. "It's one poke and you're done. It's for your own good."

"Ugh."

Steve

On the day after the blood test, Steve glances sideways at his husband to gauge his reaction to the news they’ve just been given. Bucky’s frowning lightly, almost looks like his feelings are hurt. “Babe ...” Steve says softly.

“I don’t understand,” Bucky says, addressing Linda, who’s sitting in the chair across from them, who’s got them alone in her office while Mary is off at some sort of class. This is Bucky and Steve’s time now, to discuss the care of their charge, and Linda’s just told them the results of Mary’s bloodwork. Bucky continues to frown as if insulted. “I’ve been bringing her down every night. Every night. How can that not have made a difference?”

Linda shakes her head. “It has made a difference, but her levels aren’t near what they should be at this point.”

“Levels?” Steve asks.

“Dopamine,”

“Serotonin,” 

Linda’s mouth quirks at her and Bucky having spoken over each other. “Both,” she says. “Along with oxytocin. They’re called the ‘happy hormones.’ When people like Bucky or Mary go without treatment, they have an imbalance of them. The further on the spectrum they are, the worse the imbalance tends to be.” She looks back down to her clipboard, which holds Mary’s test results. “She’s not in what I’d call the danger zone anymore, but we should definitely discuss options for how to help improve these levels.” Linda looks up, blinking expectantly at them through her glasses. “So? What all have you been doing during your scenes?”

Bucky tells her, laying out the general gist of what they do during the evenings in their apartment. But when he stops talking, Linda still looks expectant. “So ... there hasn’t been any sex play?”

Steve feels his cheeks heat at the term. He glances over at Bucky, who’s shaking his head. 

“She hasn’t initiated, and I haven't wanted to scare her off or make her feel like she has to. They’re always going on about subs’ sexual autonomy these days, you know?”

Linda sighs and uses a finger to push her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Bucky, that’s admirable, really. But you of all people should know it’s unrealistic.”

“Is it?” Steve asks. Bucky puts a hand on his knee in what feels like a patronizing, 'The adults are speaking, Honey,' and Linda says,

“Sexual domination or submission isn’t necessary for anyone on the spectrum, but it is the most efficient way to get the job done.” She looks at Bucky with a little bit of reproach in her gaze, if Steve is reading her right. “She’d probably have to be dropped three or more times a day, if sex play wasn’t involved.” She looks back and forth between the two of them. “Are you and Steve no longer comfortable with sex outside of your marriage? Because if that’s the case then I really do have to recommend that you allow Mary to attend our socials, so that she can find a partner. Either that or we can schedule her for visits with one of our ProDoms.”

“No,” Bucky says, wasp-quick. “I don’t want her with strangers.”

Steve nods, though he feels like a cad for agreeing.

Linda purses her lips. “Well obviously it’s not the best option, but if the two of you aren’t willing to—”

“We are!” Steve blurts, maybe a little too loudly. He winces and reigns himself in. “Sorry, I just mean …”

Bucky’s metal hand covers his on the couch cushion. “We’re willing to make it sexual,” he says. “But we just don’t know how to … approach it with her, I guess.” Then he adds, “I’ve kissed her. Once. And that went over well. She seems receptive to Steve too.”

Linda nods, writing something down on her clipboard. “That’s good, good. Okay. Well with that in mind, when Mary has her session with me this evening I’ll administer some tests to help her map out what might be most useful for her to go down during sex play.”

Steve fights back a wince. He really wishes Dr. Linda wouldn’t call it that. “Make sure she knows we’re not pressuring her, okay?” he says.

“Of course not,” Linda says. “We’re just presenting all the options.”

Mary

The Center for Designated People is housed in a building in Queens, and it’s made up of a lot of glazed brown brick from the 80’s. 

This is the first time Mary’s been anywhere other than Linda’s office or the waiting area immediately outside of it. Come to find, there’s a bit more to the CDP than just therapists’ offices. There are classrooms and conference rooms, and a big social area with game tables and couches and a carpeted amphitheater that reminds her of the student union building back in college.

She’s not entirely sure what she’s supposed to be doing with herself. Everybody else seems to be mingling, comfortable in a way that she herself isn’t. Today’s the second day in a row that she’s had to show up at the CDP, and yesterday kind of left a bad taste in her mouth about it.

Yesterday, they drew her blood to test for neurochemicals. To make sure that she’s getting better, whatever that means. Mary hates needles and she’d resented the hell out of Bucky and Steve when they basically bossed her all the way down to the lab for the draw. 

“It’s for your own good.” 

