never lost in the crowd (yelena belova x reader)
↪ summary: you’re a little naive, and natasha enjoys pissing yelena off.
commissioned by anonymous
↪ pairing: yelena belova x reader
↪ words: 3,003
↪ trigger warnings: jealousy/possessiveness, strap ons, fisting, flirting, mentioned nonmonogamy (i refuse to say ‘ethical’ nonmonogamy because that’s just cheating), alcohol consumption
Yelena had never been one to share. Not food, not clothes, not emotions, not space, and most certainly not you. She was outwardly territorial, nearly snarling at anyone who so much as laid eyes upon you. It had been that way since you first began dating all those years ago – you, a bartender and her, a patron with too much time, money, and patience.
Yelena was a little rough around the edges, had always had trouble expressing her wide and deep love for you; but she tried, as often as she could, to show her affection and adoration for you. And you loved her not in spite of these things, but because of them.
So when you finally were able to convince her to go on vacation with you to her hometown a few years after you had made it official, you were nothing short of ecstatic; Yelena hated vacations more than she hated being approached by strangers in public who are attempting to compliment her outfit.
But more than either of those emotions, she loved you, so she called Natasha to let her know you two would be staying in the town and booked the two of you a hotel.
The first night there was fantastic – sex on the large bed with her strap buried deep inside you, riding her face as you dipped fresh fruit in delectable whipped cream, you eating her pussy as she laid on silk sheets. In short, the room is as nice as it is expensive; but no matter how big the bed and beautiful the tall windows, it still felt like you were trapped.
Luckily, Natasha had invited the both of you to go clubbing. Maybe she suspected you to be stir crazy, but part of you couldn’t help but think the fiery redhead and all of her cunning ways.
That name – Natasha – somehow described her better than any adjective in any language could. Not quite foe, not quite friend. Their relationship was built upon begrudging respect more than anything else. And yet they loved each other, even if they had a hard time expressing it.
Yelena gets a reply almost immediately after texting her.
there’s this club
You can practically hear Yelena sigh as she reads it aloud.
it’s opening like 2 streets away from me. ppl have gone and they said it’s amazing
u n ur piece wanna go?
No, Yelena thinks. She absolutely does not. But you do, you do so badly, and so she sends a quick “yes,” helps you pick out a dress, and escorts you from the lobby to a black car that takes you to the aforementioned club.
This, the club, with its colored lights and the music so loud the ground shook, with its sweaty bodies and overpriced drinks with their corresponding ridiculous names. The freedom of the crowd is one of the few places you can really let loose, dancing to dance-pop songs sung in languages you barely understand while people around you do the same in varying degrees of sobriety. Here, you’re able to release all the tension you’d kept
Natasha, as well, constantly yearns for the anonymity that comes only from being in a crowd of drunk strangers. It’s hard to club by yourself as a woman, especially when one is seeking other women, and it’s always more fun to do shots with old friends than new ones.
Plus, Natasha quite enjoys the little game of cat and mouse that you always seem to fall into. Games where she let her hand linger too long on bare skin, or complimented you just to watch you hide your face in your shoulder.
She knew that this back and forth was a dangerous game to play – she knew since you two were introduced all those years ago it came with high risks and the only real benefit being pissing Yelena off. She’d known since she was a child about Yelena’s track record of territorial behavior. Natasha is the closest thing Yelena has to a family, and knows better than anyone how Yelena got when her bear was poked.
Yet here she was, staring down at a chess board as if there was no timer. She may have not had Yelena’s king yet (or ever, given the way the pieces were placed on the checkered board), but she was determined to make Yelena’s hold over it as tedious and unstable as possible.
Here, as she brushes tendrils of hair from your forehead, as she laughs at all your stupid jokes and offers you sips from her fruity cocktail (that she, a vodka enthusiast, secretly purchased for you) – holding the drink to your lips and wiping away the dribbles of liquid that are left on your chin. She compliments your make up as an excuse to stare at your lips, does the same with your outfit – even asking you to twirl for her.
She sees you eyeing the dance floor and bouncing on your heels to the beat and asks if you want to join here there, dance pop blaring through speakers that area almost comically large. There, with your short, metallic dress and your high heels and your legs made unstable by alcohol; with her own steady boots and skin-tight black jeans and cropped crop tank top. The dynamics of your dress doesn’t escape your notice; it does, though, escape your attention as Natasha pushes and pulls you to the beat. It’s loud, heavy on your skin – you can feel its weighted press against each of your bones as you twist and turn. You wonder if you could keep this feeling forever, the pure euphoria and bliss clouding all of your inhibitions and thoughts.
With the heavenly delight joining with your red blood cells, you can’t help but back your shoulders against Natasha’s. You also can’t help but join both of your hips for a few verses, and you certainly can’t help as Natasha steadies you at the waist.
