Top Posts Tagged with #barda x reader

don’t go so far from me

Scott Free/Reader/Barda, 3.8K

a/n: a request that I never expected but I hope I rose to the challenge!

cw: implied threesome/smut/18+ ONLY, reader is absorbed into the polycule but isn’t complaining, nipple play, groping, flirting, use of honey/darling/love, gn!reader (no description of features/clothing)

masterlist ao3 requests

PREVIEW:

“Scott n’ Barda are pretty fond of you, huh?” Oberon asks, his brow knitting as he chews magnanimously. You pause, the rim of your coffee mug pushed against your lips, before lowering it down to the unadulterated surface of the table. “Sure hope they are,” you grin. “Else why would they keep me around?” He makes a great impression of holding his breath, a thought clearly trapped and weathering the internal discussion of whether he should spell it out for you. When he does open his mouth, his voice is more percussive, as though he is trying to walk you to the point so doggedly visible to him. “No,” he shakes his head, pushing a few errant crumbs to the floor, “I mean, they both really like you, huh?” tl;dr: you don’t realize how deep in you are. Scott Free/Reader/Barda

Oberon asks you the question around a mouthful of toast and a sip of scalding coffee. You’re usually the only one who rises at this early morning hour with him, in preparation for a big day of running ragged for the two still tangled together upstairs.

“Scott n’ Barda are pretty fond of you, huh?” Oberon asks, his brow knitting as he chews magnanimously. You pause, the rim of your coffee mug pushed against your lips, before lowering it down to the unadulterated surface of the table.

“Sure hope they are,” you grin. “Else why would they keep me around?”

He makes a great impression of holding his breath, a thought clearly trapped and weathering the internal discussion of whether he should spell it out for you. When he does open his mouth, his voice is more percussive, as though he is trying to walk you to the point so doggedly visible to him.

“No,” he shakes his head, pushing a few errant crumbs to the floor, “I mean, they both really like you, huh?”

You swallow easily, ignoring the scald down your throat as you mull over this topic he’s proffered your way.

“I mean,” you let a teasing slant trickle into your voice, “Don’t you?”

“All due respect, kid,” he grunts, deciding to return back to his grazing, “Not like that, I don’t.”

You seem to understand a little better later in the day, when you and Barda go to oversee Scott’s warm-ups. This early practice is small fry, especially so early in the morning, meant to be introduced with tiered levels of difficulty. The warm-up goes now, the big guns follow later—as in, Scott will chain himself up and you and Barda will see if he can break his record. If not, back to square one.

He’s not in the regalia, right now, in the landscape of the manicured backyard. There’s no use in doing an extra deep cleaning to the uniform for something so trite—the title is best escape artist, not cleanest.

Stripped down to nothing but a pair of compression shorts and socks in the middle of the yard, he stands. You’d be lying if you didn’t admit he looked a perfect chiseled Adonis. Each muscle is cast into sharp definition as he awaits to be adorned in his accouterments for the occasion.

Beside him lies a heavy cluster of locks that wait to be strapped to him in a hasty pile; you and Barda bear a serpentine cluster of chains that must be wound about him first.

Barda, a statuesque beauty in nothing more than her morning pajamas, is obviously the stronger of you both, but you feel as though she enjoys your involvement. You avoid lingering your eyes too long upon the muscles of her abdomen and opt to focus upon the task at hand.

“Well?” Scott asks with a bright grin. “Seems like I still need my darling assistants to come and get me fitted for my tails.”

“Charmer, you are,” Barda dryly retorts. She leads the charge, with you following obediently behind, a chorus of clanking metal ushering you forward. You defer to letting Barda drape the greatest portion around the wide plane of her husband’s chest, securing the bolt around the dense muscles of his stomach, pinioning his ankles together.

It’s always a sight you admire with no small amount of affection, the love they so clearly bear for each other. It’s demonstrated by the significant glances they share every time their eyes meet.