God, she's tired of hearing that phrase. Everybody, especially Bucky, seems to think that they know what is for her “own good.” Personally, she thinks that Bucky just gets a thrill out saying the words. She thinks he gets off on it.

(… Never mind that something deep in her belly clenches whenever she hears him say it.)

The results of her tests are back, and they’re “not great” according to Linda—Linda, who’s holed herself up in the office with Bucky and Steve, whilst banishing Mary to a rec room full of other submissives.

They’re having some sort of low key party. Linda had called it a “social.” Bucky didn’t want her to go at first, until he heard that there would only be submissives at the party, no dominants. He’s so possessive, jeez.

There are maybe thirty other people in the room, talking in small groups, looking like they all know each other and are friends. There’s a tv and a foosball table and a bunch of little couches in squared off areas. A couple of people are sitting in the amphitheater playing boardgames, and there’s a table set up with snack foods and a punch bowl. It could almost be any normal social gathering, the only giveaway being that more than a few of the people present are wearing collars.

Like: openly and obviously, as if the collars are just another accessory to their outfits. Mary’s got a feeling that the collars are worn to make a statement, though she can’t for the life of her understand why someone would want to advertise that they’re like this.

She avoids the other people and goes over to the food, picking out a few things to nibble on. She tries to make herself seem busy by focusing on some pamphlets she’d picked up in the lobby outside Linda’s office. There’s one that has a serene picture of three river rocks stacked in a reflective pool of water, and the title reads, “Embracing Submission.” Mary rolls her eyes and tosses it aside.

She pulls out the pocket copy of the DSM V that Linda had reluctantly handed over (“It’s very clinical language. Don’t read too much into it.”), and searches out the section on Submissive Personality Disorder.

Personality disorders (PD) are a class of mental disorders characterized by enduring maladaptive patterns of behavior, cognition, and inner experience, exhibited across many contexts and deviating from those accepted by the individual's culture. These patterns develop early, are inflexible, and are associated with significant distress or disability. Cluster C (anxious or fearful disorders): Avoidant Personality Disorder, Obsessive-compulsive Personality Disorder, Dominant Personality Disorder, Submissive Personality Disorder. Submissive Personality Disorder (SPD) is a personality disorder that is characterized by a pervasive psychological dependence on and deference towards other people; especially to those who are oriented towards a dominant personality, or “Dominant Personality Disorder” (DPD). SPD is a long-term condition[1] in which people depend on others to meet their emotional and physical needs, with only a minority achieving normal levels of independence. SPD is a Cluster C personality disorder[2], characterized by excessive fear and anxiety. Typically beginning in early adolescence, it is present in a variety of contexts and is associated with inadequate functioning. Symptoms can include anything from extreme passivity, devastation, or helplessness when relationships end, to avoidance of responsibilities and severe submission. Manifestations may include: Cognitive: a perception of oneself as powerless and ineffectual, coupled with the belief that other people are comparatively powerful and potent. Motivational: a desire to obtain and maintain relationships with protectors and caregivers. Behavioral: a pattern of relationship-facilitating behavior designed to strengthen interpersonal ties and minimize the possibility of abandonment and rejection. Emotional: fear of abandonment, fear of rejection, and anxiety regarding evaluation by figures of authority.[8] Diagnostic Criteria: A diagnosis of Submissive Personality Disorder is indicated when five or more of the following criteria are met:

🟣Has difficulty making everyday decisions without an excessive amount of advice and reassurance from a Dom. 🟣Needs a Dom to assume responsibility for most major areas of their life. 🟣Has difficulty expressing disagreement with others because of fear of loss of support or approval. 🟣Has difficulty initiating projects or doing things on their own (because of a lack of self confidence in judgment or abilities rather than a lack of motivation or energy). 🟣Goes to excessive lengths to obtain nurturance and support from Doms, to the point of volunteering to do things that are unpleasant. 🟣Feels uncomfortable or helpless when alone because of exaggerated fears of being unable to care for themselves. 🟣Urgently seeks another relationship as a source of care and support when a close relationship ends. 🟣Is unrealistically preoccupied with fears of being left to take care of themselves.[11] *As of December, 1998, the additional criteria of neurochemical imbalance has been added by the American Psychiatric Association.

Christ. 

Mary’s not stupid, she can see where she fits into some (maybe most) of those categories. And nearly every line makes her want to throw the book across the room. She doesn’t like the picture it paints of someone like her, not at all. For lack of a better word, it's pathetic. So she pulls out her phone and looks up the Wikipedia page instead.