Yelena, of course, sees all of this. She sees you laughing and watching you press your drink to your cheek to cool the heat that’s pooling there; watches you hike up your dress just a little and eye Natasha head to toe. Neither of you had been shy about your attraction to each other, especially since you and Yelena had never been the strictest followers of monogamy – threesomes and sex parties and flirting had occurred with both parties present over the course of your long relationship.
Still, needless to say, she isn’t very happy about watching you and her old friend eye each other like prey as if it was some sort of contest. Natasha’s different than some random woman while you and Yelena on vacation, or another couple who you meet while at a sex shop.
It’s Natasha fucking Romanoff, someone Yelena has known as long as she’s been alive, and it makes anger lick at her skin in a way no one else ever had.
Despite these simmering feelings, your girlfriend isn’t so sure about what to do besides seethe silently as she nurses her Old Fashioned, but she knows for sure she doesn’t want to make a scene. It could either go well – in which you ended up under her back at the hotel she had so graciously paid for – or it could go poorly, in which she saw one, two, or all three of you fighting off a multiplicity of bouncers who wished to keep arrests for assaults down for the week.
Either way, it’s much too risky. The last thing she needs is to run from cops again.
And so she waits. She simply sits in a booth across the club – surrounded by other friends while her eyes remain trained on Natasha watching you like a lion watches an injured zebra, the woman nearly drooling at the sight of you in that tight dress. Yelena’s jaw tenses with each passing beat, the pair of you never getting lost in the flow of the crowd.
In truth, you could be behind a thick brick wall, and Yelena would still find you. She knew you too well, and you loved her too much, to let the invisible string that tied you both together become too taunt.
Still, it feels like hours later that Natasha pulls away, citing her need for water as an excuse to leave you vulnerable and alone.
(It should be stated she isn’t lying about her desire for hydration, but Natasha had felt parched for quite some time before her buckling knees screamed at her to flag down a bartender and allow the backlash from her actions to crumble into place.)
Yelena is quick to fill the gap behind you.
“Bathroom,” she hisses, her teeth just missing their opportunity to bite down on the outer lobe of your ear.
You ignore the goosebumps sprouting along your spine as you speak, even as your brain screams to fall into submission. “But I don’t-“
“Bathroom,” she repeats, the hand against your hip squeezing hard enough to draw a gasp from you. “Now. And I don’t want to hear any snark from you either.”
She punctuates her words with a SLAP to your ass, not meeting your eyes as she stalks towards the back of the club. It takes a second or two for the reality of your actions to sink beneath your skin, but it doesn’t take long before you’re quickly trying to follow where Yelena had gone, doing your best not to crash into any fellow clubgoers or trip over a lost shoe.
Your heart thumps in your ears (or maybe that’s the base from this terrible remix of a song that was popular two years ago), your hands sweaty and knees weak. It’s both a year-long journey and a blink-of-an-eye excursion; both a trek and an easy stroll until you’re in front of a small sign embezzled in a small gender-neutral figure in a language you could not read even if you were sober.
Before the door can close behind you your stomach is pressed into the marble countertops, trapped between the cold material and the hot skin of Yelena. Essentially, you were exactly where you wanted to be, even if that was between a sink and an automatic hand dryer.
Her voice breaks your focus on the sensation of her on top of you. “Open your mouth,” Yelena murmurs as first her fingers, then her thumb presses against your tongue. “C’mon, be a good little girl and show me how eager you are.”
You do your best to work your tongue around and between her fingers, sucking and moaning and choking as she rubs at the back of your tongue.
“That’s right,” she murmurs, a devious smile pressed against your ear. “Show me what a good whore you are.”
You can only take so much more before you’re backing away for such an important commodity as oxygen; although you’re not able to breathe much before your dress is hiked up to your hips and your panties are pushed to the side. There’s a half second where cool air against your (now bare) dripping core draws a small gasp from your lips, but it only lasts for so long before the fingers that were once in your mouth are now inching past your walls.
“That feel good?” she asks rhetorically, reveling in your speechless state; watching as your hands – used to being able to twist in silk sheets – now unsuccessfully trying to find purchase on the hard surface. “Does your Daddy make you feel good?”
“Yes!” you immediately reply, babbling nonsense as she finds that special spot inside of you that makes your vision cross-fade into a bright white. “Yes Daddy you make me feel so good!”
She revels in this – the feeling of you tightening around your fingers, the stirring in her stomach that she gets every time she brings you this kind of agonizing pleasure. If she could spend eternity in this high-end club bathroom with you under her, she’d consider that a blessing given to her by Sappho herself. Oh, what an afterlife that would be.