Every link snapped into place earns him a peck to the nose, the cheek, the full of his lips. There’s a bond between them you can’t help but adore and envy, especially as you watch Barda unfurl to full height above a man who stares worshipfully back.

“Looks good, love,” Barda approves with an absentminded scratch to her jaw, looking at the careful array Scott’s been arranged into. “All that’s left are the locks.”

“Looks like it,” Scott agrees—to your surprise, you see those blue eyes turn to you. “Help me get fitted up?”

You can’t help but start in surprise, mouth falling open without the words to supply answer. Usually you’re rightfully second fiddle, always letting Barda assume leadership in these moments. She’s the one to affix the locks, latch them shut, secure them well. You’ve seen it enough to know the motions—but to go through them yourself is another thing entirely.

“Um, sure,” you nod tentatively. “If that’s alright with you both.”

“Wouldn’t be offered if it wasn’t,” Barda replies matter-of-factly, for there’s no other way Barda operates. She kneels down to show an impressive flex of leg and resurfaces with the first of the locks.

“I’ll help you,” she coos in a voice that sends a strange prickling sensation up your body, holding out your first lock of several. You feel as though you’re spellbound as you approach, nestling your fingers over the cold metal that seems to anchor you into this moment.

Scott awaits as you turn to him, an encouraging smile on his face.

“First one goes over my chest.” He instructs you warmly, as though you haven’t witnessed Barda do it countless times. You obey, hooking it over the awaiting latch, Barda’s instructive fingers pressing over yours, firm as they guide you. You brush the smooth muscle of Scott’s bare chest and make a small noise that summons a rich chuckle from him.

“I won’t bite,” he murmurs quietly. When your eyes dart up, you find that his own are watching you carefully, with laden intent that you can’t decipher. You feel the need to swallow, casting your eyes down to the unadulterated skin of his pecs. A dribble of sweat trails down the slope of his skin and you resist the urge to kneel down and lick it off, slowly.

“Just a few more,” Barda encourages you, freeing you from your transfixion. You find your hands inheriting another lock pressed in by her own, and when they begin to guide you towards his stomach, you move without resistance.

It’s easier for this one, as you push in the jamb and let it settle, but your fingers are clumsy and you still end up grazing your fingers against him. He’s polite enough not to comment about it, save a low, rumbling laugh that goes straight between your legs.

Everything feels sticky and sweltering. The sun beats down ever-higher, with the heat of Barda’s hands over your own, the physical perfection before you, the heartbeat in the base of your throat, stealing speech from you.

“One more,” Barda purrs, and holds this one over where Scott’s hands are bound together—over his hips. He’s tall enough—taller than you, so that you need to sink to your knees. The soft grass scratches against your bare knees, though you barely take notice of it as you lower yourself to the ground.

Barda holds it steady for you to hook on. But looking directly in front of you, to the patient flex of Scott’s hands, and what lies underneath them, seems too great a barrier to hurtle. You look up to him and find with a minor thrill of adrenaline that he’s smiling down at you.

“See something you like?” He asks—there’s no possible thing that you can think to say. You dart your head down and finish your ministrations, ignoring the way your head pounds and your heart thumps unsteadily in your chest.

When it’s done, you feel as though you’re at a loss for breath, dazed and confused.

“Alright, love?” Barda asks, and a pair of rough hands find their way to your shoulders. Before you can even realize, you’re hoisted to your feet with no great effort on her end. As you find your footing, she deigns you with a look she usually reserves for the other person occupying space with you both.

“I’m fine,” you say, though you miss the way Scott and Barda share a furtive smile, “Just—dizzy is all.”

After Scott’s training concludes, he shucks his weights and walks over with you and Barda to the small gymnasium where two dutiful pairs of weapons are waiting for your marked attention. Barda opts for her mega-rod, while you take the staff. Scott retires to a folding chair that he so often takes in the role of eager, motivational audience.

You’re no slouch, but it’s clear to you that Barda chooses fights for practice rather than for improvement. You’ve suggested that she should go with Scott to JLI HQ to spar with some of their finest. The prospects always seem to encourage a sour expression to her face—you’ve dropped it since.