The World Health Organization (WHO) has isolated nine defining emotional and social attributes of those suffering from Submissive Personality Disorder (SPD):

🟣Tends to become attached quickly and/or intensely, developing feelings and expectations that are not warranted by the history or context of the relationship. 🟣Due to a tendency to be ingratiating and submissive, is likely to enter into relationships in which they are emotionally or physically abused, or “dominated.” 🟣Tends to feel ashamed, inadequate, and depressed. Is highly suggestible. 🟣Reacts to force or dominance from others with periods of mild derealization, or “submissive fugue.” 🟣Engages in passive-aggressive reactions to social interaction. 🟣Has difficulty acknowledging and expressing anger, struggles to get their own needs and goals met. 🟣Has an inability to soothe or comfort themself when distressed, they require involvement of a Dom to help regulate their emotions.[10] 🟣Displays a marked positive reaction to physical touch and affection, especially to the neck and head.

Well. That’s not exactly an easy pill to swallow. Mary fits almost every one of those qualities, if she’s really being honest with herself. But reading about it all clinical like that leaves a sour feeling in her stomach. Dr. Linda was right: she shouldn’t have read up on it. She shoves her phone back in her bag and returns to the refreshments table. She’s just finished ladling out a cup of punch for herself when a wry voice says,

“Careful. Last few socials, that’s gotten spiked.”

Mary turns. The voice belongs to a young woman. Maybe Mary’s own age, or a bit younger. She’s got that Seattle hipster look, with long dark hair crammed under a beanie, wide rimmed glasses, and an overlarge sweater with holes in the sleeves. She’s giving Mary a friendly look, though. “You’re new.” She states it, doesn’t ask, then holds out her hand. “I’m Darcy.”

Mary shakes her hand, pulling back as soon as can be considered polite. “Hi. Mary.”

Darcy smiles. She looks over her shoulder at the room full of people, then turns back with an apologetic expression. “Don't worry. It can be weird when you’re new. But it’s pretty easy to make friends around here.”

Mary tries not to make a face at the way Darcy talks about it—like this is some sort of club that she’s expected to join. “This is, um … I’m just waiting here while my friends see a therapist.”

Darcy boldly takes the punch glass right out of Mary's hand and sips from it. She looks thoughtful for a second, then nods and hands the cup back. “Yep, it’s fine,” she says. “Usually Scott’s the culprit, I think. And he’s not here today, so.”

Mary blinks down at the cup, wondering who Scott is. “Um …”

“So what brought you in?” Darcy asks. “TDO, or just curious?”

“TD-what?”

“Oh, you know: cops, the psych ward, all that good stuff.” She waves her hand, like this is a common thing and not something to balk at, like half the room’s occupants have gone through cops and psych wards.

Mary’s eyes flick back around at a few of the people nearby. Maybe they have, she thinks. Hell, it’s not like Mary herself wasn’t handcuffed to a hospital bed less than a month ago. The only reason a visit to the psych ward didn’t happen to her was because Bucky and Steve stepped in to help. She frowns as she thinks about how differently it could’ve gone.

“Sorry,” Darcy says, looking sheepish. “That’s kinda heavy, I guess. I tend to just say things.”

“No, you’re okay.”

“I saw you over here making friends with the vegetables and thought I’d butt in,” she says. She leans over and grabs a celery stick, dips it liberally in what looks like ranch dressing, before stuffing it in her mouth.

Mary wonders if it’s her own way of shutting herself up. “Really, it’s fine. I didn’t have anybody to talk to. I don’t mind.” She tries to offer a smile that doesn’t come across as forced or strained, but isn’t sure she manages. Wasn’t there a time when she had friends? It feels like a lifetime ago. In a weak attempt to seem receptive, she lifts her punch glass and takes a big sip, smiling over the rim.

Darcy tips her head. “Come on. Let’s grab some of the good chairs before they’re all gone.” They settle into a pair of very worn but very comfortable chairs, and Mary resists the urge to tuck her legs up underneath herself. Darcy, however, leans back and props her feet on the coffee table like she’s right at home . “So I take it you’re a TDO, then,” she says.

“I don’t know what that stands for.”

“Temporary detainment order. When they haul you off and force treatment.”

“Oh.” Mary squirms, hating to remember that night and how embarrassing she’d been. In front of Bucky, Steve, even the cop. Ugh, it’s so cringe. “Erm, yeah,” she mutters. “Basically.”

Darcy nods along, unfazed. “Yeah I went through all that, too. Couple’a years ago. It was fucked. Trust me, I did not want to be here at first. The courts made me come. Sent me with a social worker to make sure I didn't skip out, the whole nine yards.” She makes a face that looks just like how Mary feels when thinking about her own night in the ER. “God, it was so cringe.”