“That’s right - You’re mine,” she hisses, her arm reaching around to fit her palm against your throat – effectively using your own body as leverage while she fucks you. “You’re mine, and no one else’s. You understand this?”
You give her as much of a nod as you can, the fire behind her eyes spreading heat across your cheeks as you watch yourself in the large mirror. You nearly don’t recognize yourself until your eyes somewhat refocus; your eyeline is down to your cheeks, your lipstick is smeared, your brow is sweaty, your highlighter dulled beyond recognition. All of your hard work turned Jackson Pollock with a few drinks.
Yelena notices your kinship with Narcissus as easily as she slips in another finger, a devious smile spreading across her face and her eyes clouding with determination. “You like watching me wreck you like this?” she asks, her thrusts now a harsh staccato. “You like watching your Daddy ruin you so easily?”
All you can do is moan.
“Yeah, that’s right,” she purrs. “You’re such a pretty little thing, and I bet you know that don’t you? You know that Daddy loves pretty things?” You nod, your movements sloppy and delayed. “Good girl. And do you know what Daddy does to pretty things?”
This time you can’t do anything, her whole fist now inside your dripping cunt.
“I wreck them.”
Before you can truly process what’s happening Yelena’s unzipping her skintight black jeans to free her silicon cock, spitting on the head, and then filling you full of it.
“Fuck!” you scream, all of the air squeezed from your lungs with that one motion. It’s big, textured, hitting all the right spots inside of you. It is, in a word, perfect. You couldn’t make a better cock if you were god herself.
“You like this one?” She smirks as she speaks, asking just to see your inability to answer. “Bought it the day I bought the plane tickets. I was going to save it for our last night here, but as soon as I saw you in that tight little dress, I knew you were just begging to be fucked by this thing.”
Her strokes are hard and fast, fucking the power of speech and cohesive thought from you. Your feet are barely touching the floor, one knee hiked up onto the counter to give her leverage over you. She’s the only thing holding you in place, the scaffolding of a house or an exoskeleton. Without her, you’re sure you’d crumble into a pile of skin and other soft tissue on the floor. In this moment, Yelena and you are one; and you’re uninterested to any action that would lead to your separation.
In short, it’s good, it’s so good, in a way you could barely describe. Maybe, you think. You should flirt with Natasha more often, if this would also be the end result.
Yelena brings you back to earth with her deepening fervor, punctuating each word with a thrust. “You’re my good little girl, right?”
You do your best to babble out an answer, nodding feverishly along with it.
“Then come for me,” she commands.
Yelena reaches around to rub at your aching clit, your own slick allowing her to form tight circles in rapid succession. It’s so much at once, and yet exactly what you crave.
“F-fuck, I-“ your speech is at best slurred. “I’m, Daddy, I-, I’m gonna-“
Still, somehow, Yelena can parse through your babble. “Yes, my love,” her thrusts become more intense as she’s egged on by your whines. “Yes, my good girl. Come for me, I know you can do it. Come for me.”
And with her encouragement, you do.
You reach your own peak with a scream so loud you nearly drown out the music, heartbeat drumming in your ears and euphoria spreading like fireworks in a night sky just under your skin. For a moment, everything fades away and it is just you and the woman you love. For a moment, you wonder if this is what it’s like to skydive: to trust in something that you can barely see, to have your veins so full of adrenaline you’d be sure it replaced your blood had it not been drawn to the surface as Yelena’s hands grab at your waist. You’re suspended in midair, hoping you come back to earth in the same condition you left.
You’re both panting as your consciousness returns to you, pressed flat against each other. It’s the two of you, alone, in love. You’re practically melted into one big puddle. And that is enough.
“Hey ‘Lena have you seen-“
Fuck – the second you hear her voice your entire once-lax body freezes, now even more of a toy to Yelena than before.
“Oh well, well, well,” you can practically hear her smirk. “Look what we have here.”
If Natasha’s smirk is nearly audible, Yelena’s smug grin screams in your ears.
“Like the view?” the woman behind you asks rhetorically, her childhood best friend staring you both down as Yelena continues to fuck into you.
Natasha doesn’t move, frozen in place not by fear, but by lust.
If you were capable of such a talent as language you might’ve said something akin to a quip, but somewhere between Yelena’s fingers and several inches of her strap that had become impossible for you.
The woman atop you knows this, as does the woman in front of you, but Yelena seems to be the only one to know just how to take advantage of your mentally numbed state. She snakes an arm around to grab at your jaw, forcing your gaze to meet Natasha’s through the mirror. You’re sensitive from your orgasm, and begin to shake as her strap begins to move inside of you.
“Now tell her, baby,” Yelena hisses into your ear, her words punctuated with light thrusts. “Who, do you, belong to?”
10 notes · View notes