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cdyssey · 1 year

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Apology Gifts

Summary: Though they've already reconciled, Melissa and Barbara also exchange apology gifts. [Post-2.18]

CW: Alcohol/Drunkenness Mention

AO3 Link

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They exchange pitch perfect apology gifts that next morning.

Melissa raps on the window of Barbara’s sedan with reddened knuckles, holding up a small box of donuts and a crooked smile that is stretched across her lips like a sagging clothesline. And Barbara, noticing the strain—(how can she not?)—gamely forces herself to chuckle in reply, ignoring the sharp twinge of guilt just behind her navel long enough to elegantly gesture to her cupholders, where there are two coffees waiting.

Just the way they like them.

One black (Melissa’s) and the other so sugary that it might as well be a cavity in a cup (her own).

They didn’t text each other beforehand, didn’t call, didn’t so much as hint yesterday, as they were walking to their cars—their forearms sometimes brushing in reconciliatory relief—that this should be a thing.

They just know each other so well after nearly two decades of friendship, she supposes, that they anticipate one another. They wordlessly understand. For both of them, saying sorry in the teacher’s lounge was not enough; it was a bandaid; the wounds they exacted were devastating bullet holes.

Because, of course, that is the flip side to their total intimacy. Maybe if they hadn’t known each other so perfectly, they would have hurt each other far less.

Melissa walks around to the other side of the car and all but throws herself into the passenger seat, her cheeks rosy, her hair whipped from the wind, and together, they take communion, breaking bread and drinking something nearly as beloved as their favorite wine. They talk about nothing that really matters for the first few minutes. They canvas everything except for the one subject that they should probably be adults about and maturely unpack, smoothing past the initial awkwardness with traded anecdotes about what they had for dinner yesterday and how they felt about the most recent episode of Masterchef.

“Mm, this weather is nasty, isn’t it?”

“Pssh,” Melissa snorts, her nose still chafed from the cold. “You’re not kidding.”

The second-grade teacher tells her about how she got drunk off her ass the other night, and by the other night, they’re both deeply aware that she surely means the evening after they fought, even though neither of them has the guts to say it aloud. The metonymy keeps them safe, provides the illusion of distance from their most recent schism.

But realistically, it’s only been what?

Less than forty hours since Barbara had languished in her recliner until midnight? Worrying her hands together in the suffocating dark of the living room? Replaying the hurtful words that she and Melissa had so easily exchanged over their round table over and over again? (Yes, their round table—their safe space, their chosen sanctuary, their two-decades-and-counting home away from home. Naturally, it, too, is a metonymy, a convenient shorthand for something else entirely.)

(Something deeply and utterly unspeakable.)

Melissa had started it.

She had hit Barbara where it hurts, and what hurts is the vague insecurity—that becomes more defined with each passing year—that her necessity at Abbott is just another lie that she tells herself to go to sleep at night.

I’m perfectly content with my life.

She has a wonderful husband to come home to every night. She goes to church every Sunday and punctually attends Bible Club on the subsequent Wednesdays. Her daughters call her a few times a week. She and her loved ones are healthy, praise God. So many other people cannot fortunately say the same. What more can one woman ask for in this lifetime?

I don’t love her like that.

Melissa.

Her dearest and most beloved friend.

Who daily inspires an ungodly heat smoldering somewhere in the raw pit of her belly—despite the wonderful husband, despite the professional churchgoing, despite the perfect nuclearity of her family.

(She dutifully ignores this pain, though; she carries it with her to her personal Golgotha and crucifies it nightly as something to be atoned for in her prayers until the next morning when she begins her journey of self-martyrdom all over again.)

Friends set each other on fire, she rationalizes.

Friendship is about making the other burn.

I am still needed as a schoolteacher.

She is far from ready to retire yet.

Moreover, she absolutely can’t, even though her age is starting to suggest that she probably could. She is a staunch pillar at Abbott Elementary, long-established, intertwined in its storied matrix in a thousand different ways. If she retires now, who will educate the next generation of children? Who will teach them their shapes and sing silly songs about the alphabet with them? Who will assist them with their numbers? Who will help them finger paint rainbows for their loved ones?

Maybe anyone could do it—(that’s what people who don't know a damn thing about the public school system seem to think anyway)—but precisely no one can do it like Barbara Howard.

She continually soothes herself with this assertion anyway, and so perhaps that’s why she had been so devastated to hear Melissa argue against it.

Call her crazy, but she had just automatically assumed that her best friend wholly believed in her too.

And so Barbara had struck right back with all the incision of a scalpel, the tip of the stainless blade against the younger woman’s pulse point, the quip dripping from her lips with sickening ease.

Yes, it had been easy, almost effortless even, to vivisect her friend on the spot.

She had been well-aware, even as she said it, that Melissa has spent parts of her adulthood constructing herself against the perpetual insinuation that she was less than. Kids had teased her about her reading difficulties, so she didn’t talk about them. Barbara hadn’t even known that she struggled until they were a little over a year into their friendship, and during a double date, she’d heard Joseph complaining about how long it took for his wife to skim menus, causing her to flush the same arresting shade as her hair.

She’d snapped back, “You know it takes me a minute to process stuff.”

And for the rest of dinner, she’d been incapable of fully looking either Barbara or Gerald in the eye, spearing her food on her fork like it personally offended her.

The kindergarten teacher had never particularly liked her friend’s husband, but after that, she had absolutely loathed the man; she kept insinuating that Melissa should divorce him at least once a month for the next fifteen years, nearly shouting alleluia in relief when her most fervent wish finally came to pass.

And knowing all of this, Barbara had still gone there anyway, had taken a dig at Melissa's grammar, had so perfectly twisted that knife into her friend’s gut, and the memory of that lapse in judgment makes her stomach clench all over again.

But far from wallowing—an adamant non-practitioner of the art—the other woman doesn’t allow the moment to stick to either of their ribs. For Melissa has already clearly turned their harrowing fight into a joke—as she does, as is her wont, her most obvious and reliable coping mechanism. With infectious zeal, she colorfully describes how she’d almost greeted the pizza delivery guy in nothing but an Eagles t-shirt.

“And so I was yellin’ at the sucker through the door, telling him to hold on ‘til I could find my pants,” she elaborates, talking with her hands, waving a donut about, “but I was three beers and a marg popsicle in, and trying to make it up my staircase without wanting to upchuck was harder than my nephrectomy.”

“Almighty God in Heaven, Melissa,” she laughs in spite of herself, hand loosely splayed at the base of her throat. “How is that you always find yourself in these pantless predicaments?”

“The common denominator’s usually booze,” comes a coy reply. “Lots ‘n lots of booze.”

And they both laugh and they laugh because Melissa’s so proficient at spinning their collected hurts into the most outrageously funny yarns, and they laugh. And Barbara temporarily forgets to be anguished about the freighted remembrance of the other night and how it apparently undid them both. And she blushes profusely at the striking image of her friend naked from the waist down, her mind spiraling to unaccounted for places. And she knobs the heat down in the car like that’s the crucial tension that she needs to clearly resolve.

If Melissa notices—(and it's Melissa, she probably does)—she doesn’t say anything, taking a hearty bite of her donut and subsequently smearing chocolate icing on the side of her maraschino-red mouth.

It’s a singularly endearing effect.

“Sweetheart,” she rumbles fondly, “you’re making an entire mess.”

“Nothing new,” Melissa snorts. “You got a napkin?”

“Oh, mmmm—let me see.” She briefly roots around her console and the side compartment to no avail. “No, goodness, I’m sorry. I think I used the last of mine to clean up a small drink mishap last week...”

“Ah, don’t be. I can just—“ And Melissa reaches upwards to clearly use the back of her hand, but Barbara abruptly jolts, emphatically shaking her head.

“Wait!”

“What?”

“Just let me—“ And rather than ever complete the thought, Barbara unthinkingly makes quick work of wetting her thumb and reaching over to swipe the stain away. The spines of her knuckles scrape the outline of that strongly hewn jaw. The pad of her thumb sinks into that soft, creamy skin and lingers there—like a gentle kiss.

Like a tender bruise.

She suddenly remembers, in the same maddening instant, that there are surely baby wipes in her purse. (She’s a kindergarten teacher; they’re a staple and an absolute necessity.) She doesn’t volunteer that information for some reason, though, her shuttered breath caught in the column of her throat as Melissa’s dark eyes visibly dilate, unblinking at the intimate contact.

Whatever there had once been of laughter and mirth slumps in the barest space between them, limp, all its falsities exposed.

They can laugh about the other night all they want.

That doesn't mean it didn't hurt to have lived through it.

“I’m sorry, Barb,” Melissa whispers, her mouth barely moving, clearly conscious of the geometry of their bodies in relationship to each other. Every dendritic nerve in Barbara's fingertips shivers in quiet anticipation.

“What for, silly?” Barbara tries to joke, stealing a leaf out of the other teacher’s book, but the effort is rather pathetic, undermined by the fact that she's still cupping the other's cheek. “It’s just chocolate.”

But, of course—

“It isn’t, though,” Melissa insists, the first to withdraw from the touch. She turns her head away, her fiery hair whirling wildly over her shoulder, and Barbara’s hand—where it had been touching, grasping, thumbing, holding—hangs in the air for a microsecond longer than it should. “I hurt your feelings the other day, and that was crappy of me. What you do is so important, hon, and I’m really sorry if I made ya think otherwise.”

A pause then, long and vulnerable, filled only with the telltale shuffling of their breaths.

Barbara doesn’t exactly know what to do with what is being offered to her: complete and total accountability. She demands it of herself, of course—each and every blessed day—and yet, receiving it from another is somehow too much.

Undeserved even.

(It’s lost on her why she believes that she merits any of her accumulated injuries. She has longed to hear these words; upon receiving them, she only knows how to neatly discard them on the doorstep.)

“And I hurt your feelings back,” she eventually returns, reaching out again, but this time placing her hand on Melissa’s forearm, fingers curling over her leather-clad wrist.

The touch has its intended effect. It brings the younger woman back to her with a slight sniff and a shy, almost girlish tilt of the head.

“I swung even lower than Janine’s height,” she continues softly, holding on to her, clinging even. “That makes us two of a kind, sweetheart.”

Even though she doesn't know how to accept an apology, she sure as hell knows how to give one back; accountability is a two-way street, and she's long been familiar with its well-worn path. She traverses it every day, always finding something or another to vaguely feel guilty about in the end, for accountability is her personal Golgotha is her own martyrdom is her Sisyphean hell is her daily and lived-in reality.

“God, you’d make a good priest, Barb,” Melissa grins at this, shaking her head fondly.

“Pardon me?” Barbara can’t help but chuckle at the apparent non-sequitur.

“Always absolvin’ me of my sins,” Melissa chortles in reply, though the expression in her eyes is still complicated, tinged with a quiet and clearly practiced melancholy. Barbara slowly drags her thumb up and down her friend’s sleeve, feeling the resistance of the fabric and continuing anyway, idly pushing and pulling, back and forth and back again…

“Oh, well, I certainly don’t have that right,” she shrugs softly. “I just… very much prefer it when you and I are on the same page, Melissa.”

And she meaningfully tips her free hand towards the coffee cups still between them and the box of mostly eaten donuts on the sun-weathered dash.

“We just work, don’t we?”

It’s a highly rhetorical question, of course, as she gestures to these tangible gestures and tokens of their love, as she grips Melissa’s arm, as she stares at her like she’s the only person in this cold and lonely world.

They work—the two of them. They always have. It's their shared presumption that they always will.

Melissa decides to say the quiet part aloud.

Jokingly, of course.

It always has to turn into a joke with her.

“Hah, maybe more than we probably should.”

#work wives #reginianwrites #s: abbott elementary #I love sad and tender conversations between women tm

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timeisacephalopod · 10 months

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Why do right wingers go on and ON about "father's in the home" when fathers are basically useless in the home? Like every year I see posts that go around about "dad finding out about what I got for Christmas" and it's like if fathers are so uninvolved they don't even know what Christmas gifts their kids are getting I don't think them being gone does much?? Like of course there's good and bad parents of all genders, but traditional gender roles- which the aforementioned right wingers ascribe to- mean men do jack fucking squat in the house OR anything with their kids so what the hell do right wingers think men are doing that's so important in the home if it's none of the childrearing or house work??

All I've got in this framework is a paycheque and these days women work so men wouldn't even be contributing something women DON'T, so I have no idea what these people think men are doing that it's so irreplaceable that being gone is damaging to children when by all means under their ideas of gender and family men are less than useless to their family. Women do all that work (and barring that, DAUGHTERS do more parental work than fathers so them being gone does what, exactly, except maybe rid the family of an overgrown child? Men who actually contribute are the ones families would be damaged without, not traditional men who probably don't even know how to do their own laundry OR cook or have any life skills because women have done everything for them their whole lives so???)

#winters ramblings #'no fathers in the home is what leads to gangs!' they cry while they do nothing with their kids make their wives do all the housework #and theur DAUGHTERS parent more often than THEY do. TELL ME what use you are in the house Giant Man Baby #tell me what thing you do thats of the Utmost Importance that being done causes irreversible damage to your kids #surely you being THERE isnt causing them damage right? RIGHT???? because this brand of dude being HOME #sounds worse than this brand of dude being GONE because these dudes and the women who marry them are HORRIBLE tyrants #who deserve each other but sure shit DONT deserve the kids they have then force into their lifestyle then abuse all their lives #like serioualy what the FUCK do they think men are doing thats so important in the home when their own beliefs state men do SQUAT #in the home??? do tou seriously think your PRESENCE is what does it?? pretty grandiose sense of self there huh #assuming just EXISTING beside your kids lives means youre literally holding everything together lmao like no #your wife does all that and if she isnt your KIDS do it buddy you dont do fuck all to consider yourself that important i dont get this #like literally men in traditional gender shit dont do ANYTHING outside of a job amd getting waited in hand amd foot #do you think having a personal slave you occasionally fuck is what makes you this important??#i mean the mormins say yes so hard they think a billion wives gives you a better planet in the afterlife but like come on #at least ATTEMPT to have common sense when recruiting to your nonsense beliefs #then turn around and claim GAY PEOPLE are recruiting people to their 'lifestyle' like that isnt LITERALLY THE DESCRIPTION OF MISSIONARY WORK #gays arent CHRISTIANS guys. (some are but they arent recruiting to GAYNESS even if they may try to convert you religious wise-#although i suspect a great many WOULDNT do that on account of the history between the church and gay people #so probably they just are gay and love jesus but still yall get it)

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secretariatess · 1 year

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“Hookup culture is women’s fault because they hold the power to sex, and they’re the ones choosing to do this.”

Dudes, it takes two to tango. Just because women started getting into the mud, doesn’t mean men are absolved of their part in hookup culture.

Guys made the choice to engage in it just as much as women. And while I agree women should hold men to higher standards, it absolutely disgusts me to see guys using that as an excuse as to why they shouldn’t have to stop sleeping around and why it’s really the women’s fault.

Hookup culture was a collaborative effort. Everyone partaking in it, male or female, bears responsibility.

Just because guys are “just more sexually driven” doesn’t mean they don’t have control over their actions.

#I hate hearing clips from that Whatever podcast #because more often than not it seems like it's just there to shame modern women #not that I agree with a lot of things feminism stands for #but it's irritating that there's never middle ground on that #it's always about how the guys are owning the feminists #and how much more fulfilled women's lives would be if they were virgins until marriage #and became stay at home moms #and traditional wives #speaking as someone who advocates for sex till marriage #I just hate feeling like it has to be a choice between modern feminism and traditionalism #but this rant is somewhat separate from the above rant #there just seems to be a lot of blame put on women for the condition of the Western wold and how things would have been better if women just #remained in traditional roles

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fuckyeahmeikokaji · 1 year

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Takahiro Tamura (田村高廣) and Meiko Kaji (梶芽衣子) in Between Women And Wives (妻と女の間), 1976, directed by Kon Ichikawa (市川崑) and Shiro Toyoda (豊田四郎).

Scanned by me.