Mary stiffens at hearing her own thoughts reflected almost word for word. “But now?” she asks, eyes flicking down to the collar Darcy’s got on. “You still come here?”

“Oh yeah! This place is the shit. I love it.” Darcy grins and thumbs over her shoulder at the area where the foosball table is. “Tall lanky guy, taking it way too seriously? That’s Ian. He’s my sister wife.”

Mary nearly chokes on her punch. “Your what?”

“He and I share the same Dom.”

Mary blinks, working that one out in her head. “So … you’re a throuple?” Is that a usual thing with these people? she wonders. (… Could she be in a throuple with Bucky and Steve?)

“No, Ian’s my boyfriend. But he’s a sub too, so we come here to get services from Thor.”

Mary’s eyebrows rise. “Thor?”

“Yeah I know. Weird name, right? He looks it, too. You should see him. He’s this huge blond guy, accent. I think he’s actually from Norway. Or something. Wherever the Vikings were from.”

“So you …” Mary tries to parse out what she wants to ask. “You pay to have sex with him?”

Darcy pauses and looks at her strangely. “No,” she says slowly. “Insurance covers it. He just Doms us. You know, like helps us with our weekly drops? There’s no sex.” She laughs. “Dude. Only, like, extreme cases need that.”

Mary knows she’s blushing now. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.” She bites her lip and tentatively asks, “But you said you see him weekly?”

“Yeah. Once a week. Usually Fridays.”

“... But like, at home? You don’t have other stuff?”

Darcy frowns. “What other stuff?”

“Like … like dropping,” Mary whispers, like it’s a bad word. “You’re saying you only do that once a week?”

“Yeah, usually. I mean unless we’ve got some really stressful shit going on. Like, when it was my finals week? I booked Thor three times that week.” She huffs like that’s a preposterous amount of times. “But other than that, yeah, once usually tides us over. That’s pretty standard.”

Mary squirms uncomfortably as she thinks about the nightly ritual she has with Bucky and Steve. “Oh.” She says quietly, because what else is she supposed to say? She wishes she could leave to go process this, maybe ask Linda about it. Because what Darcy’s just said does not match up with her own experiences, and it’s kind of jarring—no, scratch that, it’s definitely jarring. Sure, theoretically Mary already knew that she’d been labeled as a “high needs” submissive, but she hadn’t realized how different it was. Other subs only need to get dropped once a week? And according to Darcy, there’s not ever sex involved? Dr. Linda keeps insisting that Mary needs a sexual dynamic.

‘Only extreme cases need that’—Darcy’s words ring in her ears, making her super self-conscious. She’s extreme. She must be. How embarrassing.

“Hey, you okay?” Darcy tilts her head in concern. “What’d I say?”

“N-nothing,” Mary hurries to compose herself. “I was just thinking, that’s all. I’m still so new to all of this.” She tries to think of something to say to change the topic. “Ahm, so … Thor. He’s like a therapist, then? Here at the center?”

“He’s a ProDom,” Darcy corrects. “Which is kinda like a therapist I guess, but not like the actual shrinks they have here. The Pros get paid to help us with our drops. And highs,” she adds belatedly. “The ProSubs do that, I mean.”

Mary blinks at the idea that there are also professional submissive services for dominants. Has Bucky ever …?

“And they teach classes here too. Ohmygosh!” Darcy’s face lights up and Mary instinctively shrinks back at the enthusiasm. “You should totally sign up for some.”

“Classes?” Mary says, sure that her tone is showing how much she doesn’t want to do that.

“Yeah! Oh my gosh it is the best way to meet people, and the classes are actually pretty fun. It’s how I met Ian. And they definitely saved my ass back when I was new. Hey, I’ll help you pick some out!”

Mary flounders, not wanting to be insulting but also really, really not into the idea of coming back to the CDP any more than Bucky forces her to. “Um I’m kinda busy with …”

“Mare.”

She inhales sharply at the sound of Bucky’s voice. She turns around in her seat and she sees him and Steve coming over. Her shoulders sag with relief. Saved by the bell. “Hey guys,” she chirps, sitting up straighter. Is it time to go?” She starts to get up from her seat and shoot an apology Darcy’s way. “Hey, it’s been nice meeting you but I guess I have to—”

“Are these your Doms?” Darcy asks, looking wide eyed at Steve and Bucky. “Wow.” The look on her face might as well read: hubba hubba. “Um. Well done, girl.”

Mary huffs. “I didn’t pick them.”