You know her well, though, perhaps too well to be formidable opponent at this point. From the way that she swipes the great coil of her arm forwards, the air itself audibly sluicing beside your ear as you feint away.

From the manner that you jab the rounded end of the staff forward, though it fails to make purchase on the full of her ribs. In the means through which she casts out a blow to break your stance, and forces you into retreat.

“Light-footed today, are we, love?” Barda asks through a gritted smile. You respond with a chuckle as she pursues you across the distance and hefts her arm up—you rock back, thanking the stars you avoid the blow. When you stand your ground and strike the staff downwards, it hits the flesh of her wrist and she hisses through her teeth.

“Only for you, Barda,” you respond—there’s a flash of emotion in her eyes, though she’s not driven to anger. Hunger, it seems, for a good fight—you assume. She darts forward, with a speed that belies her form, and you find yourself ducking into a crouch as you avoid the blow that means to cleave your head from your body.

“How lucky I am,” she proclaims with a smile, “To have such a willing opponent.”

The way she says willing, were you motionless, might inspire you to question its delivery. But you can’t, being forced to duck and roll away as she slams the rod down into the ground. You hear the sound of something splinter and fracture. You’ll have to talk to Oberon about getting that fixed, but for now, you have to focus on that great task of avoiding.

You leap to your feet, but something seizes in your shoulder and you gasp in pain, finding your grasp on the staff shirk and slip. You watch the swinging arc of her arm and wait for a blow you’ve accepted the brunt of before.

Though this time, there is no point of impact—you watch as the rod hesitates inches from your face, the raw power drawn to a screeching halt. You find the anticipation clearly painted on your face drawing itself into blatant confusion. But still, she straightens back up, her weapon drawing low to her side.

”If you were injured, you should have told us,” She says, reaching around to hook the mega-rod to a loop on her compression shorts. You do your best not to admire how low the hem hangs about her hips.

“I would have, if I knew I was hurt.” You admit, using the staff as a crutch to lean upon.

“Working our darling too hard, Barda?” Scott calls from the seat, clearly enjoying the detour in this vaudeville. The way that he says darling seems to summon that simmering warmth that shocks up you. But before you can dwell upon this too greatly, you’re distracted by the press of a palm that curves around your shoulder.

“Sit down next to Scott,” Barda instructs you, though you have little say in the matter. “Get your breath back.”

It’s a short distance over to seat yourself, as Scott pulls up two extra folding chairs that creak under the unexpected weight. You’re grateful for the brief respite as you lean back into the seat—and jump forward, the same jab of pain careening up your shoulder.

You’re momentarily paralyzed by the jolt. This way, you don’t catch the way that both Barda and Scott stand to attention, reaching out for you, fear plainly written over their faces. All you take notice of are the large hands that find your shoulders, leading you back down to sit.

“Pull something?” You hear Barda ask through the fading miasma of hurt. You shake your head, never one to draw attention to yourself, though you find dull confusion at the way that Scott rises to his feet.

“Don’t think so,” You admit, trying to roll your shoulder experimentally, “Just my pride.”

“I thought you did pretty well.” Scott states. You observe as he draws around one side of you, Barda towards the other to assume his seat.

“That’s nice of you to say,” You say, turning your head as he takes the seat beside you, “But your wife is the better warrior.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re no good.” He replies simply; dear Scott. Always one to look out for you, just like Barda. And speaking of; her voice takes that same affectedly soft delivery as she speaks.

“Love, they might have a knot.” Barda says patiently, deliberately, as though she means more than her words. “Why don’t you check and see if you can do something about it?”

At this, you look from her to Scott with an expression of mild bewilderment. It only grows as you find that Scott himself looks game for the challenge.

“Sure.” He smiles, already rising to his feet. “I’ll help get the tension out.”

You appreciate the offer, but can’t resist the touch of wariness as you watch him approach, hands raised with trajectory towards you.