#Meiko Kaji #梶芽衣子 #Kon Ichikawa #Shiro Toyoda #Takahiro Tamura #市川崑 #Between Women And Wives #田村高廣 #豊田四郎 #妻と女の間 #scanned by me #lobby card

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fallowtail · 1 year

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idk why i latched onto hetty so hard but im just like (peers at her under a microscope while listening to crane wives music and tries to dissect her)

#z #she does fit into the same trend of characters that i latch onto in media though #which like. theres a trope and a thread between all of my blorbos but i dont know how to explain what it is #women who are damaged but like in a specific way #(the moon will sing crane wives blasting over the loudspeakers)

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genderqueerdykes · 9 months

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i have been trying for like. months to explain how the relationship between butch lesbians and trans men is not something akin to polar opposites and this is all i got. like it's not like this:

it's a venn diagram with a massive overlap in the middle. i'm not saying EVERY butch is a trans guy and EVERY trans guy is a butch dyke , i'm just saying it looks more like this:

these are not "mutually exclusive" terms- they do not mean the same thing, but we can be the same people, an very often are. there is a long history of butches who identify as FTM, trans men, drag kings, genderqueer, genderfluid, transmasculine, male, polygender, and two-spirit lesbians, and so much more. the relationship between lesbianism and queer masculinity is inseparable and the only people telling you that butches and trans men need to violently separate from one another and be at each other's throats are terfs. even if we do not share identities, we share our struggle together as heavily misunderstood and unseen masculine queers.

we stand up for each other when our identities get confused by strangers, and we get misgendered. we stand up for each other when terfs and terfpilled people tell us that transmasculine people and men can't be lesbians, when people say "butches just want to be men", when people say "butches aren't real women", when people call each of us bull dykes and trannies, when people mock the way FTMs walk and talk and look, and when people tell trans men they're "just butch dykes in denial". we stand up for each other and understand each others struggles.

whenever a butch lesbian asserts they're a woman no matter how masc they are, whenever a trans man asserts that they are a man and not a butch, whenever a butch struggles to be seen as both a man and a lesbian, and whenever a trans man returns to the lesbian community while embracing their manhood, we are part of the same community, we share the same struggles, and we owe it to each other to stay strong.

we are not enemies. we are bedfellows, lovers, family, spouses, partners, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, siblings, friends, each others support networks, even if we don't share identities perfectly. whether you are butch and a woman, butch and a man, butch and something else entirely, a male, ftm, genderfluid, polygender, genderqueer, transmasculine, nonbinary, two-spirit or whatever else you may be lesbian, you are part of our family and your experience is worth being heard.

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gutsby · 30 days

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Benign

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Marrying a former Soviet sleeper agent was your first mistake. Letting curiosity get the better of you and saying his trigger words before sex was your second.

Warnings: 18+. DUBCON - Bucky is partly brainwashed; R is reluctant at first. Reliving past trauma (i.e., grief, prior HYDRA captivity). Rough, unprotected p-in-v.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Marrying into the mob meant one of two things: turning a blind eye to your husband’s crimes or taking them up as your own. Most of the women who had gone before you chose the former, leading lives of willful ignorance while their spouses cut deals, shed blood, stole guns, and submitted only to the laws of secrecy and discretion.

You, unlike those wives, hadn’t had the luxury of choice.

Your life, unlike theirs, had been sold to a man you didn’t know, by a father you couldn’t stand, and now your dad was dead, and this man—your husband—was to blame.

The least Bucky could do was fuck you hard to say sorry.

But no, ever since the Winter Soldier had reared its ugly head that dreadful night in Madripoor two weeks prior, your husband hadn’t laid one finger on your body that was not soft, sweet, and sickeningly apologetic to you. He seemed almost scared to initiate sex, and when he did, couldn’t help but act like a touch might break you.

After all, one almost had. Those hands he’d hear you beg and plead to put on you now were the very same ones he’d used to kill dozens, if not hundreds, including blood of your own blood. To the world, Bucky’s reputation commanded fear. To his wife, now, he felt duly obliged to prove he was more—that you were safe with him, not from him. He’d carted you off to every GP, hematologist, nutritionist, and grief specialist lauded among Brooklyn’s elite to make that happen. Fast. Frankly, these days, the thought of fucking was the furthest thing from his mind.

Unbeknownst to Bucky, somewhere along the spectrum of grief, you’d already come to settle comfortably at the ‘Need-to-be-fucked-until-I-can-no-longer-think-or-feel’ phase, and every bone in your body was crying out for respite in the form of ruthless, mind-numbing sex. It didn’t make sense. You hardly knew what to do with it. You should have lashed out, shut down, cried rivers and lakes of tears for that integral part of family that had been lost, but for whatever reason, you had to go numb.

You wanted to do something really, really fucking dumb.

Remorseful as he was, Bucky and his explanations for who or what the Winter Soldier was had been sparse. He’d told you that he had once been held in captivity by HYDRA, had his brain re-wired some way to make him a merciless Soviet sleeper agent, and that the night in Madripoor was the first in ages he had been ‘activated.’ How did activation happen? Of course, he wouldn’t tell.

But Steve would.

Steve had told you everything you wanted to know about your soldat, describing in painstaking detail how he worked, trained, operated, and could be called to action. You were almost certain Rogers had said it all as a way to assure you that it wasn’t Bucky who’d killed your father—it was someone inside him. You were more than positive Steve had never intended for you to use his intel like this.

You hadn’t believed him. Couldn’t believe him. How the fuck could someone sever all ties to their conscious mind and just transform anew into a killer? You got to be hell-bent on knowing for certain whether it’d been Bucky or him, it, whatever the hell the Winter Solider was, and on knowing it now. If your husband was faking it all and simply using this persona to justify the killing, that would be it. Trust gone, marriage over. If he wasn’t, well…you hadn’t gotten that far into your own line of thinking.

“Tell me what you want, doll,” Bucky said, pulling you back to the present.

He shifted gently against you, cotton trousers raising the friction a little as he slotted between your legs. He was still dressed head-to-toe from his meeting that morning.

“I want you to fuck me. Make me cum. Please.”

You were bare, save for one small scrap of linen and lace that somehow passed as a nightie. Your gaze was soft.

Bucky didn’t want to say no, but he also felt too guilty to say yes. The way you were watching him now, eyes so helpless and pleading, body writhing for contact, he knew you didn’t want his touch so much as needed it. Desperately. Couldn’t bear to be burdened with grief so you brushed it aside, to the furthest recesses of your mind until all that was left was desire. Starvation, really.

He could satiate you for now, but that hunger might not ever leave. The corners of his lips twitched into a frown.

“Gentle?” he mumbled.

“Rough,” you countered.

“Baby—”

“I really don’t need another fucking lecture on death, Bucky. I know I’m not myself right now, but I can still make these decisions, okay? Don’t talk to me like I can’t.”

Anger flashed in your eyes for a second, then indignation, then nothing. Without much energy left, you pushed him away. Flopped back on the bed and, seeming to sink into yourself, heaved a low, feeble sigh.

“I know. Hey,” Bucky leaned over to press a touch to your tummy, and it made you want to hurl, “I’m sorry.”

You turned onto your side.

“You still don’t remember what happened?”

The question came suddenly, almost from somewhere outside your body, it seemed. For the hundredth time.

“No,” Bucky answered, for what felt like the thousandth.

“This Winter Soldier—”

“He isn’t me.”

“You didn’t know?”

“Couldn’t know. Wasn’t…programmed for it.”

Bucky was watching you now, eyes as contrite as they’d ever been while you rehashed this subject to the brink of tears. He never could stay composed when he saw you cry.

“Baby…” he started, arms reaching out for you.

Eyes still filling with tears, you shook your head and swatted him off. You sat up, and your brows pinched together in a look he couldn’t read. Contemplating.

At last, you made up your mind.

You would try something new—and really, really stupid:

“Zhelaniye.”

“What?”

Bucky’s own expression contorted with uncertainty.

“—semnadtsat, rzhaviy, rasvet—”

He heard that. He immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Wait—”

You were curious. You had no idea what you were doing.

“Baby, baby, stop—”

“—pech, devyat—”

You were speaking so fast, surely it wouldn’t work like that. Either way, he had to stop you. He seized your arms, giving a sharp, deliberate shake, pupils blown to the size of saucers in his eyes. There wasn’t much time.

“Don’t—”

“—adin—”

No time at all.

“—dothisdon’tfuckingdothishoneyplease.”

Losing himself already. Feeling it stir inside his mind.

“—dobroserdechniy—”

‘Kind-hearted.’ ‘Benign’. You truly had no clue what these words were liable to do, much less what they meant.

Having enunciated this last part, you swallowed. Took the tip of your tongue and rolled it left-to-right across the backs of your teeth, waiting for your speech to take effect like some magical performance before your eyes.

It hadn’t, it seemed. You blinked. He blinked. You sat in a protracted silence for what seemed like seventeen years, and presently, your stomach began to churn. Nothing happened—you’d been right about this fuckery all along.

Then you remembered one last word of the sequence.

Faintly, you said:

“Soldat.”

The man above you straightened. Sitting. Stiff. Still perched by your legs at a comfortable distance but regarding you now with a pointed stare. Expectancy made manifest in a simple, sharp glare from his eyes to yours.

“...Bucky?”

The look on his face grew even harder. For a time, he persisted in that strange and silent grimace, and just when you started to suspect he was faking this whole demeanor of deadened stoicism, you heard a voice. Clawing out of his throat but sounding nothing like him:

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

The words drove a fear to the greatest depths of your bones, and you hardly knew why. You stared back at the handsome, barren man still watching you with severity, and you couldn’t seem to find your husband anywhere.

“James?” You weren’t sure why you tried his name again. You just didn’t know what else to say.

The scowl seeped into his mouth, and he frowned.

“James,” he repeated, like the word was foreign to him.

You found yourself shuffling back on the bed just then—to what, you didn’t know. You just felt a gnawing need to put some space between you and this person, this glowering face, however you could. When he grabbed your ankle, you let out a startled sound, and when he followed you up on the bed, you did more than just whimper; you lifted your leg to knee him directly in the stomach. He caught it.

Then he stared again, expression bloodless and wan.

“You’re scaring me, Bucky.” Your voice trembled as you tried to free your leg from his fist—grip unusually strong.

The man paused another moment, if only to soak in your words and let his gaze trail over your face. Your exertions did not register. And, for the very first time, you felt as though you were something more like a plaything in your husband’s eyes—not a full-fledged human being but a system to be gamed. The feeling was so unsettling that you had to turn away.

Or try to, anyway.

Craning your neck just far enough to spy your phone on the nightstand, your first thought was Steve; he would know what to do. But before you could even think to twist and lift your body in that direction, you felt a hand yank you to the bed, flat on your back. You looked up at Bucky and found yourself caged between two arms. He lowered himself to his elbows, shifted his weight to one side, and seemed not to notice your movements at all when you tried to slide away. The man just splayed his hand across your stomach and pressed it firmly. Stay.

You weren’t one to shy away from a challenge—or keep hope alive against the odds. You put your hand over his.

“James—”

“Zhena.”

The abruptness of Bucky’s word stole the rest of yours. You cocked a brow and followed his gaze to your hand.

To the gaps between your fingers, then the touch that fanned across them to settle on one digit in particular.

Bucky thumbed at the diamond and smiled. He smiled.

“Zhena,” he repeated.

You blinked.

“I— you...gave me that, Bucky. You did.”

He hummed in acknowledgment.

Bucky stared at the ring for what could’ve been five seconds or several years, and then he did something unexpected. He shifted his touch to the bodice of your dress—again, if you could even call it that—and he began to tug at the satin bow situated between your breasts.

Of course, this nightie being designed for honeymoons and supremely easy access, it didn’t take much effort at all for the folds of your dress to come apart. Your breasts spilled out of the fabric without so much as a hint of protest, your torso was quick to become fully exposed, and suddenly, shortly, your hands were fumbling at your chest in an effort to regain some smidgen of modesty. Your husband just shook his head, following your hands.

“Moya zhena,” he said, a touch more emphasis and fervor to the first of the two words.

Now it was you who was shaking your head. Trying to pry his touch away as you slid up the bed. When he followed, you saw the icy expression had been supplanted by intrigue and, though you still felt ill at ease, you couldn’t deny you were curious to know what he was thinking. Who was thinking it? Soft, plush lips swiftly replaced his hands, and before you even knew what he was doing, Bucky, or someone, was latching onto your left breast. Using teeth to graze the hardened nub and send a ripple of thick, guilty pleasure coursing through you.

You whimpered. Bucky groaned.

Your fingers slotted through his hair with every intention of pushing him away, but when you tried, he just flicked his tongue and made another delicious sound against you.

You pushed with even more force, and he groaned again.

Not Bucky, not Bucky, not him, you have to—

“Stop!” you cried.

A set of soft, warm baby blues darted up to meet you.

Some flicker of recognition seemed to cross them, too.

“Honey?”

You almost lurched toward the sound. It was Bucky.

Suddenly, your hands were making fists in the collar of his crisp white button-up, and you were trying to yank him up. You murmured his name in disbelief, relief, and gathered him up in your arms to pull him in for a kiss.

The lips that met you were soft for a moment—just one.

Then the teeth reappeared. Harsh, jarring, biting. You jerked back at the sensation, and when you found his face again, it seemed your husband was lost to you all over. The eyes were attentive still—nowhere near as cold and aloof as they had been before—but they did not radiate the same warmth and admiration that Bucky’s always did. You almost couldn’t believe what you were seeing. He was gone, just like that, and there was nothing you could do to stop it from happening.

A broad palm cupped your cheek to bring you in for another kiss, and you weren’t sure if you should indulge. It didn’t seem you had much choice anyway, because the lips that were seeking yours were hungry. Starved. Searing into your mouth with a force you couldn’t refuse.

But something inside you wanted to find Bucky again.

Somewhere inside this stranger was lying dormant a trace of your husband; you’d seen it yourself, if only for a second. It made you curious. Where had he gone? What did he do when forced to retreat into this strange, preprogrammed being, and how could you get him back?

“Bucky,” you mumbled, more of a plea than a moan.

You were kissed harder than you had been in a long time. You didn’t have to think, or do, or breathe one puff of air that this man didn’t account for. His tongue wedged a gaping space in your wet, welcoming mouth for him to fill, and somehow, you didn’t feel the urge to protest. A familiarity in the way he kissed almost put you at ease, and when his body lifted slightly, yours lifted with it.

Before long, Bucky was sitting. Kneeling between your legs with an eye to your soft, shaking torso. You’d barely even come to notice just how hard you were breathing until you felt a palm on your stomach again. There was an oddly calming insinuation in that one simple touch.

And again, he smiled. Brighter than before.

“Nashe?” He sounded eager as he said it.

You peered up at him and raised an eyebrow in question. Perhaps you should’ve felt more exposed; after all, you were sitting half-naked with your husband’s assassin alter ego stroking your stomach and beaming over you, eyeing you expectantly, and you didn’t know what to say. Apart from the short set of words Steve had taught you, you were totally clueless to Russian, and you weren’t quite sure you were in a place to ask Bucky to translate.

When it seemed words might never come, the gleaming teeth above you were shrouded in a tighter, close-lipped smile, and Bucky nodded. Appearing to understand. Instead of forcing a response from you, he just let his hand migrate down your belly, fingers tracing the skin, then settle comfortably—momentarily—at the crest of your pubic bone. Then he pressed the heel of his palm into the place residing right below it, and without really meaning to, you moaned. A quiet maelstrom of pleasure circled low in your abdomen, threatening to draw noises from your throat you weren’t planning to make with every gentle gyration of Bucky’s lower hand.

You had to purse your lips to contain the sounds.

Again, he nodded.

“It’s okay,” he said, so quiet he almost couldn’t be heard.

He let the friction continue for a while like that: just palming you, watching you react to the simplest of motions against your swollen, aching clit and try not to writhe. At length, you squirmed a little bit. Bucky seemed to want to wait for something to happen, and when you bucked your hips, a look in his eye said that was enough.

He lowered himself between your legs. Shoulders bumping your thighs as he spread them apart, chest rising and falling in measured breaths, and lips smiling all the while. You sucked in a breath when his face came to rest just a few inches shy of your bare, aching warmth.

“Bucky?”

The man looked up at you and blinked.

“Yeah, honey?”

One thumb traced over the seam of your cunt, and your back nearly arched off the bed. There he was, again, gaze safe and secure to yours and hands moving in tandem as they always would. His tongue calmly followed suit. When you fisted his hair, he blinked once more and then directed his attention back to your wet, warm, velvety folds with a pointed look and a purpose.

The sound that escaped you next could hardly be classed as anything less than a scream, but the soft and unperturbed demeanor of the man between your legs showed he hadn’t noticed at all. He just sucked diligently—damn near dutifully—on your clit with a vigor you’d never felt, and when you yanked at his hair, he hummed.

It was like his lips had been trained for perfect suction; that was how well and thoroughly he descended upon your swollen little bud. An airtight kiss and a quick flick of his tongue, paired with his hot and heavy breaths fanning over your cunt, sent your senses into overdrive. Your toes curled inward, your throat let loose a gasp, and without fully realizing it, your walls were clamping down, pulsing and leaking out desire for more of this touch.

Then, without warning, Bucky brought a hand to the throbbing and slick cunt that was presently clenching around nothing, and he fed it two fingers. So forceful and deep he nearly buried his knuckles right along with them. Then he started scissoring those two fingers, sharply.

“Open, milaya,” he said. Again, it wasn’t entirely Bucky.

But you felt a faint remembrance there. You didn’t want him to stop. Maybe you were led astray by the gentle laps of his tongue or the prodding of his fingertips, or perhaps there was something stubbornly familiar about the way he was touching you now. You couldn’t tell.

All you knew was that both of your hands were holding tight to his head and begging him, wordlessly, for more.

Your moans rang all the way through the bedroom in your new, far-too-big penthouse apartment in Brooklyn, down the hall, reverberating through every inch of the space until all that could be heard were your sounds and his and the delectable little noises of your bodies working together. Bucky hadn’t even stirred to pleasure himself.

You wanted that part to change.