Before Darcy can respond to that, Bucky’s coming closer (and Steve by extension because—living in each other’s skin, and whatnot). Bucky looks pleased. “Making friends?” he asks Mary.

What is she supposed to say? ‘Not if I can help it’? She shrugs in answer. Darcy, unfortunately, presses the issue of the classes to Bucky.

“I told her she should sign up for some.”

“Really, I don’t think—”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Bucky says, cutting Mary off. He glances to Steve, who shrugs like a big dummy. “I don’t know what they offer these days,” Bucky says. “It’s been a hot minute since I took a class here. What do they have for subs?” He’s asking Darcy, who unfortunately is very helpful and replies,

“I’m coteaching one this winter! It’s a four week course on recognizing Drop. Knowing the signs of deprivation to look for, self care, that kind of thing.”

“Really,” Mary tries again. “I don’t need to—”

“Mary,” Bucky says, and his voice has changed to that calm, firm register that he uses when he’s being really serious about controlling her. His “Dom” voice. That’s what Steve calls it. Mary swallows at the way he's looking at her now. He puts his hand on her shoulder, and it’s not the metal one but the simple presence of it there still feels like a hundred pounds. “I want you to go to the class with Darcy. You’ll learn a lot.”

“I don’t want to,” she snaps quietly. “I have work.”

“Your boss knows about your condition,” he says, infuriatingly calm.

“Yeah, because you told him!” Talk about mortifying.

Bucky’s fingers squeeze her shoulder lightly. “Hush. If the classes interfere with work, you can get your shift changed for that day.”

“They’re evening classes. On Wednesdays,” Darcy supplies.

“Perfect! She never works evenings.” Bucky releases Mary’s shoulder and nods like this makes it final. “My email’s in the database,” he tells Darcy. “Barnes. B-A-R-N-E-S. Can you email me the info?”

“Sure!” Darcy looks thrilled. She shoots Mary a saucy wink. “Thor’s the co-teacher, so you’ll get to meet him. We use him as our practice Dom.”

“Huh?” Mary says, just as Bucky says,

“Thor?” and tenses up by her side. “The Pro?”

Darcy grins, oblivious to Bucky’s stiffening posture. “Yeah! He’s who we practice with. Kind of like in a self-defense class how there’s the big guy you practice kicking in the nuts and whatnot? Thor’s our guy. Except we don't, you know, kick him in the nuts or anything. He drops us. For practice.”

Bucky’s entire attitude has changed since the mention of Thor being involved. Mary watches his expression darken and she delights a little bit in the opportunity to rile him up. “… Yeah,” she says slowly, as if the idea is now coming around on her. “Yeah I think I will go to the classes.” She peeks up at Bucky and sees him pressing his lips into a tight line. Mary grins. “Thanks Darcy. Email Bucky the info and I’ll be there. Should be fun! Can’t wait to meet Thor.”

Darcy nods and smiles brilliantly and bids them all goodbye, and then Mary walks out of the room with Steve and Bucky by her side. She feels smug, and is just waiting for Bucky to start complaining.

“Babe …” Steve says quietly, speaking to Bucky. He takes Bucky’s hand in his as they walk, and Mary watches the two of them have one of their freaky weird silent conversations. It ends when Bucky gives an unhappy grunt, but whatever matter they’d discussed (herself, Mary assumes), seems settled. 

“You can take the class,” Bucky says, sounding none too happy about it.

Mary smirks haughtily. “I thought you wanted me to in the first place?”

Bucky says nothing. Mary remains smug.

She stops being smug when it’s her turn in Linda’s office, and she’s just been told the results of her bloodwork.

“So … I have to?” she says, voice tiny. “With them?”

“Bucky and Steve? No, not necessarily,” Linda says, sitting up straighter. “Who you have sex with is your choice, Mary. You have options.”

Mary glances back at the door, as if Bucky’s on the other side with his ear pressed up against the crack. She wouldn’t put it past him. “Can’t we just keep doing it the way we have been?” she asks. She thinks about how Darcy had made a weird face and said that 'only the extreme cases' needed sexual domination.

Linda looks almost pained as she admits, “I’d have to recommend you be admitted to an inpatient program then, if sex play was absolutely off the table. Multiple drops per day would be required to—”

“What?!” Mary groans, grabbing her hair and yanking it a little as she runs her fingers back through it. Multiple drops per day? What a joke. She’d be a drooling, submissive zombie! “No way! I can't do that!” She wouldn't be able to keep her job if she had to do that. She wouldn’t be able to bake, or work out. She’d have no life!