“Are you sure?” You venture cautiously. “Does world’s greatest escape artist translate to world's greatest masseuse?”

Scott gives you what amounts to a cavalier shrug. “I think it means I have a way with my hands, so, sure.”

You feel uninspired at that prospect, but you’re not about to turn down the idea of Scott Free’s hands upon you. Even if you do find yourself regretting it later. So, you turn back to admire the small crater that Barda impacted into the ground during your fight.

“If you say so.” You reply with resigned tenebrity, at around the same time Scott’s hands find you. There’s something gentle, precise in the slink of his fingers that drape up, assessing the damage, searching sinew of your body.

You wince and those fingers retreat, careful in the analysis he makes of you. The pads of his fingertips inch forward, conclusions drawn as you hold yourself rigid—and then press in with deliberate heed.

You moan. It’s an audible, pleasurable noise, unexpected as you arch into a touch that has experienced meter over your body. His grip knuckles into you with familiarity that you don’t know you’ve given him, but you don’t question all the same. Not when heaven is in the ministrations his palms eke out of you.

You’d have the wherewithal to possess shame in this instance, but it’s Scott and Barda. There’s nothing to be ashamed about with them.

“Seems like you’re doing well, love.” Barca’s teasing voice lilts to your ears, but you’re scarcely of present mind to really take ken of the way she delivers it.

“Seems like I am.” Scott’s grin is present in his voice as he answers Barda, though the next question is delivered for your convenience. “You want me to stay here?

At this, his thumb works into the crook of the muscle, right in the nucleus of pain—there’s something agonizingly relieving in the push and you nod eagerly.

“Yes, please.” You beg and he obliges, keeping his finger trained in a way that makes you tilt your head back, lost to the relief. “Oh—right there.”

“As you wish.” Scott’s voice is measured as his hands take similar manner and you sigh through your nose, content to stay here forever. Barda chuckles again, an amused note.

“Looks like you’ve got a way with your hands, Scott.” She asserts as truth, and you’re not one to discount it.

“Mmm—”—Scott hums as you lean into his palm—“—Maybe I should change job titles.”

“Oh—don’t.” You say, turning your head to look back at him—those blue eyes have, as always, found you. “Just keep this between us.”

“Between us?” Scott angles a smirk at Barda which she’s already returning. “Oh, I like the sound of that. Do you?”

“Maybe I do, honey.” Barda grins, all teeth. Scott turns back to the work at hand of making you come undone under the grace of his palms, where you feel you are content to remain forever.

“Hmm.” He muses as he continues his attention to the remaining landscape of your body. “I’ll have to see what I can do.”

It’s been a long day—between toiling in the sun, working your body thoroughly, having it molded to putty, you’ve meted out every stitch of energy you can by the late afternoon.

Thankfully, Barda and Scott don’t seem inclined to push any busy agenda, so the three of you retire to the couch. Scott takes your left, reading a magazine, while Barda assumes your right, watching some game show you haven’t taken care to remember the name of.

And in between the two of them, their thighs so close to yours but not quite touching, their bodies protective barrier around you both, you can’t help but feel some form of comfort, security. It’s no wonder your eyes begin to sleepily drift closed.

It’s not until you feel your head begin to droop, and then settle on something warm that sinks, that you snap your head up to see who you’ve settled down upon. When you recognize the shoulder, and the face that smiles down at you, you have the wherewithal to be embarrassed.

“Oh, I’m sorry, B,” you apologize, hoping you didn’t drool, “I didn’t mean to.”

Her voice is low, regulated—affectionate, you might say. “You want to lay on my lap?”

“Oh, no—that’s okay. I’ll just rest here for a second.” You reply, and lean back against the couch, taking care not to fall asleep on either of them again. It’s not long before you’re lost to slumber again.

When your eyes open again, it’s because you feel weightless, shifted through the air. You blink blearily to find that you’re no longer descending into the plush cushion of the couch. Instead, you find yourself hefted easily up into the cradle of Barda’s imperious arms.