With your hip pinned to the mattress and Bucky’s tongue laving over your clit in ruthlessly quick movements, you probably would’ve liked to cum all over his mouth and fingers, but you wanted to see him pleased even more.

Just when he’d worked a third finger inside you and was driving you close to your peak, you pushed him away.

Bucky parted from your folds with a glistening chin and two furrowed eyebrows, clearly frustrated to have been torn from his mission before you reached completion, but you wouldn’t let that look linger for long. You used your leverage in his hair—however slight, comparatively, that grip might have been—to pull him up on the bed.

Bucky surprised you with just how swiftly he moved.

His steel-blue gaze was on yours in a second, equally penetrating and soft.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing—”

“My baby okay?”

He surprised you again; this time by how quick his demeanor was to shift the second he sensed something was wrong. Just like Bucky. It had to be him in there.

You nodded, still out of breath from the wonders he’d been working with his tongue. You squeezed his arm and tried to coax him toward you, to help him lower his body some, and when he seemed uncertain, you offered a smile. It’s okay to touch, you won’t break anything.

Bucky eyed you skeptically, but it was clear he was more wary of himself than of you. He glanced over your body, briefly to his, then slowly, apprehensively, sank down.

“Just fine,” you mumbled, hooking your legs around his back the second his chest was close enough to yours.

You felt an uptick in his heartbeat when your heels dug a little more firmly into the waistband of his pants. While your hands started working their way toward the front of that fabric, wedging clumsily between your bodies, his gaze flitted to yours, and his brows drew even tighter together. He didn’t try to stop you, but he certainly seemed confused as to why you wanted to include him so soon. Why you cared to show concern for him at all.

You noticed that then, and in just about every moment preceding, the man was taken aback by kindness.

Whether it was pulling him closer to you, tugging his pants down with a tender touch, running your fingers across the bulge in his boxers, or simply nodding your head and letting him know it was okay to touch you back, Bucky seemed unaccustomed to any care in this area.

When your fingers made it around his cock and started stroking him, gently, he just might’ve come apart.

His chest shuddered with the inhale of a short, strained breath, and his eyelids fluttered, as if meaning to close.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, and he started to shake his head.

“No, let me—”

“Let me,” you finished for him, wrist flicking back and forth quietly. You paused just to rub a quick touch between your folds, collect some arousal, then return to touching him when he met your eyes again and allowed you to continue. You skimmed his sensitive underside with your palm and let the warmth of him bleed into your fingertips as you worked him up to a comfortable pace.

Bucky rutted into your touch, probably harder than he meant to. Then he planted a hand beside your head and anchored his weight above you so that he was close enough to reach your lips—but he didn’t kiss you.

His expression hardened again, and he forcibly removed himself from the pulse of your fingers. He frowned.

“You want me to fuck you, no? Make you cum?”

He sounded irritated again.

Briefly, you recalled your words from earlier and nodded. It was true, you’d said it to him like that, and you’d meant it. You just couldn’t make sense of what he wanted now.

It seemed Bucky couldn’t wait to indulge you any longer. He fisted his cock in one hand, angled the head just outside of your cunt, and burst in with one thrust.

“Then let me,” he muttered, plunging down to the hilt.

The first go was rough, and the second was no kinder. Bucky’s face screwed up with indifference again, like he wanted to get something out of his brain and just do.

Like there was a task at hand that needed to be finished.

You couldn’t deny it felt fine at first. Fucking edifying after all those horrific thoughts had been eating away at your mind and rousing your own hunger for numbness. The drive of Bucky’s thick girth in and out, in and out repeatedly was no doubt capable of rendering you dumb. But being slammed into and taken so roughly was only good for you when you knew he was feeling good too.

This Bucky was back to being entirely flinty and lifeless—practically devoid of all emotion as he railed into you.

The back of your head was forced into the pillow with the weight of each thrust and Bucky’s thumb pushing into your chin—‘Better, milaya? Is this better for you?’—and frankly, you wanted to push him back and ask the same.

But you couldn’t. The pace he’d set was suffocating, and the stretch of his cock inside you was unusually tough.

Instead, you sank your nails into his arm and mumbled:

“Bucky.”

The man’s thrusts were both stabbing and rhythmic, sending a welt of pleasure blossoming up in your chest. You tried again:

“Bucky.”

He blinked.

And slowed.

“Bucky,” he mumbled back.

Seemingly mindless and mechanical, he snaked a hand behind your head to lift your face and tilt it toward the sight below: his cock splitting you open before him, parting your insides with an easy, welcome glide through the slick of your folds. You watched as your arousal enveloped him fully. Not a single inch of his rock-hard, throbbing shaft was spared; even his balls were soaked. They felt even heavier slapping your ass with each thrust.

“You remember?” you asked, hating how small you sounded.

The man’s nostrils flared, but he gave a curt nod. Expression taut and vigilant, as though anticipating something going wrong at any second. Still, he nodded.

“Years,” he answered.

“Years?”

Since he’d done this? Felt good? Become this way?

No, Bucky was activated in Madripoor just weeks ago. He didn’t look like he was ready to indulge in any ‘feel-good’ pleasure, and you weren’t sure when he’d last been with anyone else before you. Years could mean anything.

You chanced a few soft fingertips up to his cheeks, cupping either side of his clean-shaven face in an effort to anchor you both to one place. The pit of your stomach was reeling with warmth, and friction, and fullness. It took everything in you just to pull him in for a quick, grounding kiss before the feeling gave way to even more.

Bucky’s teeth nicked your bottom lip. He flinched back.

You ignored the sting and repeated his name, murmuring it carefully up to the seal of his mouth as if requesting entry with that word alone.

It seemed to work. Bucky kissed you back with a gentle, albeit guarded, sort of tenderness that made him soften. His thrusts weren’t as rough and punishing as they were before. The dull, throbbing ache between your legs transformed into something sweeter, and your body no longer had to brace itself against strokes that, to you, were nearly bruising and, to Bucky, were just necessary.

For once, your husband let out a soft grunt of pleasure.

“They never let us,” Bucky said as his teeth grit together, “It’s been years.”

“Since what?”

The face above you tempered more—this time with a trace of sadness behind it. He continued to rut into you, but now his thrusts were sloppy, and it seemed as though he were battling against his own pleasure with every motion. He lowered one hand between your legs and began to thumb at your clit, gaze torn from yours.

“Close now?” he muttered.

Ignoring the question you’d asked.

“Years since what?” you pressed anyway. The tiny ripples preceding bliss had already begun to stir inside you, maddeningly, with every flick of his thumb, but your curiosity to know the whole truth was stronger still.

Bucky’s hips were moving at a feverish pace now; his free hand made a fist in the sheets beside your head, and his chest heaved with a series of short, ragged breaths that were no doubt meant to mask his moans as well. Notwithstanding the burn you felt between your legs—he really was much rougher and stronger now, you saw—you cupped his cheek again to tilt his face toward yours.

What you saw made your stomach drop.

Your heart clenched like a fist within the confines of your ribcage, and there it was—that terrible ache you felt each time you saw something awful materialize before you.

Bucky’s eyes were wet with tears. He wouldn’t blink.

He tilted his head into your touch, as if for support, but really, the weight of it signaled to you that he just wanted to feel you. Be assured that you were there. His big, broad arms seemed suddenly unable to hold his weight, and then he sank into your frame with a grunt and another stuttered breath. Like he was ready to collapse.

“Don’t leave again,” he said quietly.

The pain in your chest elevated, in bloom.

“Bucky I didn’t— wasn’t—” you started to say.

The friction between your bodies was almost too much to bear. You couldn’t be sure if you were talking to your husband, soldat, or some strange, inconceivable mixture of the two, but you could tell that this one was desperate.

Pleading.

“I can’t lose you again.”

The head of his cock grazed your most sensitive spot inside, and a whine seeped out through your teeth. Bucky’s whole body was blanketing yours, torso flush with your front and hips working an erratic cadence as he got a glimpse of release himself. He groaned out in pleasure and begged you to stay. You promised that you would. Your legs were still wound around his sides, but both of your bodies were slick with a sheen of sweat; it was hard to hang on. Bucky’s hair was wild and pushed back from his face, but his eyes were clear when they finally met yours, and you heard him mumble again, ‘Please stay.’

You didn’t know what else to say but okay, baby, I will.

You swore you would stay, and in between oaths, your mouth was consumed by a barrage of kisses—Bucky got to feast with a full set of teeth again, primal as ever—and then your climax hit. Euphoria washed over you whole with a force you weren’t expecting to feel, and you couldn’t help but cry out and whine as waves of pleasure coursed straight from the innermost depths of your core.

Bucky’s hips collided with yours in two more stuttered thrusts, and when he bottomed out at the last, you felt a heavy spurt of warmth. A groan coiling out of his chest. Muscles growing lax and two sturdy arms coming to bracket your head as your husband’s whole body weight went folding into yours. You kissed some more, in between frenzied intakes of breaths and steadying moments where you were simply trying to ground your body and get your heart to slow down to a normal rate.

You held each other in silence for a while. Bucky’s head fell next to yours on the pillow when the last of his spend had been emptied, but otherwise, he didn’t stir. At some point, his hands slid behind your back, and the second he hugged you to him, you felt secure in that embrace.

You were probably as far as you’d ever been from understanding who the fuck your husband was, but all it seemed you were capable of feeling for now was pity.

Pity for the years he’d lost to captivity; pity for what was little more than mere existence under HYDRA’s thumb; pity for all the things you still didn’t know about his past.

You held Bucky tighter, and, flooded with this strange, grating emotion and an overwhelming sense of powerlessness, you wished you could protect him, too.

“James?” you mumbled into his hair.

Bucky didn’t respond.

You squeezed his shoulder. Still nothing.

Against your better judgment, you tried to shift yourself underneath his body. You figured you wouldn’t make it far at all, but at least he would be aware that you were trying to get up. Maybe even start to move with you.

He didn’t.

It took everything in you just to wedge an elbow back, struggle to prop yourself up against his weight, and when you were about to let out a huff of an exasperated laugh and tell him, Bucky, you’re crushing me, honey, could you please ease up a little, your request was answered before the words could even leave your mouth.

At the sound of two new muffled voices carrying up from the living room and what appeared to be noises from shuffling feet, Bucky rose straight from the bed, off you.

Your gaze trailed his to the door, and you reached for him.

“Baby, it’s just—”

Bucky was back on his feet. Yanking his boxers and pants up his legs and buckling his belt in no time at all.

The movers. It’s just the movers bringing in furniture—

You moved your hand closer to your husband in the hopes of stalling his movements for half a second, but then a set of ruthless blue eyes had you pinned, quick:

“Stay.”

Your outstretched arm was taken up in a much stronger, stiffer one, and you were suddenly pulled over to Bucky.

But you knew from the eyes it wasn’t him at all.

And you weren’t so much being tugged toward him as you were being hauled to the floor. Thrown on your knees beside the bed, next to Bucky. He was about to leave.

Without thinking, you reached for one of the legs of his trousers and sank your nails into the fabric to hold him in place, to tell him again that there was nothing to see out there but the people you knew, no threat outside at all. But Bucky was deaf to your pleas, it seemed. He shrugged you off easily and made a move for his gun, expression blank, stolid, calm, hardened. Decided.

You tried to rise to your feet but were stopped.

“STAY,” Bucky boomed again, this time an order that he didn’t even deign to complete with a look your way.

If he had—if he even possessed the ability to consider anything but the immediate task at hand—he would’ve seen his own hand knock you to the floor to keep you from standing. Might’ve caught a glimpse of the instant your head struck the edge of the nightstand before you hit the ground. Could’ve even made out the first traces of blood that came trickling out from above your temple. Would’ve seen you cower back, viscerally, out of fear.

But holding the side of your head and watching him leave, grim realization twisted at the pit of your stomach, and you knew the man wouldn’t have stopped if he had.

If your soldat’s objective was to protect you from any harm lurking outside that door, real or illusory, nothing you were capable of doing now could stop that. At expense to yourself, at expense to him, at expense to whatever lives stood between the Winter Soldier and that unwavering, hardwired goal, he still would not ever stop.

Thinking of new, innocent lives in the balance, now, you scrambled for your phone the next second to call Steve.

You tried him once. Twice. A third time crawling on your knees, then standing, then staggering over to the door and pulling the phone from your ear just to send a string of texts to your friend while the thing continued to ring.

SOS

Need help

Pick up please

Bucky’s stuck and he’s

About to hurt people here

A crash sounded outside. You hurried to the door. Your hand closed around the knob and tried to turn it. The handle turned freely, but something behind it was refusing to let you leave the room. You pressed again.

“Bucky!”

Your cry was useless in the face of the barricade outside.

You pushed your shoulder and, behind it, the whole force of your weight against it anyway, trying to get out.

The line went dead. You tried again.

Now with your phone to one ear and the bedroom door taking the brunt of your hits from the other, bleeding side of your body, you scarcely heard much of anything else. The ring started. Stopped. Began again when you pressed a shaky finger to Steve’s contact name, and continued in a cycle for some time while you tried to force whatever was on the other side of the door away.

The second a voice broke through the haze of your frantic, half-crazed state of consciousness, you cried:

“STEVE!”

“Mrs. Barnes?”

You were shocked to hear a woman on the other end. Your pulse was still racing, shoulder aching from the impact of each desperate push you’d been forcing against the door, and then you stopped. Another loud something sounded down the hallway, further away, but you were too startled and unnerved to take any note of it.

You started to ask, ‘Where’s Steve?’ when the voice continued:

“This is Mrs. Barnes?”

“Yes,” you answered woodenly.

You held the phone as close to your ear as you could, but still, the woman’s words were coming in and out in bursts. You must’ve mistakenly accepted the call when trying to reach Steve—you couldn’t think right now; could barely retract the phone far enough to see a strange number displayed on the screen. You swallowed.

“—from Lenox Hill Hospital at Northwell Health—”

The high-rise medical center on the Upper East Side you’d visited that week. Bucky had wanted you tested for nutritional deficiencies and anemia, of all fucking things.

“—if you had a moment or two to chat and maybe—”

No, you needed Steve, not this outpatient courtesy call.

You would’ve liked to hang up. Should’ve hung up. In fact, your fingers were practically itching to hit the button the whole time the nurse was speaking to you, but something in you just couldn’t be persuaded to do it. It took several more seconds before your senses began to creep back, and by then, when you were about to drop the call, you heard a phrase that stopped you on a dime.

“—but the doctor advises prenatal vitamins—”

“What?” you snapped, far more harshly than you meant.

The nurse paused a beat, whether from incredulity at how rude you’d just sounded or to consider something. When she resumed, she sounded a little more guarded.

“Yes…Dr. Watkins did reach out to you about your bloodwork from your last visit, didn’t she? I thought—”

“No,” you said, rushed and painfully brusque, again. You tried to rein in your tone some before continuing, “She didn’t—didn’t reach out about anything. What vitamins?”

Another pause.

“Prenatals.”

You hated that she gave you another second to chew on that word before taking a breath and pressing on.

“I’m terribly, terribly sorry to be the one to spring that on you, Mrs. Barnes—I thought you knew…um—” The nurse was sheepish now, almost embarrassed to be speaking, “—you’re about…three weeks along in your pregnancy.”

Three weeks along.

Advised prenatal vitamins.

For the child growing inside of you.

A rivulet of blood trickled into your left eye.

Your whole body was apt to convulse, but it didn’t.

You hung up.

—

Taglist: (please lmk if I missed anyone! I can only tag 50 at a time so will continue in a separate post) @vicmc624 @she-could-never @mcira @kentokaze @identity2212 @unaxv, @buchi91, @ordelixx @stinkerbelle007 @opibarnes @wilsons-striped-ties @desigirlxx @pono-pura-vida @geminiflanagansblog @buggy14 @sky-full-0f-fl0wers @buckysdoll1520 @armystay89 @minimarvelingmarvel @kunakizen @ghostiebby06 @blackhawkfanatic @dameron-grantspector @sushiseoks @deansapplepie @mrsjoequinn @gyokujyn @lunaroserites @first-edition @kaybaby2494, @jaggedsi @excusememrbarnes @daisychainsoflove @mostlymarvelgirl @diannana @shawnberry @yujyujj @urmomsalex @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @athenabarnes @christinabae @sluttylittlewaistenthusiast @wintrsoldrluvr @bethbunnyy @i-heart-smut @aagn360 @dahliawolfe @fantasyfootballchampion @lilyevanstan1325 @kandis-mom @thealyrs

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wandasaura · 2 months

Text

LOVE IS A RUTHLESS GAME

summary — it’s been months since natasha’s submitted to her wife, but that’s about to change. you’re lucky enough to watch the entire scene unfold

warning(s) — established relationship, married wandanat, the chaotic duo of lucky and fanny, sub!nat, sub!reader, face slapping, pussy slapping, edging, cockwarming, face sitting, nipple stimulation, degradation, praise, dildo riding, dom/sub dynamics, teasing, begging, delayed orgasm, orgasm control, mentions of exhibitionism, oral, bondage, finger sucking, cum eating, threesome, aftercare, men/minors dni

authors note — we’re not even going to address the fact that this was meant to be an entirely separate fic and that now i have to write a part two because it got too long to add any more. this is literal filth, but there are some cute/goofy moments + mean wanda

♥️⊹ ˚ . 18+, men/minors dni ⁺ 𓈒 ꒰💌꒱ ♡ ･ mommy maximoff ✧

It was bound to be a great day when Natasha got a phone call from Yelena asking if she could watch Fanny and Lucky for a couple of hours; some work conflict having come up on short notice and Kate was already out of town. Those couple of hours had turned into an overnight arrangement rather quickly, but you were just happy that Natasha agreed to keep both dogs for the night and hadn’t sent the excitable pups back through the door they came in at when Yelena dropped the bombshell.