“We hardly ever institutionalize people like that anymore,” Linda assures her. “And I promise I won’t recommend it if you can find a drop partner with whom you’re comfortable.”

“To fuck,” Mary grumps, being crass on purpose.

“Mary ...” Linda looks sorrowfully at her. “Really, this isn’t the norm. People like you usually test into the system early and grow up with much better care plans in place. Like Bucky did. This is really an unfortunate convergence of circumstances. We only want what’s best for—”

“I want drugs,” Mary says, blurting it out because she’s feeling icy panic at the way Linda had thrown out the word 'institutionalization'. Jesus Christ. “That’ll make me better, right?”

Linda downright cringes. “The medications we have available for this still come with a lot of side effects. I’m not going to prescribe those for you yet.”

"Well what are the side effects?”

Linda sighs as if Mary is the biggest pest. “Let’s at least have you take the assessment I told you about, okay?”

“Ugh. Fine.” A test can’t hurt, at least, Mary thinks. Linda looks pleased.

“Good. The SSITA is the first step. We’ll get you evaluated and go from there, okay?” She pushes the clipboard of papers on the coffee table over to her.

When Mary looks down, she reads the title page: Submissive Sexual Interests and Tendencies Assessment. “That’s … that’s personal,” she whispers, feeling her whole body heat. She shakes her head, already hating the idea.

“The results will be completely confidential. I won’t ever see your answers and neither will Bucky or Steve,” Linda promises, knowing by now that such a thing would humiliate Mary. “So there’s no reason not to answer honestly. A panel of staff who don’t know you and will never meet you evaluate the answers and send recommendations. That’s all.”

Mary picks the clipboard up with shaking hands. It holds a packet of papers with a pen tucked in at the clip. She bites her lip and nods. “Okay.” She takes the pen out and gets started.

It takes her about forty minutes to complete the assessment. It’s formatted into a bunch of statements with “strongly agree” all the way to “strongly disagree.” Checking the circles honestly has her blushing a bit some of the time, but Mary reassures herself with what Linda had said about the test’s anonymity. There are short answer questions at the end that have her gritting her teeth, but she’s honest, God help her. “Okay,” she says when she’s finished, handing the packet back over.

Linda briskly slips it into a manilla envelope and seals it. That’s reassuring, too. Mary takes a deep breath. “So, I don’t know who I’ll … ya know,” she makes a face, “do it with. Darcy said there are Professionals here? ProDoms?”

“Oh you met Darcy? She’s a wonderful girl. Very involved here. Yes we have our staff of ProDoms of course. But um,” Linda tilts her head. “What about Bucky?”

Mary looks down at her lap, thinking about the kiss they’d had. It’d been … Mary’s not sure she’s ever felt so unmoored by just a kiss. “He’s married,” she says quietly. “To Steve.” She thinks about her midnight conversation with Steve.

Linda is silent for a moment, and then she says carefully, “Mary ... Bucky and Steve have talked to me about this. During their sessions with me.”

“They have?”

“They’ve both expressed positive feelings about the possibility of a sexual relationship with you.”

Mary just about swallows her own tongue at that one. “Positive feelings?” What the hell does that mean? Has Bucky told Dr. Linda about the kiss? Has he told Steve?

Should she tell Steve? She’d hate to be the reason to break up a good marriage. ... But then again, Dr. Linda just said 'positive feelings'. Maybe that means that Steve and Bucky do want more.

Linda smiles encouragingly and puts the sealed assessment on her desk. “Yep. I suggest you talk with them about it.”

Mary sighs. Easier said than done.

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[ldysmfrst]

Reciprocal Synergy (1) - Hierarchy

Status: Ongoing series

Chapter number: 1 of unknown

Word count for Chapter: 1,853 

Work count for Story: 1,853 

Genre: Omegaverse Au based off KinnPorsche: Thai BL Drama

A little about the author: I am a mother of two beautiful children, one of whom has special needs, and the other loves everyone. I started a Patreon, and I would be grateful if you donated to help me make ends meet while I am out of work.

This is the very first story I wrote. I posted it here in July 2023, but I have now edited it and finally decided to add it to my library. I hope you enjoy it. I only have two chapters written so far, but I may get back into it... once I am healed up from my hospitalization and almost dying at the start of August 2024.

Each chapter starts with a definition. (thought it would be cool) 💜💜💜

Warnings: NOT BETA READ!! This chapter does have guns, violence, Alpha, and motorcycles.

Library of LdySmFrst / Reciprocal Synergy Master List

hi·er·ar·chy

/ˈhī(ə)ˌrärkē/

noun

A system or organization in which people or groups are ranked one above the other according to status or authority.