“What—?” You manage out, looking from her to Scott, who is taking care to rise beside her. Barda’s voice is no more than a fond murmur.

“Let’s take you to bed, darling.” She instructs you, and it’s clear you have no room for argument. But the idea of being deposited in your own room, away from them, in your sleep-addled state, seems a terrible fate indeed. Perhaps it’s your exhaustion that moves you to speak your request.

“I don’t want to sleep in my bed.” You mumble drowsily up to her. “I want to sleep with you two.”

You’re already halfway back to unconsciousness, so you don’t register the pause they take, the significant look they share.

You barely hear the layered statement Scott makes as he says, “Hmmm, what a thought, Barda.”

You’re practically nuzzling into Barda’s grasp that she takes care to adjust. When she speaks, her own voice is ambiguous.

“I do like the sound of that, love. Why don’t we take them to our bed?”

There’s a chuckle you hardly register, but you’re comfy enough where you are. You have enough prescience to mutter, “Yes—please,” before you drift back into the ether.

“As you wish.” Barda’s voice sings above you, and then you’re lost to your dreams once more.

When you wake up in the middle of the night, it’s hot, stifling—pressed between the two of them. You’re sweaty, restless, unmoored. A conversation from earlier hurtles through your memory, reminding you of how you got here, which soothes your agitation. But it does little to relieve the terrible heat of the bed, of the room.

Someone—Barda—shifts beside you, the glint of light through the slats of the window informing you she is awake. A brief glance to your other side tells you that Scott is as well. You wonder if they’ve been waiting for you to rejoin them in the land of the living.

“You alright, honey?” Scott asks, and he’s so close, his hand pressed against the mattress, clutched into the sheets by your leg.

You shake your head, keenly aware of the cool breath that ghosts over your shoulder, the warmth of Barda’s body roiling off onto yours.

“What’s the matter?” Barda asks, searching for the source of your troubles. She moves across the mattress to make better angle to access you.

“I’m so hot,” you say. But that’s all you muster out, before a protracted gasp escapes you at the drape of a hand—Scott’s—up your thigh.

“Shame,” Scott bereaves the very thought, matter-of-factly. “What can we do about that?”

Another hand finds the hem of your shirt, already rucked up from restlessness—the touch makes you sigh into the wide palm. Surely you must be dreaming, but you don’t want to wake up. Not from this fantasy you’ve been gifted with.

“I have a few ideas, love. It’s dreadful in here.” Barda’s smirk is definitive in the darkness, and you feel the pinch of fingers on your nipple. You yelp—Scott chuckles, the noise thrumming through you.

“I like how you think, Barda.” Scott says, already one step ahead of you. “Why don’t we blow off some steam?”

He says your name through the shadows that drape over the three of you, over this passion play about to begin. “Do you like that idea?”

You nod before you realize they can’t see—or maybe they do. Your voice is frantic with impatience to get started when you speak. “Yes—yes, I do.”

“Then don’t keep them waiting, Scott.” Barda says, and her voice is lower now, over the crook of your shoulder. “Get started. I’ll take care of you up here for now.”

With a mouth making determined work to suck a bruise into your neck and another ghosting over the inside of your thigh, you can barely think straight.

When you stumble to breakfast the next day, you’re a mess. You have an affected limp you didn’t possess the day before, countless bruises and hickies that litter the roadmap of your skin, and a goofy smile that doesn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon.

Oberon watches you carefully mosey in with a deliberate neutrality, sliding you a plate he’s already prepared on your behalf towards you. You accept it eagerly, fumbling for the cup of coffee with your name on it.

The two of you dine in relative silence, ignoring the elephant in the room until you broach it.

“So, I think I figured out what you were talking about.” You tell Oberon, who receives your statement with a grunt.

“Yeah?” He asks as he munches on a bite of eggs, giving you a sidelong glance weary with sleep deprivation. “Well, glad you figured it out. You three think maybe you could keep it down next time?”

Dividers provided by the lovely @strangergraphics and @cafekitsune

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