Wanda was less than pleased to have not one but two dogs running around her perfectly kept house, and had turned her glare on Natasha multiple times because of it. It turns out that Kate and Yelena let the pups run wild, furniture wasn’t off limits and wiping their paws at the door was entirely foreign. You had looked at Wanda in sheer amusement when she’d tried to get the two tail-wagging pups to understand the concept of drying their paws before stepping onto her hardwood floors. They’d merely shook their coats and trotted past her, muddy paw prints adorning the couch seconds later. It was safe to say that Natasha was beyond the point of simply being in trouble with the Sokovian. The Russian had been tiptoeing around for hours, her eyes filled with unbudgeable worry as she scouted each room for Wanda’s presence before even considering entering fully.

When Natasha appeared again, hair tied up in a bun and blue light glasses slipping down the slope of her nose, that same gleam of hesitance brimmed in her calculated green eyes. You were curled up on the couch, Fanny’s head on one thigh while Lucky’s head rested on the other. Your eyes were staring straight ahead at the television screen, an old movie you hadn’t seen in ages holding your attention, but the dogs had decided that giving Wanda grief since their arrival had officially tired them out. Lucky snored, you found out rather quickly. Fanny was quiet, but your heart ached when she whined every so often and the little paws folded beneath her shaggy belly twitched and jerked like she was trying to run. You didn’t know much about dogs, had never had much interest in having one of your own, but you could appreciate their warm comfort. The Sokovian that was being searched for had gone out back an hour ago, a book in her hands that was already half finished but rather lengthy. As she’d passed you on her way out, careful not to let the dogs out with her, she’d told you she wouldn’t mind an interruption if you wanted to join her, but Natasha had pointedly been left out of that invitation.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” Natasha asked cautiously, fixing the black framed glasses so they sat on the top of her head, no longer needing them for the work assignments she left behind in her office. There was never any shortage of work to be done, never any space between deadlines and start-ups, but the women found a balance easily, something you admired as more than just their girlfriend. They were never CEO’s first. They were wives, girlfriends, sisters, friends, people. Pursuing a career in computer science has shown you the harsher sides of corporate companies and the intricacies that running a successful business entails. You’d shaken hands with too many sour old men that devoted their lives to the office and were somehow surprised when their wives left them. Wanda and Natasha would never understand how easy they made it look, and how inspiring they are, being successful women in positions of power.

“My girlfriend, is she?” You quirked a single eyebrow, an expression you had more or less adopted as your own since the start of the summer. Seeing you wear an expression that Wanda practically owned never failed to make Natasha weak in the knees. “Getting a divorce that I don’t know about?”

“After tonight? We might be.” Although Natasha was merely teasing, playing into the game that you had set up, you frowned at the genuine concern in her simple words. Yelena had put her in between a rock and a hard place, even if it wasn’t entirely intentional. She had definitely left out the part about needing someone to watch the dogs overnight on purpose, but Wanda’s reaction to the news wasn’t her fault. Natasha always checked base with Wanda before she agreed to anything that involved more than just herself, Yelena had no reason to assume anything different of today, but in the chaos of receiving the phone call only minutes before a virtual conference, it had fallen away from Natasha’s mind until the doorbell rang.

You smiled sympathetically at Natasha, wanting to kiss the creased skin between her eyebrows until it was smooth and soft with ease, but you were effectively nap-trapped by the Golden Retriever and Akita who you didn’t really want waking up anytime soon. They’d finally calmed down, there was silence over the house again, and disturbing the peace felt like initiating a war. “Wanda will get over it.”

“Wanda hates dogs.” Natasha rolled her eyes like that was the most obvious answer ever, which it was, you knew extremely well how passionate Wanda was about not liking or wanting a dog, but she didn’t hate dogs enough to completely walk away from Natasha. You sighed, deciding that disturbing the nap the two pups were taking on you was less important than resolving the rising issue between your girlfriends.

Fanny yelped when you shrugged her head off of your thigh, but Lucky remained quiet and merely resettled into the cushions that were warm from where your weight had sat. You grabbed Natasha’s hand without any explanation, not that you needed one, but still she let you guide her through the house without questioning where you were leading her. Her expression grimmed when she spotted Wanda lounged beside the pool, a recently published law book in her hands that was nearly finished as she turned yet another page getting closer to the official end. You didn’t spare the time to admire how fast she read, merely slipped through the sliding glass door and dragged Natasha along with you.

The door was closed quickly, because although Lucky and Fanny were seemingly content on the couch for the time being, probably missing their Moms as the hours rolled by and the heavy sun became lighter with dusk, you didn’t fancy taking the risk of them wandering outside to find where you’d gone.

Wanda peered over the edge of her book, sunglasses that were no longer needed now that the unforgiving sunlight had become crisp with wisps of orange, perched on the top of her head in the same fashion as Natasha’s. They were eerily similar, always so in tune with the other even when the tide got choppy. There was no question about how or why they worked so well together, they just did.

“Please tell your wife that you’re not going to divorce her.” You deadpanned, not even sparing Natasha a glance as you firmly addressed Wanda, who raised both eyebrows in question at your demand. Wanda’s eyes, sparkling beneath the sun, looked between you and Natasha with something unreadable deep beneath them. “She’s being unreasonable. That’s my job.” You pushed further, sensing that Wanda’s silence was around for the long haul if you didn’t make the severity of the situation known. Natasha was uncharacteristically not herself in the moment, and you despised every second of it.

Wanda sighed, allowing her hands to relinquish the grip she had on her book. It fell onto her thighs that were warm from constant sunlight, the only shadow thrown over her illuminating body. “Natalia, don’t be dense.” She rolled her eyes, accent strong as the day she’d learned how to say her first sentence. The air was thin around the three of you, Natasha’s grip on your hand tight and unnerving. This was not the way Wanda addressed things, for a second you stopped to consider that maybe Natasha had a point to be so concerned, but that fell away when a whimper so soft it sounded like another tale that the wind tried to tell reached your ears.

Wanda wasn’t annoyed. No, that is absolutely not what was going on. You’d thought she was, had every reason to believe that she was, until a ghost of a smirk splayed across her lips tinted pink from how many strawberries she’d eaten beside the pool. Their dynamic had been only a whispered thing, soft stories and recounts of the nights where Natasha gave herself over to Wanda, but in the almost year that you’d been present in their home and in their lives, you’d never seen it play out. You had no reason to when you were merely around to be a release for Natasha, but now you were their girlfriends, and it dawned on you harsher than the unforgiving sun that it had been months since Natasha relinquished control. This wasn’t about her being paranoid, this was about her wanting to be reprimanded, wanting to let Wanda take over.

Wanda stood from the lounge chair, bowl of strawberries and her book the only things that said she was ever laid out at all. She was close enough to smell when her feet stopped carrying her forward, and you noted that she must’ve gotten a new perfume because there was something reminiscent of grapefruit lingering around her. You held your breath when Wanda’s palm connected with Natasha’s cheek, the slap sounding harsher than it was. You’d grown familiar with loud echoes after soft slaps, your ass had been discolored by them too many times. There was nothing that could’ve warned you about the harsh treatment, but Natasha didn’t waver behind you. Her knees didn’t fold like yours would have and her shoulders never shook like she feared the next hit. Slapping was a hard limit for you, but Natasha merely sighed at the contact of Wanda’s palm hitting cheek.

“It’s been a while since I’ve played with you, hasn’t it, kroshechnyy tantsor?” Wanda cooed, a glint of danger breaching her eyes. This was not how she handled you. You’d seen her be harsh, cruel even, but she looked downright mean as the sun glimmered against every inch of available skin that already held a lingering tan. Natasha was allured by the look in her wife’s eyes, and you noticed that she hadn’t yet spoken at your side.

“Is that what you want? You want me to play with you, milaya? Want our little duckling to know what a slut her Daddy is?” Wanda pressed further, edging Natasha right into a state that was only able to be categorized as submissive. You could hear the stories of their dynamic a million times a day, but nothing would have ever prepared you for the sight of it to be unfolding right in front of you; unfiltered and perfectly easy. “You can speak, milaya. Tell me what you want.”

“Please, Wanda.” There it was, the first utterance of Natasha’s gravely voice in the minutes that it had been since you dragged her outside. It was light, airy even, softer than a million seeds falling from the pappus of a dandelion.

“Detka,” Wanda looked toward you, her eyes so much softer than they had been as she peered into Natasha’s soul and dared her to push back. You hummed, inclining your head to the side in an expression that radiated innocence and submission. Even if she wasn’t playing with you, Wanda was still your dominant, you still felt she deserved to be shown respect as she floated nearer and nearer to one of her favorite headspaces. You adored every shade of green that lived within the Sokovian’s eyes, but there was something so captivating about the shade of Juniper that attempted to drown her pupils when she let herself hold all control. “I am not going to be soft with Natalia. You are welcome to join us in the bedroom, but if it gets too much for you, I expect you to leave. Do not stay because you think you’ll be able to handle it.”

Your brain was a mess of spiraling thoughts, wondering the state that Natasha would be left in when Wanda was through with her, and the extent of which they played at all. There were so many unanswered questions that you hadn’t been at liberty to ask before, but now you had every right to know what turned your girlfriends on, and there was no way you’d be missing out on whatever the scene had to offer. Despite the heavy gears turning in your head that were effectively dampening your panties, you managed to nod your head albeit hesitantly and jerkily. “Okay.” You breathed out, earning a smile from the Sokovian and a tight squeeze of your hand from the Russian. “Are you okay with me watching?” You turned the question on Natasha, assuming that considering Wanda was the one who had extended the invitation she wasn’t opposed to your presence in the room as she unraveled all the tight knots Natasha had been putting into place.

“Oh honey.” Wanda preened with an edge to her tone that had Natasha whining at your side, “Natalia is quite the fan of having an audience. My little slut thinks it’s quite the turn on to be the main attraction. Isn’t that right, shlyukha?”

Natasha nodded quickly, her eyes clouded with lust and desperation that wasn’t unusual, but had never been so translucent. You wondered if you looked the same when Wanda had you beneath her thumb, pliant and eager to be ruined, but now was not the time for daydreams about your own submissive nature.

“Oh.” A whispered response fell off of your tongue as your cheeks became hot with the presence of a blush that was a result of anything but embarrassment. Your stomach tightened at the information, imagining what scenarios had led to that discovery and how intensely they’d played into it. Natasha was not shy. She had no reason to be with her perfectly smooth and silky skin and tits that could win awards if there was ever such a competition to judge. She was breathtaking, you knew it and she knew it, but you’d never expected to hear that she was into exhibition. A sense of pride flooded your system when you could pinpoint the appropriate term on the tip of your tongue, Wanda’s mini lectures paying off.

“Mmm.” Wanda hummed, a smirk on her lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes as she practically undressed Natasha. The woman was barely upright anymore, her knees weak as she readjusted her stance time and time again, and you weren’t oblivious to the way her thighs pressed together trying to relieve the ache in her core. If Wanda noticed, which she did, nothing was said about the vain attempts. “Detka, be a dear and help Natalia into the bedroom will you? I want her in a single-column tie before I get up there.”

Natasha groaned beside you, her head as heavy as a ragdolls as it lulled back and faced the dwindling sunshine like a lonely sunflower would. The train of spiraling thoughts that had been running circles around your brain came to a halting stop at the request, a tinge of pink rising across your neck as you fumbled with your intertwined fingers, not even remember when you had dropped Natasha’s hand, or maybe she had been the one to drop yours, “I don’t– What is that?”

Wanda, patient as always, merely smiled and inclined her head toward Natasha, an expectant hardness lingering within her sage stare that was darkening by the minute in tune with the depleting sunlight across the sky. It wasn’t cold by any means, still in the warmer months of summertime, but the air around you felt frigid either way. The only thing that could bring warmth back to your body was the touch of your girlfriends. “Natalia will show you. Won’t you, malen'kaya shlyushka. You’ll show our duckling how you like to be restrained to the headboard?”

“Yebat.” Natasha whimpered, her eyes flickering toward you, filled with desperate longing that didn’t seem to be Wanda’s main concern at the moment. You gnawed at your bottom lip, your eyes hooded and dark, twinged with lust that was steadily growing. “Yes.” Natasha exhaled, eyes flickering back up to meet Wanda’s when the lawyer shifted her stance and inclined her head expectantly.

“Good girl.” Wanda’s praise was curt and dismissive, not filled with warmth and satisfaction that you had grown so used to in recent months. You found yourself frowning, because even if the praise hadn’t been intended for you, you still hung onto her every word. Wanda, ever observant, didn’t fight the fond expression that slipped across her features as she turned her sharp gaze to you. “You’re a good girl too, moya utenok. Now go help Natalia. I’ll make sure the ties are okay, Natty won’t get hurt. I just want you to try your best. Okay?” Despite not recognizing the anxiousness that settled in your belly amidst the desperation that brewed simultaneously, the proposition of being the one to restrain Natasha had worried you, but your shoulders relaxed at Wanda’s assurance that your attempt wouldn’t be the final verdict if she found anything less than perfect with the knots you bound her wife with. You nodded, a whispered response filling the air that separated your body from the Sokovians.

Natasha grabbed your hand, whether it was to steady herself or to ground you, you weren’t entirely sure, but you laced your fingers together and set your course back toward the house where Fanny and Lucky were waiting at the sliding glass door. You’d forgotten about the four legged pups since coming outside, but their hot panting that dirtied the glass implied that they hadn’t forgotten about you. You didn’t try to keep them inside as you slipped in, figuring that keeping them away from the breakable indoors while the three of you were otherwise occupied was the best plan of action if you were going to save Wanda a heart attack.

“Natalia!” Wanda’s voice was precisely projected as it reached both yours and Natasha’s ears, the thickness of her accent wearing slightly as she forced the words through her diaphragm carefully. It was still a wonder how many years the lawyer had spent in the United States, but it had been enough to ease the traces of home out of her tone naturally. “YA khochu, chtoby utenok byl na rozovom remeshke, kogda ya priyedu tuda.”

Natasha’s breath stuttered in her chest, and though you were picking up on the simple terms of endearment that they uttered to you routinely, you understood nothing of the sentence that had been just loud enough to settle through the space you occupied. Natasha did however, and when she closed the sliding glass door and guided you deeper into the house, she whispered shortly against the shell of your ear, “Wanda’s trying to kill you.”

You paled slightly at the confirmation that whatever Wanda had requested, had been in regards to you. Unable to predict what the lawyer could have wanted, you didn’t think to ask, not wanting any distractions that would interfere with the ropes you were instructed to bind. The bedroom was saturated in darkness when you entered through the door, curtains drawn and lights switched off. The only sounds that suggested the room was occupied came from yours and Natasha’s footsteps, but even they were softer than usual. The energy that Wanda possessed had taken its toll, and both of your bodies were eager for sensations that only the Sokovian had the authority to grant.

Natasha reached for the light switch, drenching the room with artificial brightness that tore shades of cream from the pillowcases adorning the bed. Traces of you lingered across every expanse of space, the room no longer just theirs but yours. Yours to share gentle kisses concealed by darkness in. Yours to sing and dance in when rain pelted the widows and work had been forgotten. Yours to share these intimate moments. Yours. Just yours.

Natasha tilted her head toward the closet, a space you had grown familiar with for more than just the necessity of needing an outfit in the morning. Your hands reached for the black case that you knew held instruments and toys for a scene like this, but you were stopped before your fingers could ghost against the smooth material. Instead, the Russian reached toward a shelf above the racks of suits and dresses, grabbing a red leather briefcase bound securely by a silver combination lock. Natasha placed it on one of the lesser occupied shelves, her fingers working at the black engraved digits with a practiced ease.

Despite the submission that you had seen from Natasha minutes prior, she looked down at you with dominance that was familiar and welcomed. Her voice was stern as she spoke to you quietly, not even sparing a glance at the lock that she continued to work open. “We don’t want you in this case unless we tell you. What’s in here is not for you to be playing around with. The combination is our birthdays, I trust that you won’t go snooping around where you don’t belong without permission.”

“Okay.” You whispered a response, finding that you were practically incapable of speaking at any other volume, entirely consumed with the weight of their presence and not wanting to disturb it. “Natty?” You peered up at your dominant, knowing that tonight was about her but unable to clear the lingering bliss in your head as you looked at her with nothing but sheer admiration.

“Yes, dorogaya?” Natasha smiled at you softly, her hand reaching to cup your cheek though the tips of her fingers were chilled slightly from the metal she’d been grasping at. You didn’t shy away, leaning into her touch as she let herself be consumed with only you, not the promise of being tied to the bed and fucked into oblivion. “You still okay with watching? Neither of us are going to be upset if you need to leave. Wanda and I don’t have the same rules as we do with you.”

You shook your head adamantly, wanting her to understand that their hot and heavy dynamic was not the cause of your soft question. “I’m okay. Just wanted to say I love you.”

Natasha smiled, kissing you softly in the dimly lit closet. The only light that penetrated the space came from the bedroom, but you didn’t need additional light to see the affection in her eyes. “I love you too.” She murmured against your lips, but as quickly as your sacred moment had come, it fell away and your attention was on the case that Natasha pulled open with eager fingers.

The case, although small, held toys and items that made your eyes bulge and your belly quiver. A collection of knives wrapped pristinely in thick black leather occupied a small fraction of the briefcase, beside it three half melted candles with wicks the color of coal. A pink dildo with a suction cup attachment at the base caught your attention, wondering why it had been displaced from the rest of the dildo’s and strap-ons that the slavic women owned. You didn’t recognize anything else in the case; a bundle of rope that you assumed would be used to restrain Natasha, multiple thin link chain attachments, and an instrument that almost resembled a pizza cutter but the blade was prickled with sharp nubs that looked rather dull. Your eyes searched for Natasha’s, but she was busy rummaging through the case for something unspoken about. Your breathing shuddered when she collected a small bottle of lube in her hands, passing it over to you with a wink.

She grabbed the dildo and the rope next, closing the case just as quickly as she had opened it although the seconds it took her to find the objects she wanted felt like agonizing minutes. Her eyes, submissive and hazy, found yours in the dimly light brightness of the closer, a soft incline of her head pointing in the direction of the bedroom. “Come on.” You nodded jerkily, following her back into the master bedroom where Wanda’s presence still lacked to be.

Natasha didn’t head for the bed like you’d been expecting, she headed for the single chair in the corner of the room that had never seen an ounce of attention from the women who preferred to hang around in the living room where sunlight bled in at every angle. You gasped when she stuck the dildo to the seat of the chair, almost a grimace in her face when she turned to look back at you. Although she proceeded to explain what Wanda expected of you, there was no need for an explanation. The bottle of lube in your hands wasn’t for her, it was for you. Another rush of excitement sparked in your belly like connecting live wires, and you barely concealed your whine when Natasha began to strip out of her clothes, leaving them in pristine piles on the nightstand. The lace panties were the last to leave her body, deep red and thin as they slipped down her legs and pooled at her feet with glistening wetness visible across the center. You swallowed thickly, eyes caught on the sight of her core that, although mostly concealed by thighs that you wanted around your head, glimmered distinctly beneath the overhead light.

Your eyes trailed upward, drinking in the sight of her tensing abs that had only been so prominent last summer; the summer you arranged to be her submissive. Natasha found it easier to work out in the summer, when the weather was inviting and the workload lulled. Her hours spent in the home gym hadn’t been in vain, and the ripples in her muscles held your attention for longer then they should have. You didn’t want to pull your eyes away from her chest, where the sienna color of her breasts became rosy at her nipples that were pebbled and eager for stimulation. Another shuddering breath slipped into the space, but as easily as you’d lost your composure Natasaha was strapping you back into it and handing you the rope.

She laid starfish on the bed, her swollen and glistening core fully in sight as her thighs spread to allow access to whoever pleased to touch her first. Wanda had said nothing about binding her legs, and the almost silky rose in your hands wouldn’t reach to tether them down. Natasha, head thrown back against the pillows and red curls spilling across them, looked at you expectantly with intense green eyes. Never had this much control been placed on your shoulders, but you wouldn’t disappoint either one of them. Your thighs straddled Natasha’s waist, your chest falling in front of her face as she raised her arms and instructed you through the process of restraining her the way both she and Wanda liked. A whimper fell from your lips when Natasha leaned forward to mouth at your nipple through the thin t-shirt you wore, her hips grinding upwards and forcing sensations of pleasure through your core. You faltered on top of her, panting for breath as you tried to keep your attention on the ties you were making across her wrists, though it proved difficult when her teeth settled firmly around your nipple and tugged.

“N-Nat.” You whined, hips rocking with their own intention as you dropped your hands to the pillows and let yourself enjoy a single moment of the pleasure she was provoking. Your clit throbbed, your panties are drenched and clinging to your core. You were certain that if Wanda chose this moment to come up the stairs, the sight of you would be painfully erotic. Natasha fully naked, you fully clothed, hips grinding and thrusting and broken moans of pleasure echoing off otherwise silent walls. She could destroy you even beneath you and partially immobile, you were no longer blind to that fact. “S-Stop.” As much as you didn’t want her to, you weren’t sent upstairs to give pleasure and earn pleasure, and the thought of Wanda having a reason to punish the both of you was not a fire you wanted to start at the moment.

Natasha did stop, but she hummed in disappointment as her head fell back against the pillows, framed by your wrists and hands that still braced the majority of your weight. The knots around her wrists were as good as you would be able to get them without any further instruction, but you had no idea if they were good enough for Wanda’s standards. You didn’t have the opportunity to dwell on the potential failure, able to hear the door sliding against the track and the softness of Wanda’s voice as she told Fanny and Lucky to stay.

“Do they feel okay?” You checked in softly, peering down between your arms to assure that her face gave no indication of discomfort. The Russian didn’t respond, instead pulling at her arms and humming something that was inaudible with her teeth grinded together and lips pursed tight. “Nat, I need you to tell me if they feel okay.” There was panic in your voice that pulled Natasha back into the moment, eyes searching yours before she realized that the soft sounds Wanda made as her feet braced the hardwood were growing closer and closer. Her footsteps weren’t yet on the stairs that led to the room you occupied, but close enough to remind you both of how you weren’t in the positions she’d requested.

“They’re perfect, detka.” Natasha smiled encouragingly, bucking her hips beneath you once more, though this time the action was a reminder to shuffle off of her and settle yourself on the fuschia toy that was admittedly an eyesore within the neutral toned room. Your clothes came off in sloppy movements, not folded neatly like Natasha’s as they piled onto the floor and became wrinkled. The bottle of lube was unneeded with the thick ropes of arousal that clung to your inner thighs, a whine ripping from the back of your throat as you eased yourself onto the toy but forced your hips to remain still, not having Wanda’s permission to ride it just yet. You felt exceedingly full, each groove amongst the shaft pushing against the sensitive interior of your tight channel. Your eyes fluttered closed when you sucked in a breath, jostling your body just enough to earn a sweet sensation of pleasure within your velvet walls. Your eyes had been closed when Wanda entered, but they snapped open at the sound of Natasha mewling on the bed.

When your eyes found the Sokovian, she was leaning overtop of Natasha, both knees digging into the mattress beneath her though it barely sunk with her additional weight. Her fingers were adored with glimmering rings like they always were, though now they threaded into the intricate knots you had made with the beige colored rope and pulled tightly. She hummed her satisfaction when she found nothing wrong with the structure of the ties, juniper eyes searching for yours as she smiled proudly.

“Good job, little duckling.” She praised sweetly, though the words dripped with danger as she possessed that same glint of passion in her eyes that had appeared beneath the sunset. “I didn’t know my sweet girl would be so skilled at tying her Daddy up.” Your core pulsed around the toy in your core, wetness seeping into the smooth faux leather beneath you. A whimper fell off your lips before you could keep it in, and Wanda’s lips twinged into a smile of fake sympathy. “I bet that pussy’s so full, malyshka. Why don’t you tell Natalia how good you feel, this poor little pussys aching for the same treatment. Isn’t that right, slut?” You gaped at the resounding slap that echoed off Wanda’s palm as she let her hand fall across the Russian’s hot cunt, wetness glistening beneath the light as the Sokovian pulled her hand back to inspect, toying with the arousal that remained on the expanse of her tinted pink skin. “So wet. Did you enjoy having your little girl tie you up, Natalia?”

Natasha moaned desperately, her hips chasing after Wanda’s hand that wasn’t willing to repeat the former action. Her head bobbed against the pillows, curls becoming frizzy and wild from the frantic nod that became the only answer she provided. Wanda, seemingly satisfied with Natasha’s chosen silence, turned her gaze back to you, the demand to share your experience heavy in the silence.

Your cheeks, pink and flush, became hotter at the premise of vocalizing the sensations that were admittedly dull with lack of any major movement. “You’ll learn very quickly that I do not ask twice, milaya. Use your words before you earn the same rules as Natalia.” You didn’t know Natasha’s rules, they’d never been discussed, but her silence was enough to guess that she wasn’t allowed to speak without permission.

“It feels g-good. I feel so full, N-Nat.” You cried out, hips twitching for movement that you wouldn’t allow. However short your explanation was, Wanda seemed pleased as she turned her attention to Natasha, who up until this point, had received the bare minimum.

Wanda’s fingers sought out Natasha’s nipples, and although yours remained untouched and entirely fine, you winced at the force behind her synchronous tugs. Natasha’s back arched off the bed and into Wanda’s hands, either an attempt to seek more or to lessen the sting entirely. The wanton moans that fell past her lips like a symphony were indicative of the pleasure the action had provided, and although her legs weren’t bound, you didn’t miss the twitch of her muscles as she strained to remain still.

Your core pleaded for more, walls fluttering around the intrusion of the toy that you hadn’t quite gotten used to yet. The stretch felt intimidating, and so eagerly you wanted to bring your hips upward only to sink back down and accept the presence again. Your nails dug into the arms of the chair, knuckles white from the strength of your grip. Across the room, Wanda was tongue deep in Natasha’s mouth, the only sounds that existed around them being the wet smacks of lips losing suction and gasped breaths. Natasha, with her hands bound, fought against the restraints trying to reach out and touch Wanda, but her efforts failed each time she pulled, the knots unwilling to loosen enough for her hands to slip through. Wanda pulled away with a pleased hum, her fingers back at Natasha’s nipples as she twisted them harshly in tune with the other.

“Please.” Natasha cried out, writhing on the bed as her legs closed tightly, slick thighs rubbing together in an attempt to bring even an ounce of pleasure over her desperate body. Wanda wasn’t pleased by her efforts, hearing the slap land on Natasha’s cheek before you could process seeing it. Wanda was quick, efficient and cruel, but Natasha wasn’t backing down. The lawyer wriggled and thrashed on the bed, a symphony of Russian falling off her tongue as she kept her eyes wide and on Wanda.

“Do not make me remind you of the rules, Natalia.” Wanda growled lowly, her voice thick with traces of an accent that suited her well, but only worsened your fate as you tried not to let your restraint crumble, wanting desperately to be good for her. You whined on the chair in the corner of the room, unable to stop yourself as you watched Wanda strike Natasha a third time, the Russian a moaning mess beneath the Sokovian as her cheek took on the faintest handprint of pink. “Is there something you need, moya utenok?”

“C-Can I– Please–” Your desperation had finally won over, and even without Wanda’s permission your hips grinded and thrashed against the leather beneath your thighs, guiding the dildo into that perfectly spongy part of your walls with ease. The sounds of your arousal were embarrassingly loud in the otherwise quiet room, and you could feel Natasha’s eyes on you as she laid stiff and still beneath Wanda. “Please?”

Wanda hummed thoughtfully, but when she spoke, your blood ran cold with dread and shame. “It seems neither of you need my permission anymore.” She gave you a pointed glare, and your hips stuttered to a stop, no longer searching for pleasure as you shrunk beneath her glare. “Is that what you’d like, moya utenok? For Mommy to let you do whatever you please?”

Frantically you shook your head, eyes wide and brimming with tears that had no reason to fall but gathered against your waterline anyway. You hated the mere idea of that ever happening, and you were in no mood to test the truth behind her implication. “No! No Mommy!” You pleaded with her, aware of how pitiful and distressed you sounded as your cries shattered the silence. Natasha, though still beneath the fog that had gathered at the forefront of her mind in the face of Wanda’s brutal ministrations, nudged her knee upward, shaking her head at Wanda when the attention fell back down to her.

When Wanda’s eyes returned to you, they were softer, greener, filled with a gentle affection that had been impossible to find second earlier. “Do you want to ride the dildo, moya lyubov’?” Her voice was softer, kinder, taking on the tone she’d always devoted to you alone. It was a complete turn around from how she’d been addressing Natasha, but the presence of her accent hadn’t wavered.

“Please Mommy!” You cried out, unsure of how many minutes you’d been impaled by the thick toy, but enough for the sun to have completely settled beneath the moon and taken its warmth with it. The window was open beyond the pulled curtains, a lingering breeze sweeping past your naked skin before it fell short of the bed where Wanda and Natasha remained entangled. The Sokovian’s hands were braced on the Russian’s abdomen, thighs around her waist squeezing tightly and restricting movement.

“Go ahead, dorogaya. Let me hear those pretty sounds whilst I see how many edges my little slut can handle before she’s begging for mercy.” Wanda smiled eerily sweetly, casting her eyes back down to Natasha who was flush with arousal and the beginning of a grimace. “How many was it last time, hm? Ten?”

“Eleven.” Natasha corrected, her eyes wide and pleading as she maintained eye contact with Wanda, her fingers twitching as she remained bound to the headboard that you’d thought was going to snap with the might of her struggles. “Wands, I want–”

“I don’t care what you want, Natalia.” Wanda quipped before the rest of the sentence could ever exist outside of Natasha’s scrambled thoughts. The Russian nodded frantically, swallowing thickly in complete submission but even her reclaimed silence wasn’t enough to satisfy Wanda who pinched the skin of her thigh until she winced and moaned needily, entirely unmade and pliant to be shaped into something new; something a little bit like you. “What do I keep you around for?”

“To please you.” Natasha’s voice was breathy and soft, the willingness to fight that had begun to swarm within her eyes that tinted a shade similar to evergreen entirely dismantled, replaced by a desire to submit without hesitance.

“Dumb little sluts do not get to decide how I take my pleasure. Do not make me regret not gagging you.” Wanda scolded, and Natasha was eager to nod her head in understanding, whimpering into the near-silent room when her obedience was rewarded with a single finger circling her pebbled nipple.

Your hips grinded against the dildo buried deep within your pussy, guiding it across your slick walls near perfectly each time. Wanda’s eyes were transfixed on Natasha, but every few minutes she glanced back at you, and when she did, you could only whimper. In the minutes that it had taken to accomplish such a satisfying pace, Wanda had eased her mouth down to the spot where Natasha needed her most, tongue not daring to be kind as it circled and flicked at the throbbing bundle of nerves that had pleaded for attention since the start. Shattering moans and whispered pleas fell off of Natasha’s tongue, but each time the Russian grew too close to the edge, Wanda pulled away and her hand slapped harshly against Natasha’s cunt.

At the seventh edge, you’d never seen Natasha so beside herself. Pear shaped tears fell down her perfectly rosy cheeks and dampened the pillow cases when they eventually dripped off her unblemished skin and landed silently against the cotton covers. Her wrists had grown red from the relentless writhing and pulling, but her attention was solely on Wanda who offered no break. Three fingers worked the Russian open and scissored her wide, never fully pulling out before they slammed back into her at a pace so brutal it would be no surprise if she felt the aftermath for days. Your own orgasm was drawing closer as you watched Natasha submit and Wanda claim, and each snap of your hips only further invited it along.

The eight edge had Natasha wailing, throwing her head back as her hips jerked upward and chased after Wanda. Like every time before, the Sokovian voiced no sympathy, and her hand came down heavy and punishing against the swollen skin that adorned ropes of arousal. Natasha yearned for more, her face begged for Wanda to repeat the simple action of slapping her cunt, but just like the seven times that had come before, her unspoken request was denied.

“So pretty when you cry for me. Moya khoroshen'kaya malen'kaya shlyukha. Is that what you are? My pretty little whore?” Wanda teased cynically, juniper no longer a shade amongst the blackness of her eyes entirely dilated by lust adorned pupils. She looked entirely ravenous with her hair tousled and chin glimmering with Natasha’s arousal.

“Y-Yes.” Natasha cried out desperately, her voice scratchy now as it reached your ears. Your hips continued to stutter against the dildo, but without permission to cum, you forced away the growing tension that pulled at every muscle in your belly and begged for relief.

“Let me hear you say it.” Wanda pushed further, the tips of her fingers tracing the softest shapes into the slickness across Natasha’s inner thighs.

There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation that crossed Natasha’s face before she was desperately crying out, “I’m your pretty little whore! P-Please Wanda! Please!”

“So fucking desperate.” Wanda tutted, a single finger sweeping through Natasha’s folds, though she pointedly avoided the Russian clit that throbbed for even an ounce of attention. Wanda was off the bed in seconds, coming straight at you with her glistening finger outstretched. You didn’t need to ask what she wanted, leaning forward to accept the arousal soaked digit into your mouth with eyes as wide as saucers the second she was close enough.

Wanda hummed, pleased with your desperation, a fond smile pulling at her lips. “Good girl, malyshka.” She groaned at the feeling of your tongue sucking her fingers clean, your tongue lapping across the expanse of her knuckles as she pressed against your tongue, not hard enough to force you to gag, but enough to make your brain fill with static pleasure. You jumped when hot breath tickled the sensitive skin of your neck, leaning into her despite your skin not yet touching. “I know you want to cum, sweet girl. You’ve been so good waiting for Mommy’s permission, I didn’t forget about you. You can cum whenever you want, but that’s it. You don’t need to keep up with Natalia.” Wanda whispered so softly against the shell of your ear you questioned if she was even real. The harshness that she had addressed you with before entirely dismantled. You leaned your forehead against her shoulder, panting as your hips hadn’t stilled on the toy saturated with your arousal. Although the dildo was suctioned to the chair, one of your hands forced it to remain at the perfect angle between your thighs, and each time you drove your hips against the toy, your clit caught on the knuckle of your thumb only spurring you further into a frenzied state as you chased the orgasm you were finally allowed to have.

Wanda’s touch was gone far too soon, but your eyes traced her steps as she retreated back to Natasha. The redhead was beside herself as she wiggled and squirmed, chest heaving breaths that weren’t quite full. Wanda didn’t hesitate to restart her efforts at working Natasha toward relief, though this time she was much less graceful. Her fingers provoked squelching sounds from the tight cunt they occupied, her arousal coated tongue flicked unforgivingly and quick. Natasha looked like the rawest depiction of beauty as she cried out and whined, desperate to tangle her fingers into Wanda’s hair but to no avail did she succeed.

It had taken you only minutes to reach a high that had your toes curling and your thighs trembling. Without the grip of either of your girlfriends steadying your hips as you came crashing through your orgasm, your body jerked and writhed for more and less simultaneously. A melodious whine fell off the tip of your tongue before it was overshadowed by a moan that had your lips vibrating at the reverberations. Every muscle in your body tensed before it became nothing but jelly, leaving you a heap of sweat and arousal on the chair suddenly feeling very naked and exposed before the rapidly cooling breeze that snuck in through the open window behind you. Natasha’s eyes were locked on you, her head turned toward the side as she took in the sight of your self-inflicted orgasm. In the year that you had been involved with the Russian, she’d never allowed such a thing. You’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to pleasure yourself in all the best ways, but that wasn’t really what happened anyways, you’d followed all of Wanda’s instructions, you’d waited for permission to fall over the edge, even without the touch of another, you’d never really been in control.

Your peace was shattered by a sharp and exceedingly needy while falling off of Natasha’s lips, her gaze snapping back toward where Wanda was perched between her thighs as another orasgam ended before it even started. You almost felt bad, almost. Although you weren’t even able to imagine the kind of torment that came with being edged in the same room as your girlfriend that had permission to cum whenever she wanted, Natasha wanted this. It was hard to feel sympathy for a woman who walked herself into a trap and had been the very one to close the door. A smile splayed across your lips when Wanda slapped her cunt, and you couldn’t help the giggle that came soon after when Natasha rattled off the long list of curses she knew in English. Your orgasm had brought a new sense of clarity over your once hazy mind, and now the actions that had seemed so cruel and ruthless, merely resembled affection and mutual trust. Natasha was a strong woman, but she was seemingly a slut in the same breath.

Wanda’s eyes met yours, glimmering with something sharp as a smirk replaced the permanent thin line that sat on her lips whenever Natasha was the focus of her attention. There was amusement clear in her eyes, something twisted lingering beneath the surface that you longed to know the reason for. “You find something funny, malyshka?”

Revived from the pliable state that you’d fallen beneath at the first instance of Wanda’s unfiltered dominance, your eyes lingering on Natasha’s face for barely a moment before you returned your gaze to Wanda and feigned perfect innocence. “Natty bit off more than she can chew.” You stated simply, aware of how you were betraying the woman that you yourself had bound to the bed, but more aware of the fact that Wanda seemed pleased with your admission.

“That she did.” Wanda hummed, her fingers toying with Natasha’s sopping entrance that begged for more, but she wasn’t willing to give in. “Come here, my little duckling.” Wanda inclined her head toward where she was perched between Natasha’s thighs, and although your legs felt like jelly beneath you, you didn’t hesitate to comply with the demand. Your breath stuttered when the dildo finally slipped out of your pussy, the veiny grooves rubbing against every hypersensitive inch of your walls. None of the other dildos had such prominent veins, and although it was admittedly one of the smaller toys you’d taken since beginning a relationship with Wanda especially, you felt painfully empty without it inside of you.

Your steps were wobbly and slow, reminiscent of Bambi if you remembered correctly, but Wanda was in no rush to have you at her side and so she waited with an encouraging smile on her arousal drenched lips. It was warmer beside the bed, that was the first thing you noticed when you’d finally reached where Wanda laid. The wind didn’t dip so far into the room that Natasha felt the chill cold, yet you wondered the response she’d have to being encased by the soft breeze. She was responsive as it is, a shift in temperature was certain to have her mewling for something that wasn’t allowed just yet.

“Since you find Natalia’s position so funny, detka, I want you to edge her while I ride her face.” Wanda smirked, and suddenly you weren’t finding Natasha’s position so funny anymore. Being allowed to eat either one of them out was the ultimate privilege, something you almost always had to beg for, but now it was being offered without bait, yet it came with a price that felt too steep to pay. Having to deny Natasha an orgasm sounded absolutely horrible. All you ever wanted to do was make her cum quickly and effectively. Wanda was aware of how eager you always seemed to be at the proposition of feeling either of their orgasms on your tongue, and either she’d forgotten that, or she didn’t care at all.

“But– Wanda!” You whined, desperately hoping that you’d change her mind, but you knew the reality of your situation; either you got on your knees and complied with her request, or she carried on doing it herself. No matter your decision, no matter if it was your tongue or hers, Natasha wasn’t seeing an orgasm until she’d surpassed her last record.

“Not so funny now is it, milaya?” Wanda grinned like the cheshire cat, and you properly felt like a scolded child beneath her wild stare. You shook your head adamantly at the question, a smile no longer ghosting across your bitten lips as you looked between her and Natasha’s pink and swollen cunt. It was properly abused, fucked out and dripping onto the sheets yet still begging for more of what she wasn’t yet allowed. “What’s your choice, utenok? My little sluts running out of patience.” Her word was true. Natasha looked ready to crumble at any minute, her eyes bouncing between you and Wanda with nothing but desperation in her heavy gaze.

“Do I have to edge her?” You whispered timidly, looking pleadingly up at the Sokovian. Wanda didn’t respond, merely quirked an expectant eyebrow down at you and shifted her position. You sighed, shoving her out of the way in a manner that was less than graceful, but thankfully it went unreprimanded.

“Good choice.” Wanda hummed, already standing beside the bed and stripping eagerly out of her clothes. Her skin was tinted with lingering traces of the sun, thin lines adorning her shoulders from where bathing suits had forbidden the kiss of daylight. She looked entirely ethereal as she shimmied out of her own black panties, letting them pool around her ankles for merely a moment before she kicked them away and took her place overtop of Natasha. Her thighs framed the Russian’s face, individual freckles adorning her shins and thighs begging to be kissed and fawned over, but no such thing would happen tonight. With a sharp request for Natasha to stick her tongue out, she sank herself lower and lower until her pussy made contact with the hot and ready muscle. “I’ll tell you what, moya lyubov’,” Wanda began, a cynical smirk on her lips as she grinded her hips against Natasha’s face, dampening the flush skin with her arousal. “if you can get Natalia close with only your fingers, I’ll allow her to cum when I do. If you can’t, we add four more edges.”

“B-But I want to taste her!” You cried out, looking at Wanda with wild eyes that begged her to fold, but she wouldn’t. This was the kindest she’d been all evening and yet it was still so painfully cruel.

“Well that’s a shame, sweetheart.” Wanda pouted, but her words were anything but sincere as she rocked against Natasha’s tongue and drug her clit against the textured surface, falling into bliss the longer she kept up with her ministrations.

You whined, settling on just using your fingers, not able to bring yourself to edge Natasha even further, or at all. Even if she was merely your girlfriend in this moment, all you ever wanted to do was cause pleasure, not be the one to take it away. Your fingers brushed through her folds gently, but Natasha still flinched away and tried to close her thighs. Your body between her legs forbade her from doing so, leaving her entrance easily accessible. You winced yourself, knowing that your fingers were frigid against her hot and worked up cunt, but you didn’t give her the chance to grow accustomed to the feeling. Wanda wasn’t slowing down, and you knew she’d be cruel enough to force you to stop if she were to cum before Natasha grew close. You set a brutal pace, not sparing pleasantries like you’d typically do. Your fingers curled against the softest spot of Natasha’s walls the way you knew she enjoyed, and you committed the sound of her squelching pussy to memory. You’d seen her wet before, you’d gotten her wet before, but you’d never taken the time to unravel her the way Wanda had. She was properly soaked, sheets drenched and darkened beneath her trembling thighs.

The pad of your thumb found her clit when her walls tightened around your fingers, rubbing skilled circles against the sensitive bud that begged for release you hoped you could provide in time. You didn’t offer praises, didn’t let encouragement slip into the silence filled by only Wanda’s moans as hers became muffled against the cunt riding her face. You were certain they’d fall on deaf ears at this point, entirely positive that Natasha was too far gone into Wanda to even hear you utter her name. Instead, you encouraged her with the pressure of your thumb against her clit and the punishing speed at which you pumped your fingers in and out of her cunt. You had her right on the edge, right at the point of coming apart completely, but Wanda wasn’t close. In your overzealous attempt to match the pace in which the Sokovian had set, you walked not only you, but Natasha into a trap.

“Stop.” Wanda demanded, and you had no choice but to comply, your fingers coming to a halting stop within Natasha’s cunt that was so desperate for something sweet. You whimpered at the feeling of Natasha’s velvety walls fluttering around your fingers, her clit throbbing beneath your thumb as her hips squirmed wildly on the bed. There was no way you’d be sleeping here tonight, not with Wanda’s insurance that you never sleep on sheets that aren’t perfectly clean. “I’ll give you another chance, moya lyubov’, do not let it go to waste again.” Your eyes snapped up to hers, unsure of whether it was yet another game she was playing, but when her head tilted the the side and her lips pursed, whether it was to hold back her own moans or to intimidate you, you weren’t entirely sure, you knew she wasn’t.

You nodded frantically, all attempts to get Natasha to the edge resuming, and it wasn’t a hard feat. The Russian was sensitive, so slick your fingers had almost slipped out, but she was already climbing that hill of pleasure again beneath your thumb and around your fingers. It took seconds, mere seconds to have her at that perfect place again, but unlike the last attempt, Wanda was right along with her. The Sokovian moaned as her head fell backward and her hips stuttered, Natasha’s binded hands unable to provide support like she otherwise would’ve. You didn’t wait for permission to fall from Wanda’s lips between her broken moans and breaths, tripling the efforts you’d already set in place to get Natasha thrown off that cliff and into bliss. Your tongue found her clit the second she toppled over, soothing the harsh sensations that you’d previously provided. You moaned at the first taste of her on your tongue, licking and sucking at every expanse of sensitive skin until she was writhing beneath you for an entirely separate reason.

Your fingers fell away from her cunt at the first indication of oversensitivity, but your tongue kept up its pace, licking her out until you were certain that not an ounce of arousal clung to her skin anymore. That wasn’t enough for you however, and your tongue lapped at the arousal that dampened her thighs, licking it away with eager swipes. At some point, Wanda had eased herself off of Natasha’s face and had begun to undo the binding around her wrists, but you hadn’t realized the Russian was free of her restraints until calloused hands gently reached for your face and pulled you up to see her eye to eye.

You looked absolutely ravaged with her arousal clinging to your chin and lips, and a blush across your cheeks from your own orgasm. Eagerly you crawled up onto the bed fully, only faintly aware of the ache in your knees and back from the position you’d been laid in as you unraveled her completely. You straddled her lap when she guided you into doing so, your arms twisting around her neck before you dug your face into her shoulder, hiding away from the light.

“What can I do for you?” You asked softly, voice muffled by her shoulder but she’d understood you perfectly, her hand coming up to stroke along the back of your head as she held you in place. You were vaguely aware of Wanda walking back into the closet, but you didn’t question what she was searching for, content to just be back in Natasha’s arms.

“Just let me hold you, malyshka. You did such a good job for us.” She praised you quietly, her voice scratchy and raw from the hours of screaming she’d done. You hadn’t realized how much time had slipped away since she’d guided you into the closet by your hand, but the clock on the nightstand hadn’t lied to you yet, and the illuminated numbers indicated that two hours had been devoted to breaking Natasha down.

“I should be telling you that.” You huffed, curing further into her body, desperate to encase yourself in her warmth. Natasha didn’t mind, letting you curl around her like a little koala as she held you sweetly in the center of the bed. “I never wanna edge you again.” You mumbled against her neck, turning your head so you were pressed directly against her, your soft breaths tickling the sensitive skin of her ear.

Natasha laughed at your admission, and a gentle finger guided your chin up so your eyes could meet fully and properly for the first time in hours. “You ever edge me again, your ass will be over my lap before you can even say your sorry.” There was no bite to her words, but you never wanted to find out if she was being serious, so you merely nodded quickly in response. “I know Wanda scared you earlier. She gets lost in her head sometimes, she didn’t mean it.” Natasha soothed, but you’d already figured that her words from hours ago weren’t honest. They’d assured you at least a hundred times that the only way you were ever getting away from them, is if it was your own carefully thought over decision.

“I know.” You whispered, leaning in to brush your lips against Natasha’s in a soft kiss. It was the softest touch she’d felt in hours, and eagerly she leaned into it, giggling at the taste of her own arousal when your tongue brushed against hers. “Ya tebya lyublyu.” You murmured against her, giggling when her lips curled into a grin and she peppered kisses across every inch of your face that she could reach in this position.

“Ya tozhe tabya lyublyu.” She mumbled back, her eyes dancing behind you when Wanda reappeared from the closet. You settled against Natasha’s chest, not wanting to leave her embrace anytime soon, and it didn’t feel like she wanted to let go either. Your eyes fell upon Wanda, who at some point, had thrown a t-shirt on and tied her hair back up into its once occupied messy bun. You made grabby hands at the woman, an action that you had recently learned she could never deny.

“Privet, moy sladkiy malysh.” Wanda smiled fondly, coming to join both you and Natasha in the mess of sheets. You hadn’t noticed the clothes in her hand before, but you watched as she sat two t-shirts down on the pillow cases that were still damp from Natasha’s tears, and a bottle of cooling lotion quickly joined the pile. She snuggled close against Natasha’s side, her fingers tangling into the Russian’s hair in the same soft and tender way you’d grown accustomed to. “What do you need, Natty?” She asked softly but received the same answer that you had, Natasha just wanting the both of you close for a while.

Wanda sighed softly, already beginning to detangle herself from Natasha’s arms. “Let me put lotion on your wrists, then I’ll give you both all the cuddles.”

Natasha groaned, her stubborn attitude already peaking through the surface level haze that twinkled within her eyes. “They don’t even hurt that bad, let me hold you.”

“You say that every time, and every time I listen to you, you make me get out of bed at three in the morning.” Wanda rolled her eyes, but affection was clear as day in her tone as she didn’t fight the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. “Hug your duckling, she deserves some cuddles for being such a good girl.” Wanda winked at you, and you blushed beneath her smothered praise, hiding your face in Natasha’s chest much to both of their amusement.

“The best girl.” Natasha pressed a kiss into the top of your head, her lips lingering for longer than necessary, though you weren’t complaining. You settled against her chest, watching Wanda unscrew the cap on the lotion and squeeze a generous amount onto the palm of her hands. Tentatively, you reached your own hand out, wanting to help ease Natasha’s pain in any way possible. Wanda didn’t question your action, squeezing the tiniest pea sized dollop onto your fingers and instructing you to be soft, but make sure that it was all evenly applied.

Natasha gazed down at you with tender softness in her eyes as you gently took her wrist into your hands and rubbed in the lotion. She couldn’t help the tears that glimmered in her waterline as you eased yourself into her aftercare routine without hesitation, just another part of their life that you so easily integrated into. You beamed up at Wanda when you were done, giggling when the Sokovian kissed the tip of your nose and praised you softly.

It wasn’t until you heard Lucky bark through the open window that you remembered about the dogs that were still outside and probably hungry by now, the sun having faded into darkness hours ago. You looked between Wanda and Natasha, a crease in your brow as you asked, “Um, do we even have dog food?”

malen'kaya shlyushka – little slut

ya khochu, chtoby utenok byl na rozovom remeshke, kogda ya priyedu tuda. – i want the duckling on the pink strap by time i come in

privet, moy sladkiy malysh – hi, my sweet baby

#wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #dom!natasha romanoff x reader #sub!natasha romanoff x wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff smut #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #dom!wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda maximoff smut #wandanat #wandanat x reader #dom!wandanat x reader #wandanat fluff #wandanat smut #series: you are in love #minors dni ৎ୭

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phoward89 · 2 months

Text

Based on this ask

WARNING: dub con, non con, dark!Coryo, dom!Coryo, soft!dom!Coryo, overstimulation, vibrator, sex (p in v), slight degradation, spit kink

Coriolanus Snow was thriving under Dr. Gaul. Between his studies at the University ( double major in Military Strategies and Political Science) and his work as Dr. Gaul's assistant (he was quickly promoted from intern to personal assistant due to his cunning and cold nature, which impressed the mad scientist) he was a very busy young man. You didn't see much of him anymore, even though he's been your best friend since you were both little.

You weren't mad about it though. You understood, he had responsibilities and spending what little time he had with you was impossible. He has a family to spend time with.

And a girlfriend.

Your stepfather, General Prometheus Byzantine, had made sure to drop the fact that Coriolanus Snow was seeing Livia Cardew one night during dinner. He just casually dropped the ball, as if he was talking about the weather.

Your little brother, Darius, who had just started the Academy, gave you a sad look of empathy. He knew how you felt about your best friend.

You thought that your parents didn't know, but they did. Your mother and stepfather knew that you were, somehow beyond all logic, in love with your childhood best friend. And your stepfather, being a wartime hero, was on the war council that was headed by none other than Dr. Gaul.

Yea, the same Dr. Gaul that your best friend, Coryo, was studying and working under.

You didn't know it, but your stepfather talked to the mad scientist about how he was going to be arranging a match for you soon, but he needed her little lab rat out of the way because he was around too much. Would corrupt you. General Byzantine also told Dr. Gaul that you were too sweet, too innocent for a young man like Snow. That he'd never approve of the match, so she better push him into somebody else's arms and away from you.

Cue Coryo's relationship with Livia.

But unknown to you, that relationship ended before it even reached the month milestone.

The real reason why the platinum blonde that held your heart in his large, calloused hands was absent so much from your life was because of the project he was working on with Dr. Gaul.

A very important project that was commissioned to cure the female ailment known as Hysteria. Something that doctor's stopped diagnosing near the end of the early 20th century.

But now, well into the 22nd century, Hysteria in women's back and the treatment for it can be quite time consuming and strenuous on a doctor's wrist.

So, Dr. Gaul and in extension Coriolanus Snow were commissioned to recreate the treatment tool of old that was used to help alleviate women's hysteria thru hysterical paroxysm.

The tool of old was an industrial grade electric vibrator. To be used by doctors to treat stressed and agitated women by bringing them to orgasm via clitoral stimulation.

It truly was a practice done in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. One that, apparently, was back.

Or at least the vibrator part of the treatment for hysteria would be back once the device was finished, tested, and approved. Until then, the doctors of Panem have to do manual clitoral massages to treat hysteria.

“Mr. Snow, the device is ready for live subject testing.” Dr. Gaul told Coriolanus, turning the vibrating tool off and placing it down on the work table.

Coriolanus wanted to laugh his ass off at Dr. Gaul's professional demeanor when it came to announcing that the vibrator was ready to test on pussies.

When his mentor told him what she'd been commissioned to make, he sprayed his tea out of his nose and literally choked. He couldn't believe that doctors had to bring their female patients to orgasm by roughly rubbing their clits because they were agitated and stressed due to sexual frustration. And the fact that the Capitol husbands were sending their wives to doctors for both the diagnosis and cure of hysteria (sexual frustration) baffled him.

Couldn't the husbands just play with their wives pussies themselves?

Dr. Gaul assumed that Coriolanus’ reaction to her commission project was one of proper breeding. Proper gentlemen are brought up to treat their women like dainty china dolls in bed, and to only use them for heirs. That lust was wrong to feel for a wife, a woman of proper breeding. That a gentleman was expected to join a sporting club (a sex club or brothel) in order to enact his base and lustful needs.

So, Dr. Gaul assumed that those teachings were the reason for Coriolanus' reaction to them having to invent an industrial grade vibrator for medical use.

She never once thought that the platinum blonde was judging the Capitolites backwards view of sexuality.

Coriolanus wasn't shy when it came to sex, but maybe that's because he spent some time in District 12 as a peacekeeper. Sex wasn't dirty and taboo in the districts. Hell, random hookups behind an alley with someone you met mere minutes earlier was a norm. Girls that looked so cute with their big doe eyes and simple cotton dresses would drop to their knees in a snap of a finger to hungrily suck cock. Those same girls would bend over, eager to take a cock. And half the time they didn't care what hole it was shoved in. Ass or pussy, as long as they got a good pounding that made them see stars. And then there were those handful of girls that would let a pair of Peacekeepers spit roast them.

So, safe to say, Coriolanus had a sexual awakening while a peacekeeper. He learnt what he liked, what he didn't like, and all of his kinks over the course of a summer.

And his sexual appetite didn't change when he returned to the Capitol. But, unlike the other gentlemen in the Capitol, he didn't join a sporting club. He wasn't going to pay for a sex club membership when he could go out to Pluribus’ club, pick up a pretty girl, and fuck for free.

He just wasn't counting on the capitolite ladies to be prudes.

And the biggest prude of all was his ex.

Livia Cardew.

She didn't want to do anything-

ANYTHING-

-until her wedding night. All because of what she was taught, what all proper Capitol girls were taught.

And just the thought of sucking cock disgusted her. She even slapped him across the face when he suggested it.

So, before they reached their month anniversary, Coriolanus broke up with Livia.

He also threw himself head first into his studies and work as a way to keep his mind off of sex. Settling for fisting his cock and his fantasies fluttering behind his closed eyelids when his urges got too much to handle.

And now, here he is, helping Dr. Gaul invent a vibrator to get all the prudes of the Capitol off because their sexual frustrations are making them unbearable bitches to live with.

“When do you plan on conducting the tests?” Coriolanus asked Dr. Gaul, watching her as she boxed up the vibrating invention.

“I need to recruit some young ladies, of all different ages, from the districts for medical testing.” Dr. Gaul began while locking the invention up in a cabinet. “Of course, their families will be compensated with a small payment, since they'll be tied up here for some time.” The wild, frizzy haired woman sickly smiled while crossing the lab. Coriolanus followed behind her as she explained, “All of that will take time, so I conclude that testing will take place within the next 4-6 weeks at the earliest.”

Dr. Gaul exited the lab with Coriolanus right behind her. “I’d like to test it on a friend of mine, right away. That is, if I have permission to do so, Dr. Gaul.”

“And does this female friend of yours just happen to be General Byzantine's stepdaughter, Y/N?” The scientist asked knowingly, walking down the white hallway leading out of the heart of the lab.

“Yes, that would be her. She's been my best friend since we were children; she'd help me test out the vibrating tool without a second thought.”

“You should tread lightly, Mr. Snow. General Byzantine is in the midst of arranging a matrimonial match for Miss Y/N. Her helping test out our little invention is not going to sit well with him.” Dr. Gaul warned her prodigy, turning down a corner and walking down another stark white hallway.

Coriolanus felt like all the air from his lungs had dried up; leaving him breathless and suffocating. You were going to be handed off to some undeserving asshole. That wasn't right. It wasn't fair either.

You were supposed to be his.

It was common knowledge between your mother and his Grandma’am that when he was ready to settle down, he'd seek you out.

But your stepfather was almost done finalizing an arranged marriage for you with somebody. With somebody that wasn't him.

That was complete and utter bullshit.

Now more than ever, Coriolanus wanted to test that vibrator on your pussy. He wanted to make you cum multiple times; turn you into an overstimulated, crying, babbling mess begging for more. Begging for him to fill you up, fuck you with his cock and make you his.

And by God, he was going to make you his.

And he's going to use that invention, the industrial grade vibrating medical tool, to do it.

“Dr. Gaul, what the general doesn't know, won't hurt him. Besides, I’ll be testing a treatment for hysteria on my best friend. A treatment that, once married, her husband might send her to see a doctor for.”

Your husband was never ever sending you to get your pussy played with because Coriolanus was going to take care of your pussy himself. He wasn't going to let anyone touch you.

Only he's allowed to do that.

Just like he's the only one that's allowed to marry you.

“Very well, Mr. Snow, you have my permission to test our invention on your female best friend.” Dr. Gaul nodded as they reached an elevator. Hitting the button to open the steel box, she asked, “When do you want to conduct the testing?"

“As soon as possible.” Coriolanus honestly told his mentor. “I’d like to bring her here tonight, if she's free. If not, then the soonest day she has open in her schedule.” He said as the metal doors in front of them dinged open.

“And I imagine you want to be the only one conducting the experiment on your live test subject?” Dr. Gaul knowingly asked as they entered the elevator. The mad scientist might be diabolical, but she was very intelligent and knew that Coriolanus Snow was going to use that vibrator they invented to ruin you. And to do that, he'd want to be alone with you, to break you.

The scientist thought it was amusing. How her pupil wanted to ruin you with a vibrator because he couldn't have you.

What she didn't know was that Coriolanus wanted to ruin you, but not because he couldn't have you. But to make you his. To make you pliable to him; want only him and abandoned all of your family’s plans for you just in order to receive endless pleasure from him.

“Yes.” Coriolanus firmly said as the doors to the elevator dinged shut.

“Very well, Mr. Snow.” Dr. Gaul nodded as the elevator began to ascend. “You may have your privacy conducting your experiment on your female best friend.”

You were home with your little brother while your parents were out at one of the finest restaurants in the city. Unknown to you, they were meeting with your potential future husband to discuss your dowry along with his expectations as your future husband.

Your brother was doing his homework and you were sitting on the living room couch, watching tv whenever the doorbell rang. You ignored it, assuming that either the Avox or the housekeeper, Marisol, would answer it.

You guessed correctly when you heard the heavy footfalls of shoes echoing against the marble floors. You didn't pay it any mind, assuming that one of your brother's friends had come over to study or something.

“Miss Y/N, your friend Mister Coriolanus is here to see you.” Marisol announced, standing in the archway of the room.

You tore your attention off of the TV and looked towards the living room entrance only to see your best friend strolling by your housekeeper.

“Thank you, Marisol.” You simply dismissed the middle-aged woman, causing her to nod and walk off.

You were shocked to see Coryo. It's been so long since you've seen him. “Coryo, what're you doing here?” You asked in awe, standing up and closing the distance between the two of you.

Before you could even approach him for a hug (that you so desperately craved from the platinum blonde man), Coriolanus told you. “I've came to ask you for some help testing an invention I've been working on with Dr. Gaul.”

“Oh…” You sadly sighed, letting your disappointment linger heavily in the air. And here you thought he came over to see you because he missed you. No, that wasn't the case. He didn't miss you at all; just needed you to help him on some project for work.

“Darling, what's wrong? I thought you'd be happy to help your best friend.”

“Are we still best friends, Coryo? I never see you anymore.”

“Of course we're still best friends, little dove.” The platinum blonde assured you, pulling you into a tight embrace. His hand trailed up and down your spine in a tantalizing touch that sent shivers throughout your nervous system. “I'll never abandon you, babygirl. I’ve just been preoccupied helping Dr. Gaul with a very important invention and studying for my University classes.” You could feel the thump, thump, thump, of his heartbeat as your head rested against his chest while your arms circled his wait. Hugging him close.

You missed hugging your best friend; you missed his scent and how he made you feel safe.

“I was hoping to see you at the University during lunch, but I haven't been able to. I guess you must be busy or maybe don't take your lunch break in the University’s dining hall.”

“I don't go to University, Coryo.” You told him, causing him to blink and stare at you in disbelief.

Coriolanus couldn't believe his ears. You weren't enrolled at the University. How could that be? You always wanted to study either science or medicine. It was your dream; you always talked so passionately about it before he was sent off to 12 to be a peacekeeper.

“”Why not? I thought you wanted to study science or medicine?”

“My stepfather and mother says it's a waste of time since I'm just going to be a socialite and one day a housewife.” Was the honest answer you gave Coryo.

The platinum blonde man wasn't too pleased by your answer. Not by a long shot. Who were your parents to control you; arrange for you to marry some rich asshole that would suppress you.

If you wanted to study at the University then so be it. You should be able to.

And then a marvelous idea popped into his head. It was a great way to get you to agree to help him test out the vibrator too.

“If you help me by being my test subject tonight, I’ll get you a late midterm enrollment into the University in the science field. I'll even arrange for you to be my intern, considering that I'm Dr. Gaul's assistant.”

“Coryo, you'd do that for me?” You gasped, hand covering your mouth due to your shock.

“Yes, my sweet girl, I'll do that for you." Coriolanus confirmed with a nod. He flashed you that charming, manipulative smile of his, only to say, "I'll do that and more for you, if you just help me out with testing a new invention for me.”

You chewed your bottom lip, thinking over your options. Truthfully, the only option you had was to say yes. Saying yes would both get you into the University and repair the cracks in your friendship with Coryo.

“Okay, I'll help you.” You agreed, smiling at your best friend.

“Excellent.” Coryo smiled, so wide that too many pearly white teeth were showing. The smile seemed feral, perhaps even deranged in a way. Slinging an arm over your shoulders, he suggested, “Let's go, shall we?”

The lab he escorted you to was in the belly of the Citadel. Deep in the basement where nobody would hear you. He had explained, as the elevator made its descent, that the room he was taking you to was soundproof and didn't have any cameras installed in it. That it'd just be you and him; that nobody would ever see the experiment. And he'd just relay his data to his boss, Dr. Gaul.

You didn't know why he told you that. It sounded a bit weird to you, but you just nodded along and told him okay.

You felt a bit nervous as Coriolanus led you down the basement hallway and to a door. He used his electronic key card paired with a panel retina scan to open the door. He led you into the room, only to stop by the doorway to flick on the light switch.

The too bright florescent lights flickered to life, revealing a lab table of sorts with straps and stirrups attached to it. As Coryo slammed the door shut, you noticed that on the counter next to the lab table was some sort of hospital gown and some type of large, thick wand.

You looked over your shoulder at your best friend, only to ask him, “Why’re there straps and stirrups on the lab table? And a hospital gown on the counter, Coryo?”

“It's to test out the new invention, darling.” Coryo told you as if he was talking about the weather. “You'll need to get dressed in the gown and have your legs parted so I can properly conduct the experiment.” He explained while heading over to the counter.

“But the straps, Coryo? Are you going to tie my wrists down too?” You asked, a bit concerned, while trailing behind him.

“It's so you don't try to stop the experiment.” He dryly told you. “Now if we're done playing 20 questions, put this on and get on the lab table.” He said, handing you over the medical gown. Your fingers brushed as he added in, “Oh and take off your panties. Your pussy needs to be bare for this little experiment.”

“What?” You asked, sucking in a deep breath between your teeth. You had to let him see and use your bare pussy for the experiment? Like what? Why? “Coryo, I didn't agree to this…”

“Yes you did, Y/N.” Your best friend reminded you as his icy blue eyes cut right into your soul. Sighing, he rubbed your shoulders. “I promise, you'll like what I'm going to be doing. Just do as you're told, okay?”

“Okay.” You reluctantly gave in. “Can you turn around so I can change?” You asked, feeling a bit awkward about your best friend seeing you naked, as you slipped out of your kitten heels.

“I don't see why it makes a difference, darling. I'm going to see your pussy; might as well see your tits too.” He chuckled, leaning against the counter with his arms folded over his chest. His icy blue eyes roaming over your form as you began to unzip your dress.

“Coryo, you have a girlfriend. Think about how she'd feel if she heard you right now.” You told him, pulling off your dress and folding it up.

“I don't have a girlfriend, Y/N. So whoever told you that's mistaken.” Coryo told you as you placed your dress on the counter.

Your brows rose up in surprise as you unhooked your bra, “Really? But I thought you were seeing Livia Cardew.”

Livia Cardew.

Of course, you knew about him and her. What you didn't know was that it didn't even last a month. And he made sure to tell you that. He also assured you that he was single; had been single for months as you finished undressing.

You were relieved that he wasn't avoiding you because he was spending all of his time with Livia. As you put on the examination gown, you asked Coryo, “If you're not busy with Livia, then why have you been ignoring me?”

Your words made bile rise up into the platinum blonde's throat. He felt sick that you thought he was ignoring you. He wasn't ignoring you. Wasn't he? He's just been busy constructing a life for you two.

A soft look crossed his features as he sighed, “I didn't mean to ignore you, little dove. I've just been busy with my studying and working as Dr. Gaul's assistant.”

“Yea…” You trailed off in a long, airy sigh. You honestly wanted to believe your best friend, but didn't know if you should.

“Let me tie this for you.” Coriolanus offered, gesturing to the hospital gown. You just nodded and turned around, causing him to tie up the little ribbons on the back of the medical gown.

Like with all medical gowns, your ass was showing. The platinum blonde smirked seeing your round ass, only to grab it with his large, calloused hands.

“Coryo?” You asked in a startled tone, looking over your shoulder at your best friend as he massages and rubs your ass.

Coryo just smirked before smacking you on the ass and saying, “Go get on the table.”

Turning around to face him, you said, “I’ll get on the table, but I want to know why you grabbed my ass.”

“Maybe I grabbed it because I'm an ass man; happen to like yours.” Your bestfriend told you with mirth twinkling in his baby blues, only to walk over to the counter to grab what he needed.

“I thought men liked boobs?” You asked while making your way over to the examination table.

“Oh, I like tits too.” Coriolanus stated, in a tone that was too cheerful for the atmosphere of the sterile lab, while pulling a pair of latex gloves out of a box that was on the counter. The loud sound of latex snapping as he pulled on the gloves echoed throughout the room. “Tits and ass. Good ole T&A does it for me.” Coryo joked, trying to cut the tension in the room, as you nervously sat down on the table.

As you adjusted yourself on the table, placing your legs in the stirrups, you heard your best friend ask you, “Do you want me to use the lube or to get you wet the old fashioned way?”, from his place across the room at the counter.

“What?” You asked, your eyes nearly popping out of your head. He couldn't mean?...

“Jesus, Y/N, please tell me you've played with your pussy before. Cause if not…this is going to be one hell of an experience for you.”

“Coriolanus! This isn't something ladies talk about to their gentleman friends.” You scolded him.

Coryo decided to forgo the bottle of lube, opting to just grab the large vibrating wand. Making his way over to you, he said, “That mindset’s why I had to help Dr. Gaul invent a damn vibrator. Because sex's so taboo to talk about in the Capitol.” Coming to a stop at the lab table, he placed the vibrator down on the sheet, right below your spread legs.

“I’ve spent some time in the districts, as you know while serving as a Peacekeeper, so I don't share the same close minded views when it comes to such things.” Coriolanus explained while walking up the length of the table. Stopping where your wrists were, he explained, “I'm not trying to embarrass you, Y/N. I want you to enjoy this thing I've got to test out. And in order for you to do that, I need to know if you've touched yourself before. I need to know if you know what to expect, what to feel.”

“Fine…I’ll answer you.” You gave in while your best friend strapped down your left wrist.

The platinum blonde arched a brow, his hand resting resting on your right wrist, as he waited on baited breath for your answer.

An answer of, “Yes, I've played with myself before. There, you happy now?”

“See, it wasn't so hard to tell me that. Now was it?” Your best friend remarked while strapping in your right wrist. He stroked your hair and pressed a kiss to your forehead, “I'll make sure you're nice and wet before we begin. Just relax and enjoy the experiment.”

Coriolanus, true to his word, made sure that you were wet. He used the rough pad of his thumb to circle and tease your clit. He didn't apply to much pressure, just enough to get you moist.

Coriolanus wanted you to enjoy this, but he wanted to make your pussy weep and flood juices from the vibrations of the wand. He could always drive you crazy with his hand another time.

And there’s going to be endless moments between you two after tonight.

“I'm going to start the experiment now. Okay, darling?” Coryo told you, picking up the vibrator and turning it onto the lowest setting.

“Okay.” You nodded.

“Just relax for me.” He instructed before pressing the buzzing wand to your clit.

The light vibration against your clit felt good. So good in fact, that you let out a tiny whimper.

“See, I knew you'd like this.” Your best friend said, only to turn the vibrator up another notch.

“Mmmm…Coryo…” Your breath hitched up in a tiny whine. The slight chance in speed against your clit sent wetness to pool from your pussy.

“You're doing good, my little dove.” Coriolanus praised while teasing your pussy with the vibrator.

Without warning, he turned it up to the third level. He pressed it hard against your clit, needing to see you cum. He craved the sight of your pussy gushing for him. And he'd keep amping up the speed of the vibrator to do it.

And the large industrial vibrator had 10 speed settings.

So…

You were in for a long night.

“Oh my God! Coryo!” You moaned, the vibrations of the third setting on your clit driving you closer to cumming.

“Feels good “ Coryo stated with a smug grin on his face.

“Yes.” You nodded. Your legs, spread wide in the stirrups, began to tense up as you mewled, “Feels so good, Coryo. So, so good.” Your pussy began to spasm as you cried out, “I-I m gonna cum, Coryo.”

“Be a good girl and cum for me.” Your best friend told you, holding the vibrator firmly against your twitching clit. “Cum right now. Do it, cum like the little slut you are.”

You didn't know if it was the vibrations against your clit or the dirty, demanding words Coriolanus told you, but all of a suddenly you were cumming with a moan.

Coriolanus’ icy blue eyes shined in excitement as he watched your juices flow out of your pussy as you came. Oh, he thought you looked so beautiful. He could stare at your soaked, leaky cunt for hours.

You thought that your best friend would turn the vibrator off, unstrap you from the table, and end the experiment with the vibrating wand, but he didn't. In fact, Coriolanus turned it up another notch.

“Coryo, I already came. You gotta stop.” You told him, trying not to let out a high pitched wine, as your clit began to throb.

“Sorry, baby, but we're not stopping until all 10 speeds are tested.” The platinum told you, a mischievous smirk on his lips. Adjusting the pressure he was using to hold the vibrator against your clit, he simply said, “We're only on the 4th speed.”

“Oh no…” You trailed off in a broken moan.

“Oh yes!” He mocked, watching your pussy as it began to pool once more. “Perhaps I should turn it up?” Coryo asked while turning up the speed.

“Coryo!” You screamed as your second orgasm hit you, causing your pussy to spasm and squirt juices onto the lab table you’re on.

“Oh, so you're a squirter?” Coryo asked, a wide smile on his face, as his eyes locked onto yours from his place between your pussy.

If you weren't so blissed out right now you'd be embarrassed.

“I'm going to turn the speed up again, see if we can get you squirting some more.”

“Oh, God, Coryo. Please, please, stop. No more, I'm too sensitive.” You begged, feeling like you couldn't handle any more.

Coriolanus did something you weren't expecting. He stretched out his arm and took your hand in his, holding it. “I know, you're sensitive, baby girl, but you can do this. I know you can go all the 10 speeds for me.”

“Coryo.” You whimpered, lower back arching in an attempt to get away from the vibrations assaulting your puffy, swollen clit.

“Y/N, baby, calm down. You can do this; I wouldn't put you thru this if you couldn't.” Coriolanus told you while cranking the speed up once more.

Coriolanus loves seeing you overstimulated and thrashing about on the table for him as he talking you thru everything. But, his pants were starting to tighten. He needed to fuck you and fast, so that's why he decided to switch the vibrator to level 6 so quickly instead of teasing you.

“Coryo, please, please.” You begged, but for what you didn't even know.

“What do you need, Y/N? You need to cum again?”

“Yea.” You desperately nodded as tears began to brim your eyes. “I'm so sensitive but I need to cum so bad.”

“You're such a little slut for me.” Your best friend chuckled, only to press the vibrator harder against your clit and turn it up to level 7. He adjusted the position slightly, causing you to cum with a loud scream. Once again your pussy squirted your juices everywhere. This time your thighs were wet, the table underneath you was wet, and even Coryo's shirt was soaked.

Coriolanus is positive that if he didn't have you strapped down then you would've flown right up off the lab table.

“I know you're sensitive, but I know you have one more in you. Can you give me one more, baby girl? Hmm?” Coriolanus cooed, stroking your hand with his long fingers as he turned the vibrator up to the next level.

“I dunno, Coryo.” You sighed, feeling listless, as you felt even faster vibrations against your too sensitive and swollen pearl. Your pussy’s quivering and your asshole’s clenching from the overstimulation you're feeling. Tears rolled down your cheeks as you cried, “I-I’m aching so bad, Coryo. I need something more, but I'm so sensitive.”

Coryo knew just what you needed. Your body was craving his cock. And, honestly, his cock was painfully rock hard from watching you that he's going to be stuffing you full once he's made you come again from the vibrator.

“You need my cock, Y/N.” Coriolanus told you, matter of factly. “Don't worry, once we're done, I'll flip you over and fuck you.”

“I'm a virgin, Coryo. I'm supposed to be saving myself for my future husband.” You informed him. You couldn't just sleep with him, you had to stay pure. What would your future husband think if you were already used up on your wedding night. If there wasn't any blood on your thighs to signal that he was the only one to claim your purity as his prize.

“You've done that, darling. You've stayed pure for me, but I can't wait any longer to have you.”

Your toes began to curl and your fingers were clenching into fists as you felt a hot, unbearable tingling began to build up inside of you, despite how overstimulated and sore your clit was. “You want to marry me?” You asked, more like moaned, as Coriolanus turned the vibrator up to the 9th level.

Your nails dug into his left hand as your pain began to turn into pleasure once more. Coriolanus thought you were so beautiful like this. Spread out before him, helpless and to his mercy. All fucked out, begging for things you didn't even know you wanted or needed- until now.

Oh, and the unorthodox marriage proposal was the icing on the cake for the platinum blonde man. Made this night all the more special. “Of course I want to marry you, Y/N. I'd be a fool not too.”

Tears blurred your vision, sticking to your lashes, as you wailed, “Coryo, please, this is too much.”

“You're doing such a good job for me, darling.” Coriolanus praised you, causing warmth to pool in your lower belly. “Just one more speed and it'll all be over, baby girl. Just one more for me, yea?” Coriolanus assured you as his lust blown eyes raked over your writhing form that was strapped down.

“Okay. Just one more.” You agreed, causing him to turn the vibrator onto the last setting.

The 10th speed.

The vibrations sent a harsh jolt straight to your core. You became an overstimulated, babbling mess. Your head thrashed, your pussy spasmed, your asshole clenched, your legs shook, and your eyes were literally blinded with tears. The feeling was oh so much. It was both euphoria and hell at the same time. The pain ebbed into pleasure, a white hot pleasure that seemed impossible to reach.

And before you knew it, you were cumming hard with Coryo's name on your lips like a prayer.

Coryo quickly turned off the vibrator and tossed it to the side. The large wand crashed into something, but he didn't care. He just needed to get you unstrapped so he could fuck your 5th orgasm into you.

Fuck, he was so hard and needed your cunt so bad.

Quickly, Coriolanus pulled your legs out of the stirrups and lowered tje metal things down to the sides of the table. Then he rushed up to the top of the table. To free your arms.

You were panting and fluttering your eyelashes, attempting to see thru all of your tears, as your best friend quickly unbuckled your wrist straps. “You did such a good job for me, baby.” Coriolanus praised you. Kissing you on the forehead, as your newly freed arms limply lay by your side, he asked, “Can you sit up for me or are you too fucked out?”

“I dunno, Coryo.” You honestly told him. Your body was numb with pleasure, so you had no idea if you could sit or not.

“Shit, did I break you?” He asked, pride laced in his baritone, as he helped you to sit up.

“I’m fine, just feel a bit numb’s all.” You told him, pressing your face against his chest as he held you.

“Yea, you're too fucked out.” Coriolanus proudly chuckled.

Lifting your head up to look at him, you innocently asked, “Why's your shirt all wet for, Coryo?”

“That's all you, little dove.” He told you while petting your hair. “You came so hard; soaked everything near that pretty little pussy of yours.”

“Oh…” You buried your face in his chest. You were embarrassed; afraid of his reaction to you cumming so messily. “That's never happened before when I- you know- while alone in bed.” You admitted, hoping that he wouldn't think you were weird or something for making such a mess.

Coriolanus found your innocence to be cute. You were embarrassed about the spectacular show you put on for him.

And only him.

Because you've never made yourself squirt before.

Pride swelled in his chest at the mere fact that he had you squirting over and over again.

Him.

“Y/N, my dove, what you did was natural. It was very special too.”

“It was?” You asked, lifting your head to look up at him.

“Yea.” Coryo nodded. “Not everyone can squirt.” He explained with a smile. Pressing his forehead against yours and bringing your hand to cup the large bulge in his too tight pants, he said, “I need to fuck you so bad. Make you mine, Y/N.”

You palmed his bulge, causing him to let out a strangled moan. “Did you mean it when you said that I don't have to wait anymore? That you’ll marry me without my virginity?”

“Y/N, my darling rose, of course I'm going to marry you.” Coriolanus told you with a firm certainly in his voice as he cupped your face in his large, calloused hands. “I’m the one taking your virginity and I'm the one that's marrying you, so the order of the two doesn't really matter.” He told you in a tone that was too sweet, perhaps even on the verge of manipulative.

Coriolanus kissed you, his lips pressing against yours in a passionate, bruising force. You were taken back by the kiss, but quickly responded to it by melding your lips with his. It felt like he was sucking all of the air out of your lungs as he kissed you.

Breaking the kiss, his lips ghosted yours as he swore, “I'll bring you home with me tonight after we fuck and tomorrow I'll go talk to the general; tell him about our engagement.”

“I'm going to need a ring.” You reminded him, a small smile on your lips.

“I'll tell Grandma’am I'm ready to give you her heirloom ring in the morning. She'll know what that means.” Coriolanus assured you while picking you up and bending you over the lab table. Unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants, he warned, “This is going to be quick.” You heard his pants pool around his ankles as he told you. “You’ll enjoy it, but I'm too hard and you're too stimulated for me to drag this out too long.”

Coryo quickly pulled down his boxers, causing his cock to slap against his stomach. “Hold onto the edge of the table, Y/N.” He instructed, grasping his dick and giving it a few pumps.

Looking over your shoulder, as he lined his angry red tip at your soaking wet entrance, you asked, “Is this going to hurt, Coryo? I heard it hurts the first time.”

“With how your hole’s sloppy and dripping, my cock’ll easily slip in. The stretch might burn, but it won't hurt.” He explained before pushing into you.

You bit your lower lip as you felt his large cock stretch out your tight walls. It stung a bit, like he said it would, but it wasn't painful. Not like some of the rumors you heard.

“Such a good girl for me, baby.” Coriolanus praised you. Continuing to push himself into your tight, wet heat, he pressed a kiss to your spine (a part that was exposed by the gap in your medical gown) and cooed, “You're taking me so well.” His breath was hot against your skin as he assured you, “Just a little bit more and I'll be balls deep, Y/N.”

Coryo and you both let out little moans whenever he bottomed out. He felt so good inside of you. You felt so full, and it fanned the flames of your desire for him. And Coriolanus felt that being sheathed in your tight, wet warmth was heaven. The feeling of your cunt gripping his cock was better than anything he could've ever imagined.

When he pulled his hips back, causing his cock to deliciously drag against your walls, and pushed them forward, driving his cock deep inside of you; hitting your special spot deep within you, you let out a delighted scream.

“That's it, let me hear you scream for me, my good little slut.” Coryo told you, his hips roughly snapping against yours as he chased down both your highs.

He knew with how sensitive you were that it wouldn't take much to get you cumming. He also knew that if he pounded into you mercilessly then he'd be quickly cumming too.

“Feels so good Coryo.” You whined, clawing at the edge of the table as you felt the head of his cock press up against the spongy spot inside of you. The spot that had your cunt clenching around him.

“Fuck, your cunt's so tight. So perfect, baby.” Coryo began to babble, the feeling of your tight virgin pussy sending him into overdrive. He swears, it feels as if your cunt was made for his cock. It fit him like a glove. A perfect fit. Squeezes him just right, takes him without any problems.

Coriolanus was pussydrunk on your perfect pussy. A pussy that he was claiming as his.

And only he's allowed to pound your pussy. Paint its walls white with his cum.

You let out a loud shriek when you felt his cum heavy balls slap against your oversensitive clit. That only causes him to dig his long fingers harder into your hips and piston even harder into you.

The lewd sound of your cunt loudly squelching paired with skin slapping skin and your loud moans filled the lab. The lab table beneath you was shaking from how hard Coriolanus was fucking you from behind. But you were so out of it with pleasure that you were worried around the table flipping over.

And even if it did, that wouldn't stop the platinum blonde from fucking into you like his life depended on it. No, he'd just keep pounding your pussy.

“You feel close.” Coriolanus gritted out as his fast paced movements got sloppier. “I'm close too, baby.”

“I’m gonna cum, Coryo. I-I’m gonna cum.” You announced in a mewl, your hips pushing back against his in a desperate attempt to chase your release.

“Me too. Me too.” Coryo told you while bending his body over yours, pressing his chest flush against your back, and grabbing your hands with his while rutting into you as quickly as he could. "Fuck, I'm gonna fill you up with my cum. Fuck a baby in you; show everyone yours mine."

All you could do was let out a string of babbled broken cries as Coriolanus had you cumming for the 5th time. And as your cunt tightly clenched him, he made a couple more sloppy thrusts before shooting his hot, thick ropes of cum into your womb.

Coriolanus laid on top of you, holding you as his cock was still buried inside of your pussy. He let go of your hand, only to grab your jaw and bring your head up towards his. Using his thumb, he wrenched your jaw open, only to hover his lips above your parted ones and spit into your mouth. The feel of it was disgusting, unnatural even, but without even thinking twice you swallowed his spit.

Coriolanus’ baby blues sparkle with possessiveness as he watches you swallow down his spit as if it was fine wine. Caressing your jaw, he told you, “You're not just my best friend, Y/N. You're my girl.”

His girl. That made your insides melt. You’ve always wanted to be his girl. You've always loved him.

And now you're his girl.

FINALLY

His girl.

“I'll help you get dressed in a minute, then we'll go home.” He told you before leaning in to give you a kiss.

“Okay.” You whispered against his lush lips.

Oh, how you couldn't wait for him to take you home with him. Where you belong.

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