It is everywhere and in everything.  

From birth, children are subject to their elders; in schooling, students are subject to teachers who are subject to administration.  

At work, new hires are the bottom man on the totem pole, followed by the leads or supervisors, and above them are managers and directors; then, at the top, you have CEOs and owners.  

Everyone on the planet should abide by all variations of hierarchies.  

However, an internal hierarchy also comes into play when humans are between 15 and 18 years old and present as Alpha, Beta, or Omega. This would tip the scales and disrupt everyone's checks and balances of other hierarchies in play.  

Luckily, times have progressed, and there have been rights movements, laws put in place, and general manners taught to all.  Now, Omegas can hold positions of power, and Alphas can be the homemaker of the family.  Still, they rarely do as it is in their nature to act accordingly and submit appropriately.  

Then you have the scarce and highly respected ones that remain human and never present. They are seen as gemstones or purity markers and are coveted, not in a good way.

That is where you will find my name, Anikinn Theerapanyakun, in the books.  Next to it, Gender class: N/A Human.  Status: Second Child of the Main family, named Heir to the family business.

Once it was clear that my Elder brother, Thankhun—Beta, was not of sound mind after being kidnapped, and my youngest brother, Kimhandt—Alpha, left the family to follow a music career, I was the best and only choice to take over as the leader of the strongest Mafia in Thailand. 

When I never presented a second gender, it was seen by many as a sign that one so rare should be the one to take over. 

One would think that the transition would have been smooth and accepted, but that hardly happens in my world. 

To prove that I was the best choice, aside from my sub-gender rarity, I efficiently managed to turn a higher profit from our “trades” than my father had during his entire reign. This earned respect from many of those who served the family. The ones who didn’t show their proper respect were given reasons to fear disrespecting me as the new Head of the family.  

Some attempted to tell me that I needed to be protected by someone with the sub-gender of an Alpha. Both Alpha men and women came begging my father to mate me off just because I was only a human.  

It didn’t stop there. 

We even got a few offers to mating from the desperate Omega who sought to make a name for themselves as bagging one of Thailand’s top 10 most eligible bachelors. 

I have been burned once, a long time ago, by someone who wanted to mate with me… someone I almost gave my heart and soul to. 

However, there is still unrest among some of the leading mafia families in and around Thailand, and taking a mate would be used against me. So I don’t, trying to avoid any more weakness in my image.  I'm not saying that I don’t dabble in the pretty boy now and again, but nothing committed, always paid for, and no kissing is ever allowed. 

“Damn Italians!  Always trying to show that they only follow my Alphahole of a father!”

“Khun Kinn, we need to get you out of here,” Big, my head of security detail, yells at me over the gunfire and motorcycle engines as we run down the alleyway.  

Ducking, shooting back, trying not to fall, and not knowing where we are going or where the hell my security team is. 

“Ahh!!” Big screams, gripping his arm, “Go on, Khun Kinn.  I will try to hold them off here.  Pete says they are close.  Keep your phone on you, Khun Kinn.  Don’t worry, Arm will trace it, and I will always find you, Boss.” 

Big directs me as the bullets stop flying for a few moments and then shoves me down an alleyway filled with neon lights, smelling of piss, vomit, and booze. 

I trust my team as much as allowed in my world and take off looking for any entrance—the need to get inside without being seen becomes my driving force. 

Why is every street filled with people, dark, and seemingly without a way out?

I look down another alleyway, and I hear music playing!!  Thank God there must be a club or bar nearby, which means they will have a loading dock or patio where I can get in.

Following the music, I hear the shouts and pounding feet behind me, catching up.

Suddenly, the narrow alleyway opens to precisely what I thought it would be: a loading area, but it's not empty.  Even with death following behind me, my breath catches at the sight of a gorgeous, well-toned man leaning against the wall smoking. 

“I need your help!”

The man was startled at my demand as my pursuers busted through the alleyway behind me. 

Quickly, I made my way to stand next to the man, “Aren’t you going to help me?”

After taking a quick glance at the low-life thugs that are squaring off with us and a cursory head-to-toe spine-tingling look at me, the man smiles cheekily and simply says, “$50,000.”

“Excuse me?!?”

“You want my help?  It's gonna cost $50K.  Take it or leave it,” the man states over his shoulder as he puts out his smoke, rolls his defined shoulders, and cracks his neck.  “Do we have a deal?”

“Deal.” 

That is when the world just slowed down.

Without breaking a sweat, the man lays out all three of my pursuers, then smiles at me and bares his elongated K-9s.  

This man is an Alpha, and I just received protection with a price.

I hope he sticks to the money and is not hoping for anything more because I am not an Omega and will not bow down to another Alphahole. 

Slowly, albeit smugly, he walks up to me.  

He is getting ready to say something, but a flash of silver over his shoulder pulls my attention behind him, where one of the thugs struggling to stand is getting prepared to shoot him.  Without any thought, just instinct, I pull the man towards me and cover him.  

A deep, rumbling growl emits from the man I am now hunched over protecting.  

Why the hell am I protecting him now?  

He is the one getting paid to protect me from this shit.

Before another thought can form, the man tugs on my arm and pulls me through what I assume is a bar and out the front.  He hops on an older, slightly beat-up motorcycle.  

All I can do is stare.  

Why is that so hot-looking right now?  

I am trying not to get shot, and here I am, trying not to drool at the sight of a slightly sweaty unknown Alpha with well-toned muscles, tight black pants, and straddling a cheap-ass motorcycle.

BANG BANG

“Fuck, dude!  Get on!” The man yells at me again with a bit of a growl in his voice and starts the motorcycle up.  

Quickly following his orders, for nooooo reason other than to save my ass, I hop on his bike, and off we go.  The sudden jerk of the motorcycle startles me, and I grab onto the man's waist to avoid falling off.  Zig-zagging through traffic, time passes, and the speed slows down, but my grip on the man stays the same.  

Who can blame me, right?  

He is a friendly, solid, warm, burning wood-scented man driving, and I am a passenger.  

If anyone asks, it was for safety reasons.

Once we knew the coast was clear and we were no longer in danger, the man pulled into a filling station, and I got off.

“Thank you for your help.” 

I tell him while attempting to collect some resemblance of decorum with “windblown hair” and an “after being chased” disheveled suit.  

Silence.  

No, you are welcome, or no problem… just silence.  

Looking up, I see the Alpha look at me with piercing eyes, as if he expects me to pull a stunt or KowTow.  

“What is your name?  I need to know for the gift baskets,” I ask, which only gets me a smirk as he slowly stands up and walks toward me, still his gaze unyielding. 

“$50,000.”

“Oh that is right.  I do not carry a wallet on me.  Give me your name and phone number so I can wire it to you?”

“Oh yes, here you go.  I will surely give a man I do not know, who has no scent, and who used me to avoid being killed my number so that his henchmen can come to find me and silence me in my sleep.  I think not.” He smugly and growly informs me, placing his hands on his hips.  

The only thought passing through my mind is ‘I wonder how his hips would feel in my hands or his hand holding my hips instead.”

While I am blatantly staring at said man's hips, he steps close enough to me that a warm puff of air smelling of burning wood, like a fireplace, is blown on my face without me noticing.  

Snapping out of my what can only be explained as a temporary loss of consciousness and not horny teenage-like daydreams, I now realize the Alpha is so close a deep, quick breath would be all it would take to… 

DAMN IT, KINN!  

Think with your brain and not your balls.  

Sneering at the closeness in proximity and taking a step back, the man takes me in one more time.  Running his tongue along his teeth, his eyes light up, and with speed only Alphas possess, he has my left arm in his hand and is grabbing my watch. 

“This will do.  I'm sure it's worth enough.  You can borrow money for a pay phone.” Stepping back, the Alpha mounts the motorcycle, slips on the watch, and starts the engine up. 

Before I knew it, a panic started to make a pit in my stomach. 

He is leaving!  

He can’t go!  

“Wait!” I yell, startling him, “I never got your name.  So I can pray for blessings upon you for helping me?” I question, taking a step forward, praying that Arm and Big arrive before he leaves.

After a sideways glance and a fake smile, "Jom, my name is Jom,” he says as he rides off. 

Arm, my tech geek bodyguard, is talented, but I hope he is good enough to find this Alpha Jom.  He has my favorite watch, and I should give him the money out of proper etiquette, but the pit in my hand just doubled in size at the thought of never finding him again.  

I swear it is just about good business and nothing more… is nothing more… it shouldn’t be anything more... Right?

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[mearchy]

NEW CHAPTER OF OBSCURE RAREPAIR POLYAMORY FIC UP :D

This one took way too long to write and I had to pull in somebody to help me cut it down from 6.3k words (it ended up 5.3k... what can you do?). Uh anyway. Have sexual tension with a sprinkle of kink - CHECK WARNINGS.

Next chapter contains 4k words of just porn. Have to feed the three people actually reading this thing who have stuck w me despite how much plot this PWP grew. I love each of you individually, thank you (: