pairings. | Dark!Silver Fox!Step-Mom!Natasha Romanoff x Naive!Reader.
author’s note. | you drink alcohol, but it’s like really weird (kind of like asgard mead). please heed the warnings. please enjoy, and please don’t forget to reblog! if you take ANY inspiration from my fics (i’ll know, trust me) and you don’t give credit, you will be blocked and i’ll let others know. xx.
“Hey, honey, I’m sorry this is so late. Please don’t get mad at me. I have an emergency business trip to go on, and I have to leave now. By the time you get up to the cottage, I won’t be there. I’m so sorry, honey. I’ll be back as soon as possible.
He takes a deep breath.
“But here’s the thing, you won’t be alone. Do you remember my girlfriend, Natasha? She’ll be there. You guys can have fun while I’m gone, okay? Go hiking, or maybe even fishing if you want. Just please don’t hate me for this. I love you. Stay safe.”
“If you’d like to save this voicemail, press ‘9’,” the automatic voice tells you after a few moments of static. You lightly push the numbered button, and you hang up. Your already dull mood has turned sour, and you want someone to blame it all on. Maybe yourself, but definitely not him. As he said, you can’t hate him.
You could never hate him because what he’s doing for you is a blessing.
Jean-clad legs drag themselves along the pathway, and your suitcase rolls roughly behind you. The path is cleared of anything, but the small bumps and rocks still pose as obstacles you’re willing to get through.
You’re covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and you crave a cold shower that lasts for more than an hour. Or maybe even a dip in the pond… Can you even swim so passionately anymore? It’s been way too long, in your opinion. Well, it’s just been almost two years… Is that a long time?
Two summers ago where your lover would chase you around with a wooden stick in their hand. A branch, usually, never those small twigs that can break with the shortest amounts of strength.
The leaves would crunch beneath your feet, and your giggles were uncontrollable. It was fun while it lasted, and the winter season that followed it up is one you constantly yearn for.
But you’re nostalgic for everything that you once had.
“Gosh, will anything ever be okay?” you frustratingly ask out loud, even though you’re the only one there. Your flannel jacket slowly slides off of your shoulder, and along with it goes the strap of your backpack. It falls to your elbow harshly, and you let out a defeated sigh.
The view of the cabin is in your sights. It’s been cleaned up, but not to the point where it doesn’t feel like home. There are still plants on the windowsill and a wind chime hanging in front of the door. The wind blows lightly, and the soft tune reverberates throughout the forest.
As you get closer and closer to your home for the next few months until springtime, you can feel your exhaustion truly beginning to weigh down on you. You could fall face-first onto a bed if it were possible, but you know it isn’t.
Your name is called by a sweet voice, one that makes you nervous and uneasy. A redhead with blonde tips pokes her head out the window, and she smiles at you. Your lips press together awkwardly, and you curtly nod your head at her.
She has a mug in her hand, and steam rises from it. Is it coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate? You’ll take anything; you’re so desperate. Your throat is dry, and you’re parched. Natasha sets her mug down next to a small succulent, and she disappears.
With a groan, you continue to trudge your way home. She emerges through the door and rushes to you. “Hey! Do you remember me? We only met once!” she exclaims, enthusiastic as ever. Well, not as ever. When she’s around your father, she’s got just as much energy as a turtle. Maybe it’s him, or maybe it’s you.
“Uhm, yeah! I remember you, don’t worry. It wasn’t that long ago,” you softly tell her, and she takes your luggage from you. “Two years ago, I think? Kind of a while ago, in my opinion,” she retorts, and you nod your head. You don’t say anything else, and you simply follow her as she carries your belongings inside with ease.
Time clearly isn’t a concept for you.
Your cold yet slick hands grab at your jacket, and you adjust it to look more prim and proper. Your father has always been a stickler for keeping up appearances, even if it’s a family member or long-time friend. You could argue that he’s constantly lost in the facade, but you know it won’t end well.
“So, how are you?” she questions, and you slowly walk into the home you’ve missed so much. It smells of vanilla and fire, perhaps even cinnamon and smoke as well. “I’m okay! How are you?” you ask, and you close the door behind you.
“I’m doing great! I finally have some decent company, so that’s why I’m so happy,” she explains, and you give her your best smile. “Ah, well, you’ll probably be annoyed by me by the end of the week. I’ll be here until February,” you gently inform her, and she smiles brightly.
“I could never be annoyed by you…” she whispers loud enough for you to hear. Your head snaps her way, confused by her unusual tone. A few beats of silence follow her words, and the cracking of the fireplace just makes everything more awkward. She stares at you softly, and she doesn’t put down your luggage.
“I- I’m going to take a shower,” you tell her, “I’ll be back in a few.”
“I remade your room for you! Come, let me show you,” she says, and before you know it, she’s leading you up the stairs. It’s a short walk, and it’s nothing to make you winded. Natasha walks in front of you, and you’re forced to stare at her back, not wanting to lower your eyes and cause any discomfort.
Her hips sway side-to-side, a sort of seductiveness in her walk. You envy it, but you also admire it as well.
Both of your hands splay against the walls, and you wonder why there isn’t any railing for you to hold on to. Your father should know how clumsy you are by now. Carefully, you make sure that each foot successfully lands on the steps before you continue to mount upwards. You can’t embarrass yourself once again.
“Here it is,” she hums in a sing-song voice, skillfully pushing the door open.
You’re met with a brightness that shines through the window, and you’re in absolute awe. Straight off of your Pinterest boards, your room is absolutely gorgeous. The bed is covered in the prettiest blankets and bedsheets. The walls have some of your favourite art pieces, even if they’re dark and twisted.
“Uhm… Wow! This is- This is amazing. Thank you so much…!” you express in shock, still trying to take in each and every aspect of your room. It doesn’t sink in just yet, and that’s the beauty of your mind. You’ll wait until it’s three in the morning for it to really hit you. And until then, you’ll try your hardest to show gratitude rather than surprise.
“You love it, don’t you? I know you do. I’m glad! It was fun to put it all together,” Natasha beams, and she sets your things down next to your bed. “This means a lot to me, truly. Thank you so much,” you continue, and you fold your hands together. Your fingers lace between one another, and she walks towards you swiftly.
Before you can say anything else to her, she suddenly wraps her strong arms around you. She smells of your favourite perfume, one that you couldn’t tear your eyes away from when you went to the mall just a few days ago. It puzzles you, but you brush it off as nothing. She’s just being kind… right?
Her hands rest on your shoulders, and you can feel her fingers through your layers of clothing. You gently place your hands on her back, and you wait patiently until she pulls away. But she doesn’t. No, instead, she brings your body closer to hers until the pulsating of her heart touches your chest. She’s too close to you for your liking, and yet you choose to keep quiet.
Natasha’s fingers dig into your skin, but she doesn’t hurt you. The ring on her finger presses to your bone, and you try to figure out where it’s placed. You breathe deeply and try to focus on the sensation before realizing that she’s got her ring finger decorated. You let out a gasp, and your stomach twists into a sailor’s knot.
Abruptly, you pull away from her, and Natasha stumbles backwards in surprise. You look down to her left hand, only to see a wedding band on it. She follows your eye-line, and she gives you an innocent smile that is accompanied by a sly glint in her eyes. “Yeah… We kind of got married. He didn’t tell you?” she questions, with worry on her face.
Your features are twisted in shock and hurt, and you’re not sure what to say or think. You simply shake your head, and she pouts. It feels condescending, and so you don’t take her expression lightly as you usually would. “I’m sorry… But it’ll be okay! We’ll have so much fun, don’t worry,” she promises, but you’re too troubled to listen to her.
In a fit of rage and sadness, you turn around and make a beeline downstairs. Natasha doesn’t follow you, and you’re glad. A gust of wind shakes the trees that surround you, and you find yourself heading for the pond. “Oh, God. Of course, this happens!” you grumble, and you kick at the small rocks in your path.
It’s only been a few minutes since you’ve arrived, and everything has already gone to shit.
“Hey, are you okay?” an all too familiar voice asks, and you feel a gentle hand rest on your shoulder. You’re cold, but you’re not disrespectful. You don’t shrug Natasha off, nor do you push her away from you. You bite your tongue and try to keep quiet, but you just can’t. “Just peachy,” you quip through gritted teeth, and she doesn’t laugh. No. Instead, she sits next to you.
Natasha’s feet dangle in the same manner yours do. Both of your legs are only one meter away from the cold water, and you hope to God that you don’t fall in by accident. “I know that you’re mad, sad, and probably annoyed as well. But think of it this way; nothing has really changed! All that’s different is that I’m wearing a ring,” she appeals, and you continue to stare downwards.
You let her words sink in your mind, and you can feel her staring at you. “I’ll even take it off if you want, see?” she offers, and you quickly grab her wrist. “No, y- you don’t have to do that. I’m not going to be childish and let you do that. It’s just… The least Dad could’ve done was tell me, you know? He didn’t even have to call. He could’ve sent an email or a text message,” you quietly explain, and Natasha leans in close as she intently listens to you.
“And the fact that I had to figure it out from you—right here of all places, at this time in my life—just hurts even more,” you add, and you wring your hands together. Your body is covered in goosebumps as the weather gets colder. You chuckle bitterly, “I had to find it out myself, and that’s only because you hugged me.” Those slightly chapped lips of yours are folded into a line, and you sit in silence.
“I’m sorry, I really am,” she utters after a while, and you shake your head. “No, no. You don’t have to apologize,” you clarify, feeling guilty for burdening her with your problems. Quietness fills the gap between you two, and you focus on the sounds of birds cooing and trees shaking. The surface of the dark water moves just a bit, and your reflection warps like a ruined piece of art. The scenery is beautiful, but it’s hard to enjoy it.
“Can I ask you something?” Natasha politely requests, and you whip your head to face her. Your nose almost hits her face, and you move backwards in fear. She’s so close to you, but she doesn’t seem to mind it at all. Her thighs touch yours, and you can feel the heat that radiates off of her. “Uh, yeah, sure, go ahead,” you urge, and nervousness fills your lungs up like water.
“Why are you staying here for so long?” Natasha interrogates, and you’re taken aback slightly. “Oh, well, I just need some time for myself,” you explain, trying your hardest not to tip over the urn. “But why? There must be a reason,” she presses, and you know you can’t brush her off like you would your father. Your tongue darts out and swipes against your lips, wetting them so that they don’t crack.
“Well, the person I was in love with for most of my life broke up with me. It was amicable, but I’m too hurt by it to be around that scene. I dunno. I guess I feel embarrassed? I swore that I’d get married to them and have that perfect life, but the complete opposite has happened… My friends, they, uh, they’re a bit mean to me about it. I couldn’t handle that, so that’s why I’m here. I want to focus on myself and try to move on.”
Your words have been watered down. They’re less harsh, and they don’t carry honesty like they should. But you just can’t tell Natasha everything, not yet, at least.
Natasha smiles at you sadly, but you simply look away from her. You bring one of your legs over the other, and you cross them elegantly. “I’m sorry about that. But I’m proud of you for putting yourself first. I’m here now, and I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t go insane,” she jokes, and you force a smile as well as a laugh. She joins you, and you can tell everything about her is authentic.
“Ah, well, thank you for being so kind and for that. I appreciate it,” you express sweetly, and you drop your shoulders in relaxation. Your back is hunched over just a bit, but it’s what makes you feel comfortable. Despite the vulnerability, you try your hardest to make things less awkward than they already are. She isn’t so bad after all.
“So… You’re my Step Mother now…” you sigh out after a few seconds, and Natasha perks up quickly.
“Yes, but I’ll be whoever you want me to be,” she quickly informs, and you hum in delight. “I’m not going to take that title away from you or anything. Just don’t punish me or lecture me,” you joke, and you slightly toss your head back in a small fit of laughter.
Natasha giggles, but her humour goes away quicker than yours. Her face drops back to its seriousness, but you’re too caught up to notice. Slowly, you go back to your regular position, but you keep your pretty smile on your even prettier face.
“Well, we’ll see.”
You like nature, and you enjoy all it brings and gives you. What you don’t enjoy is that sticky sweat it constantly leaves you in. Your nose is wet, and so is your back, yet your skin remains as cold as ever. “Hey, uh, Natasha? Nat? Can I call you that? Anyways, do you know where the towels are?” you call out to her as you slowly peel your flannel jacket off your shoulders.
Patiently, you wait for her to answer you. You pull your sweater over your head, and you’re left in another one. It’s slightly sheer, and it’s black, and it’s your favourite article of clothing that you own. “You can call me Nat. I’m fine with that!” she yells back, and you nod your head even if she can’t see you. Her hurried steps are loud, and before you know it, she’s bursting into your room with two towels in hand.
“Here you go!” Natasha exclaims, yet her tone of voice is a bit low, and she isn’t too energetic. You’re in total contrast to her. You’re quiet and lethargic, with a cold exterior and an always sad face. “Thanks,” you squeak out, grabbing the thick pieces of cloth from her. “You’re welcome, sweetheart,” she hums, and you nod your head shyly.
Natasha watches you carefully, and her gaze is painfully piercing. Your eyes dart from looking downwards to looking at her, and you’re not sure where to keep your sight trained. She rakes her eyes all along your body, but she particularly stares at your chest. Your red bra can be seen through your beloved top, but you have a hard time realizing that. You’re smart—clever even—but you’re not bright in the sense that you can tell if someone likes you or hates you.
“Uhm, I’m going to take a shower now…” you announce, even though it’s not your responsibility or obligation to tell her. Natasha still stares at you, and you slowly back up. You inch closer to the bathroom, but you don’t turn around just yet. “Okay! Have a good shower,” she smiles, suddenly whipping herself around and walking out your door. Natasha’s hair bounces with volume, and it frames her face perfectly.
She’s out of your sight, and you turn around and step into the bathroom. The back of your foot gently knocks against the wooden door, and it closes behind you. Just not all the way. You slowly strip yourself of your remaining clothing, and you slowly step inside the shower. The lighting is dim, and you find yourself struggling to adjust. Quickly, you turn the water on and wait until it’s hot enough to satisfy you.
A random, nonsensical harmony is what you are humming. There is no smooth rhythm to it, but it truly does not matter at all. You push your hand under the showerhead and smile at the perfect temperature. Not too hot, not too cold. Absolutely perfect. Slowly, you move so that your skin gets wet, and you tilt your head back so that your hair doesn’t touch the streams.
Your hands move up and down on your chest, and you let yourself get adjusted to the warmth.
A head peeks through the door, and it’s got red and blonde locks with a few grey strands. Natasha stealthily hides behind the door frame, and only her eyes and forehead can be seen. She watches you because that’s what she does best. You’re a piece of art meant for only her to look at. Each movement of yourself gets ingrained into her mind, and she won’t forget anything just yet.
You cup your tits and sigh in relief, smiling gleefully at the lovely feeling of the water. Your eyes are closed, but they’re not squeezed shut. You can’t see her, but that doesn’t make a difference for Natasha. She doesn’t worry about being careful or quiet because she knows that you’re too aloof to even feel her gaze or presence. “Such a dumb baby,” she mutters before licking her lips until they’re soft and supple.
Your hands leave your chest, and you stretch your arms to grab the plastic bottle of body wash. It’s brand new, straight from Natasha’s latest shopping trip before you arrived. You don’t put much thought to it as she wishes you would, and you don’t even take the time to notice that it’s your favourite, limited-edition scent. It frustrates her—you frustrate her.
She hates you, but she loves you. She wants you, and she needs you.
The tune continues, merging into your favourite song that Natasha has already memorized. From the first verse, all the way to the bridge that is followed by the outro, she remembers it more than any of her personal information. She knows you better than you do yourself and definitely much better than your past lovers.
White clouds of soap cover your body, and you slowly bend down to reach your toes. You move out of the way so that the water doesn’t hit you. The remaining droplets flow downwards and past your butt. Natasha moves closer to you, and she now stands in the doorway with her bottom lip snug between her pearly teeth. She catches a sight that’s meant for sore eyes, something that should be taken with a camera.
Yet, even the lens can’t capture your beauty. Nothing and nobody can, except for her.
Your perfect pussy is exposed, but not enough for Natasha to creep up behind you and stuff a few fingers inside without having to part your lips. Wetness pools her brand new panties as she continues to stare at your pussy, and she curses under her breath. She takes another step forward, and she wishes she could speed her plan up by just a few steps.
But Natasha can’t, and she isn’t willing to risk it all right now.
Slowly, you begin to stand up straight. In a moment of panic, Natasha quickly hides behind the wall once again. You move underneath the water and hold the loofa in your hand carefully. You slowly rinse your body of all the soap, and you tilt your head backwards. In an almost teasing manner, you push your chest forwards until your tits are pushing out. A smile is on your face, but it’s faint.
Natasha knows that you can’t see her. She’s too skilled, and you’re too stupid. But she wonders if you’re putting on a show just for her, waiting until she pushes you against the wall with her hand clamped over your mouth. “такая гребаная шлюха,” she whispers, and she rubs her thighs together for a little bit of friction. It’s enough to leave her even more desperate for you, but it’s not enough to satiate her needs.
She turns her head once more, only to see you simply standing beneath the water with your eyes closed. Your loofa is strewn somewhere in the shower, but it doesn’t matter to either of you. Natasha’s solid and slender fingers reach for the buttons of her jeans, and she begins to play with them. The fabric folds open, and she zips down her fly until her panties are exposed. They’re soaked, and her clit throbs as her mind runs wild.
Suddenly, the loud sound of the water flowing comes to a halt. She looks back up to see you facing the glass door. The fog from the water begins to form, and you soon turn into a faded memory. Before you can wipe it away and stain the surfaces with your hands, Natasha turns around and makes a beeline for her bedroom that is only across from yours. She shuts her door quietly, and she quickly strips herself of her clothing.
As her hands crawl down to her soaking pussy, yours wipe your skin dry of any wetness.
“Hey, uh, Nat? What time is it?” you nervously ask from your spot behind the kitchen counter. Your Step-Mother sits on the couch that’s a few meters away, with her legs folded up. She stares at the television intensely before looking down at the clock beneath it. “It’s six-thirty-four. Why?” she asks, turning her body around to face you as best she can.
“Oh, nothing… I’m just kind of hungry, that’s all,” you awkwardly admit, scratching the back of your neck out of habit. “Oh, sweetie, you should’ve told me!” Natasha exclaims, turning the screen off and standing up. She walks towards you quickly, and she begins to pen up the cupboards. “What do you want to eat? Pasta? Soup? How about a sandwich? Or maybe a salad?” she questions, and you feel a bit overwhelmed.
You stutter, not sure what to say. “I- I don’t know. I’m so sorry,” you mumble, and Natasha lets out a coo. “Aw, that’s okay. I’ll surprise you. Do you like wine? I have a bottle. You can take it,” she offers, and your heart blooms with softness. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to do all the work,” you question, placing your phone underneath one of the pillows.
Natasha’s back is turned away from you, and she’s grabbing the wine she promised you. She spins around smoothly, and she almost ends the move with a pose that a ballerina would do. “Don’t worry, okay?” she reassures, handing you the bottle along with an overly large glass. “Let Mommy do the hard work,” she mumbles, and you only catch her words by the sliver of a hair.
“Pardon?”
“Hm?”
“You said something, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yeah,” Natasha chuckles, “I said, ‘Let me do the hard work.’” Your head tilts to the side like an overly curious child with a hundred questions in your arsenal. You could swear you heard something else, but you know you can’t always trust your ears. Carefully, you open the wine bottle and pour yourself half a glass. But her hand moves to the base of the green bottle, and before you know it, she’s doing it herself.
You open your mouth to tell her to stop, yet not one word comes from you. The red liquid reaches the top of the glass, and there’s only one centimetre of space between the colour and the brim. Natasha moves away from you, and she stares at you with a blank expression. You can see your warped, filtered reflection in your glass. A sad, confused face that doesn’t know any better—never knew any better.
“Have at it, sweetie. Do you like to drink? I do. I love a good bottle of wine or whiskey, especially in this place,” she rambles casually, and you remain in your stiff position. You look down at the alcohol with not one rational thought running through your brain. “Uh, yeah. I like wine and movies,” you bluntly answer before finally tearing your eyes away.
“Sounds fun,” Natasha states before grabbing a pot and turning the pipe on. The loud sound of the water hitting the metal of the sink hurts at first, but you quickly adjust to it. “What kind of movies?” she questions before abruptly shutting the pipe off. You bring the glass up to your mouth, and you take a small sip. It’s bitter, far too bitter. But it’s also too sweet, much too sweet.
Is it the pierce and quality that makes it so… unusual? Or maybe it’s you and your long-reigning sobriety of a pathetic two weeks.
“Those stupid romantic comedies,” you tell her through a saliva-blocked through. You swallow, and the wine goes down harshly. “Such as?” she pushes even more, and you’re lethargically shaking your head. “‘The Proposal’ and ‘Maid in Manhattan,’ for example. I like those types of movies when I’m drunk,” you force out, and you’re just the tiniest bit troubled by her interrogation.
“I haven’t watched those yet. I have an idea!” Natasha exclaims, and you fight the urge to sigh heavily. You already know what it is, and you hate the way she acts as if she’s having some sort of philosophical realization. “We should watch one of them after we eat. It’ll be perfect!” she proposes, and you exhale loudly. Natasha has the brightest smile on her face, and it makes you feel terrible for being so rude.
“While I get the food ready, you should go and find one of the movies on Netflix. I think I’d rather watch ‘The Proposal’ so choose that one! Let me do the rest,” she urges while gently pushing you towards the couch she was just sitting on. You have no choice but to go with what she’s telling you. You hold the glass tightly, and you’re careful not to spill anything.
Natasha’s hands leave your shoulders, and she walks back to the kitchen. Carefully, you fold your legs on the couch. Your calves meet the back of your thighs, and your ankles touch each other. You’re too self-conscious to get entirely comfortable when she’s in the room, so you leave yourself like that. The remote, almost the same size as your hand, sits next to you, and you grab it.
“How’s your wine?” Natasha asks, holding a shiny knife in her hand. You don’t look back in her direction. “It’s good! Better than what I’m used to,” you tell her before taking a long sip from your glass. She hums, and you stare at the screen while it changes every second. Movies of all genres and all languages flash before your eyes, and even snippets of them begin to play when you’re not able to click away fast enough.
“There it is!” she exclaims from behind you, and you jump in shock. Your wine shakes in its glass, just nearly spilling over the edge and only seconds away from almost staining your dark grey sweatpants. Almost. Inside your chest is your battered heart, and it’s clamouring wildly. With every passing beat, you fear it will jump out and drown itself in the lake.
“Aw, poor thing. Did I scare you?” Natasha questions, and her tone is condescending. You see it as humour, though. “Yes, you did! But if I spilled this drink, then you’d have to clean it up as payback,” you retort, before drinking from the said glass once again. Looking back up at the television, a screen capture of Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds standing across from each other is what you’re faced with.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she sternly chastises with warning and softness laced in her tone.
You giggle at her words to fill the silence, but it comes out more like a nervous chuckle. The tension is thick, and it could be cut with the knife in Natasha’s hands. The blade slices through a tomato, and it hits the plastic cutting board with blunt force. “I’ll start the movie. You can watch while cooking,” you mumble, and with two hits of the ‘OK’ button, the film starts.
As soon as you throw the remote, you return to your beloved (but once hated) glass of wine. It’s already halfway done, and you can feel it settling in your system. Your body feels heavy yet light, and you’ve got a sort of buzzing running through your body. It’s addictive, and you crave more of it. You down what’s left of your drink while holding your breath. Perhaps you’ll regret it, but it’s not like you have dozens of responsibilities waiting for you.
“Take it easy there, lightweight,” Natasha jests, watching as you set the glass on the table. “I’m not a lightweight when it comes to drinking! …At least I don’t think so,” you shout back at her, a little louder than anticipated. “Then why are you already slurring your words?” she retorts, and you knit your eyebrows together. “I am?” you question before replaying your sentences until they sound like absolute nonsense.
“I’m kidding,” she chuckles, and you follow her sounds with your own laughter. It’s music to her ears, and she could never tire of it. She could never tire of you, even if you’re a bit of a handful sometimes.
Natasha turns on the fire of the stove with a few clicks of a dial. You twist your head most painfully and awkwardly ever, and you watch as she throws in pieces of penne pasta. They fall into the water with a small splash, and she croons in delight. “What are you making?” you ask, still staring at her. She turns around, and her hair whips with her movement.
“Creamy tomato pasta!” Natasha exclaims, and you sigh dreamily. “I love that,” you tell her, remembering the way you ate only that dish for five days straight. “Good. Now stop looking at me and watch the movie!” she ushers, and you shake your head at her words. But you still listen to her, obedient as ever. You stare at the screen, yet you don’t understand what’s going on.
You’ve watched this movie far too much to not remember the main character’s name… Are you indeed that drunk? From only one glass of wine? Your eyes burn. You haven’t blinked once even though your eyelids are so heavy. “Oh, you finished your drink? Why didn’t you tell me, silly baby?” Natasha queries, and you snap your head in her direction once again.
“Pardon?”
“Hm?”
“Didn’t you just call me something?” you ask while sitting up straight, even though you’re swaying back and forth and side to side. “I didn’t call you anything,” she chortles, but you don’t buy it. “No, I’m pretty sure you did,” you push, and you press your knuckles against one of the cushions you’re sitting on. The long nails at the tips of your fingers dig into your skin, but you don’t care for the pain.
“I promise you, I never called you anything. Don’t you trust me? Why would I lie about something so small; what would I even gain from that?” Natasha insists, and her despairing tone has you taken aback. But she’s right, even though you hate to admit it. Yet, you could still swear you heard otherwise.
“I- Uhm, oh God. I’m so sorry,” you whisper quietly before sitting back to where you once were. You can hear her exhaling roughly, muttering something under her breath and turning the heat up again. “It’s fine. Here, take more wine,” she says after a while, rushing to your side with the same bottle. Before you can even tell Natasha you’re more than okay with what you just had, she’s filling the cup to the brim a second time.
“Oh, wow, okay,” you awkwardly squeak out as she hands it to you. You take it carefully before bringing it to your lips. Natasha walks away, swaying her hips because it’s one of her many signature moves. The empty bottle is bluntly dropped into the garbage can, and you can hear it breaking into sharp shards. The sound has your skin crawling in fear because you know it’s a painful mess to clean up.
Your skin is hot to the touch, and you’ve got a sort of vibration that runs wildly. That sick feeling in your stomach has changed. It doesn’t grow when you think of that lover of yours—that once was yours. It’s diminished, gone and only turned into a mild ache that you can’t suppress without a painkiller or any more wine. Everything is so dreamlike, hazy, and surreal, but you’re more grounded and realistic than ever.
Is this drunkenness? It is because it’s familiar. It’s just different, that’s all.
A giggle is let out, and it takes you a few seconds to realize that it came from you. “Silly, silly, baby…” echoes Natasha’s voice, but you don’t hear it. You let out another giggle at a scene, except there’s nothing funny about it.
“This wine is so good, Nat. I love it so much,” you admit, sighing in content.
You can hear the way your words merge together and into incoherence. “If you love it that much, maybe you should finish it all right now,” Natasha coerces, and you laugh again. “Of course, I’m going to finish it. You don’t have to tell me twice!” you chuckle with a bright smile on your face that hurts. It doesn’t fall, and the alcohol in your system has no plans of that ever happening until tomorrow morning.
The dark red liquid is gone, and it’s sliding down your throat as you empty the bowl. The sourness and the sweetness mix with each other and lays themselves on your tongue perfectly. You’ve never drank something so perfect before. When you rub your tongue against the roof of your mouth, it’s wet. But when you leave it alone, it feels dry.
Continuously, you rub your tongue and try to grow accustomed to the dryness. “N- Nat?” you call out, looking inside the glass. There’s a little tinge of wine left, and you don’t make the move to take it. “Yeah, sweet thing?” Natasha questions, right after placing a small cube of butter in a skillet. She walks towards you while being careful of the stove.
Here she goes with the pet names again… Right?
“Can I get some water, please? My mouth is dry. I think it’s because of the wine… Not that it’s bad, or anything—actually, it’s amazing! Is it a dry wine? Semi-dry? Is there some fancy word for that?” you ramble, holding onto the glass like it’s some comforting pillow. Natasha smiles down at you dearly, and she turns on her heel. “That wine is so good! The best I’ve ever had. Must’ve cost you a lot,” you mumble loud enough for her to hear.
“Sure did. But it’s worth it, trust me,” she tells you in a sing-song voice. You can’t hear any pipes behind you flowing with water, and it confuses you. Natasha’s feet patter on the ground, and before you can even sit up properly, she’s already by your side. A cork pops, and you whip your already-dizzy head to look at her.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, grabbing your cup from the table.
Wait, when did you place it there? Wasn’t it just in your hand?
“I asked for water…?” you tell her, unsure of yourself. “No, you didn’t. You asked me for wine. ...Don’t you remember? You said you wanted more wine because your mouth was dry,” she explains, but you’re more perplexed than ever. You stare off into the distance, trying to piece together what she’s saying. You could swear you asked for water.
Could you, though? Could you really?
The sound of liquid sloshing breaks your train of thought. Natasha is pouring you another cup of wine, even though you think you didn’t ask for it. She hands it to you with a smile on her face. “It’s hitting you hard, I can tell. That’ll be your last cup for the night, no arguing. Enjoy it because it’s all you’re getting other than a plate of delicious food,” she hums, and you sigh heavily.
Nodding your head, you give her the signal to leave you to mellow by yourself. As soon as her multi-coloured hair and white sweater are out of your line of vision, you drink the entirety of the wine like it’s the water you wanted. It doesn’t quite satisfy your main need, but it does the job for a few others. You gulp quite loudly, and it makes her giggle.
The stove clicks again, and the fire turns off. You let out a hearty groan, not giving the alcohol a second to settle before throwing yourself back. “Oh. You’re done cooking already?” you question, kicking your feet up on the table. “No,” she answers, trying her hardest to look at you. But all Natasha can see is the top of your head. “Why’d you turn the stove off?” you add, and you can feel your body loosening up.
“Because I want to make sure you’re okay,” Natasha softly admits, and you turn around. Once again, your neck is painfully craned, but you don’t care. Your heart is soft, and it melts like a once frozen puddle. Shakily, you exhale, and your breath reeks of that delicious wine. The taste hasn’t faded yet, and you don’t want it to for a while.
“You’re so kind… You know, the uh, the person I was dating before would take care of me, but not this way. ...Like, you’re doing so much for me, and I barely know you. Why? You’re too sweet. It makes me have a cavity or two,” you mumble in a blur of words. You think you make no sense, but you’re entirely cohesive.
Natasha doesn’t say anything.
“You design a whole room for me—and might I add, it’s everything I like! How? How’d you figure that out? It’s been what—almost two years since we last met? I don’t know, but I know that I’ve changed so drastically, and you still managed to understand me entirely. Ugh, what am I even saying?” you groan loudly, and she’s still silent.
You don’t care.
“It’s just—I guess I miss being taken care of, that’s all. And since you’re taking care of me, I’m not sure what to do or think,” you sadly admit, sinking further down into the seat. You’re nearly on the floor, but you keep yourself balanced with your strong elbows. They’ve punched at ribs gently, and they’ve closed doors as well. Your cold hand lets go of the glass, and it hits the carpet.
“Shit!” you curse, and you sit up properly. Your whole world spins, but you try your hardest to put yourself back together. “Leave it,” Natasha orders, yet you ignore her. It’s not broken, and nothing has spilled. Your fingers touch it, and it rolls away. It hides underneath the table, and you groan in annoyance. You bend forward even more, and you’re blinking slowly. Everything slowly becomes less defined, and it makes you feel uneasy.
“I said to leave it, sweet thing. Why don’t you listen to me? Look at you,” Natasha whispers, and you let out a whimper. Her hands grab your shoulders, and she guides you back onto the sofa. “It went so far…” you whine, reaching your arm towards the cup. “I’ll get it. It’s not that big of a deal, okay?” she grunts, stretching her leg beneath the table. Her toe nudges the glass back in your direction.
“I know! But I feel so bad, Nat. I feel so bad,” you mutter, and she lets out a coo. You look up at Natasha, and you squint your eyes until they’re a second away from shutting completely. You can only make out her head. She sits next to you and adjusts your lower limbs. They fold up, and she’s right beside them. Natasha’s gentle yet rough hand is placed right above your knee, and you don’t know what to do about it.
You’re uncomfortable, yet you’re so relaxed at the same time. “He used to put his hand on me like that. Just right there,” you whisper to yourself, but you’re louder than you want to be. “Really? How sweet,” Natasha purrs, and you nod your head in confirmation. “Yeah. But it would be more… soft? Almost as if it wasn’t even there,” you explain, spinning your hands as you try to make sense.
“Do you miss him, sweetheart?” she questions after a few moments, and her thumb draws circles on your pants. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I? I don’t love him, but I miss him. Hope that makes sense, or whatever…” you slur sadly, and Natasha begins to move her hands around. She brings it higher up your thigh before dragging it back to where it was initially. She continues this movement, hoping to provide you with physical comfort.
“It makes sense, sweetie. It makes a lot of sense. I don’t think you miss him, though. I think you miss being loved,” she admits, and you inhale sharply. You hold your breath for a few seconds before letting it go and allowing your chest to fall. Her words sink into your like freshly sharpened blades. Prep, sharpen, polish. Diamond, tungsten, ceramic. Each layer of your skin is pierced, and it hurts profoundly.
“You miss being cherished and taken care of. You were finally left by yourself for once, and you couldn’t handle it. It was so abrupt, right? Like a slap in the face. And that’s why you came here. You needed someone,” she continues, twisting the knives in your and even rubbing salt on the fresh wounds. You close your eyes, and they burn from exhaustion. It feels good, but it doesn’t distract you from the fact that your Step-Mother is more than correct.
“Open your eyes, sweetie. It’s rude and disrespectful to do that when I’m talking to you,” she demands, and you listen to her begrudgingly. Your lids fly open, and your eyesight is still blurry. “Good. What was I saying?” Natasha ponders out loud, even though she remembers it exactly. You stare at her intensely, and your eyes are blown out completely. Hers are the same. Has she been drinking?
“Y- You were talking about me…” you tell her, trying your best to not add any details.
“Oh, right! Be a little more specific,” she demands, and your stomach twists.“You were talking about me, and my breakup, and how I’m dependent on others when it comes to taking care of myself,” you quickly blurt out, and you’re more articulate than you should be. “Yes, spot on. I just wanted to make sure you understood, okay?” Natasha assures sweetly.
You gulp thickly. Her head tilts mildly, and the hair on her shoulders moves. Though everything looks like colourful blobs, you can still see the numerous gray strands that mainly reside near her scalp. You have to admit they don’t look terrible and that they’re quite stylish. Natasha is quite stylish, and she dresses even better than you ever will. Perhaps it’s the money she gets as a ‘thank you’ each month, or maybe she just has good taste.
“I asked you a question,” she reminds, and your train of thought breaks before you even realize it has long departed. “I- uh, yeah, I forgive you! Tough love, hard pill to swallow, that sorta thing,” you mumble, and Natasha sighs heavily. “You’re so drunk, sweetie. Can you sit up, please? And drink some water?” she requests before pulling you up herself. Your world nearly falls off its axis, and you grab onto her for support.
“Oh, no. You’re dizzy, I can just tell. Do you feel nauseous?” Natasha asks, and you gently shake your head. There’s no painful thrumming that stretches itself across your skull, and you’re glad. “I think we should skip our plans for tonight. Let’s get you upstairs, and then we’ll see how you’re feeling,” she plans before lifting you up gently. You have no room to say anything, and you have no words to give to Natasha.
Her left arm crawls around your waist like a spider, and her palm sits against your stomach. Natasha’s other hand holds your two wrists together, and she leads you up the stairs like you’re some sort of a prisoner. With each step, your body becomes heavy, and you find yourself struggling to do the things that you should be doing on autopilot. In the blink of your bleary eyes, you suddenly find yourself in a room.
It’s not yours because nothing is familiar, you know this. But it’s not your guest bedroom, and it isn’t your father’s either. “It’s my bedroom. Didn’t want you to walk too far,” Natasha quickly clarifies, and you nod your head while raising your eyebrows. She lets go of your hands, and she slowly pushes you onto her soft bed. You let your body fall onto the mattress, and she laughs at you.
The sheets smell of ivy and rosewater, and the only reason you can place your finger on these things is that she once explained the things she enjoys in life. Ballet, horror movies, ice cream straight from the tub, bubble baths, fireflies and the violin. Put them in a box, shake it all up, open it and out will come her.
You sigh dreamily and rub your sweaty palms against the bed. The silky, soft feeling is so euphoric, fresh and comforting. Natasha’s hand returns to your shoulder, and she turns you around in one quick move. She has your eyes turning upwards and your head spinning like a basketball. Your hands search for something to keep you grounded, and they find Natasha’s forearms.
“Oh, no… You’re dizzy now,” she takes note, frowning just a little bit. Natasha’s plump, pink lips become softer as she drags her tongue over them. You watch her carefully before you’re snapped out of your trance. She peels your hands away from her, and she moves away. “I’m going to be right back. I just have to go do something really quickly. Sit tight. If you need anything, just call for me,” she tells you.
Before you know it, she’s already walking off. You slowly come to your hands and feet, and you crawl further up the bed. With a heavy sigh, you place your head against one of her fluffy pillows and lay down comfortably. Your legs sprawl in a weird direction, yet it’s relaxing nonetheless.
Your eyes flutter shut, but you’re not sleepy at all. Your arms move up and down, almost as if you’re playing in the snow, and you find yourself falling in love with Natasha’s bed.
“Comfortable, right?” Natasha asks, shutting the door behind her with the back of her foot. You jump, and you immediately sit up. She doesn’t say anything. “Y- Yeah, really comfortable. Might have to steal it from you,” you giggle, and you notice that your speech hasn’t improved from the last time you spoke.
“I wouldn’t mind,” she admits. You nod your head, and you press your tongue against your top teeth. Natasha sets something down on the bedside table. It sits next to a white landline that looks like it’s been pulled straight out of your childhood. “Are you thirsty?” Natasha questions and you look over to see a glass of water. The thought of drinking something else has you growing deeply.
“I’ll take that as a no. Nauseous? Dizzy? Tired?” she continues, and you shake your head. Natasha’s plump bottom lip is dragged between her sharp teeth, and you stare at her mouth uncontrollably. “But how do you feel, darling?” she asks once more, tilting her head. She sits down next to you, and her eyes lock with yours.
“I feel weird. That’s all,” you bluntly tell her with a smile on your face. Natasha’s hand travels to your knee once again. “I know, sweetie. I bet you feel nice and relaxed, right?” Natasha queries, and you slowly bob your head. A few beats of silence take up the moment, and your jaw falls slack just a bit.
“I’ll take care of you. I’ll make sure you’re okay, and you won’t ever have to worry,” she whispers, almost enchanting you with her words.
Natasha stands up, and you keep leaning backwards until you’re lying down. She brings her body close to you until strands of her hair are lightly brushing against your skin. Shivers run down your spine, and you feel pretty strange. She’s so close to you, and it’s eerily familiar. You shuffle away from her just a tiny bit, and she frowns. “What’s wrong?” Natasha innocently asks.
“You’re so close to me. It’s weird. Never been this close to someone in so long,” you dolefully confess, and your hands come up to your chest. “Oh, sweetie. Do you want me to go away? I’ll go if you want,” she abruptly offers, but you quickly stop her. “No! No, please don’t. Uhm… I don’t want to be alone,” you whisper. “I won’t leave you alone,” Natasha murmurs, and you look up at her with glossy eyes. “Really?” you gasp.
“Trust me,” Natasha repeats, and you squeeze your eyes shut to stop the tears. Memories come flooding in, and months of yearning for a certain someone’s return as well. “Don’t get all sad on me now. This was supposed to be a fun night, remember?” she urges, and you open your eyes again. You nod your head. “Well, let’s have some fun,” Natasha proposes, and you smile happily.
Your mood gives her whiplash, but she puts up with you nonetheless. Warm hands grab at the bottom of your shirt, and you’re confused. “Don’t worry about a thing, and keep that pretty mouth shut. I’ll do everything,” Natasha quickly hushes, and she pulls your sweater over your head. She’s rough when dragging it over your head, and you’re not sure how to feel about it.
Natasha throws the sweater on the ground next to the bed. You’re left in your jeans, underwear and the red bra that you wore earlier today. “That’s a pretty bra you got there, baby. Was it expensive?” she questions, hooking her pointer finger where the two cups nearly meet. Her soft skin touches yours, and you cringe. Nodding your head gently, you keep your hands at your sides.
“Don’t lie. You got it on sale some time ago. You bought a black one just like it as well,” she snaps suddenly, and you nod your head once again. Natasha’s hands move to your back, and they slither like the most venomous of snakes. She grabs the clasp and undoes it before raking her nails against your skin. The scratches continue until the straps of your bra are sliding down your arms on their own.
“I…” you start, but you have nothing to say. “I said to be quiet, darling,” she reminds you, and your mouth snaps closed. “If you break that rule again, I’m going to do something you won’t like. I bet you’d look so pretty all beaten up,” Natasha threatens, and you gulp thickly while your heart begins to beat erratically. Tears of fear sting your eyes, but you blink them away before any of them fall.
Your tits are exposed, and your nipples immediately pebble up. Natasha lets the bra join your sweater on the floor before she marvels at your upper body. “Baby… You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Natasha gasps, and she cups your breasts with her warm hands. You fight the urge to move away from her. She squeezes lightly, and you inhale sharply. “Why would you hide this from me? That’s very selfish of you,” she chastises, and you don’t respond to her.
Your Step-Mother swings her left leg over your body, and she straddles you perfectly. Natasha hovers above your knees, and she has you trapped. “And you look even prettier with me on top of you,” she adds before leaving your tits alone. Playfully, she dances her fingers down to your waist. Your jeans begin there, and you wait for her to pull them down. You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to keep them open.
“Look at me, princess, or else I’ll make this worse for you,” Natasha orders in a sing-song voice. You let go of the breath you’ve been holding, and you listen to him. “Good girl,” she praises. Slowly, she pops each button of your pants open. Then she grabs the zipper and leisurely drags it downwards. Your body is relieved of the tight fabric, but your mind is stressed over her.
Black cotton panties fill her view, and she adjusts her position so that she can fully undress you. “Aw, how cute. Quite boring and plain, though. We’ll have to fix that another time. I bought you a cute thong, and it even has my symbol on it!” Natasha explains, and you feel uncomfortable under her gaze. Her fingers grab at the band of your underwear, and you let out a whimper.
“What’s wrong, princess? Is Mommy moving too fast? Hm? I bet that poor little brain is all fuzzy. I told you not to worry,” Natasha coos, and you’re panting with nervousness. Though your lungs are being pushed past their limits, you feel like you’re going to pass out from lack of oxygen. Your bottom lip wobbles, and you want to cry and scream until your voice gives out.
But you don’t do anything. The wine and fear have you paralyzed.
Natasha ignores your worry, and she continues to undress you. She painfully drags the cheap fabric down your thighs, and she drops her jaw at the sight of your eventually exposed pussy. Suddenly, she pulls her hands away from the material, and it snaps against your skin, “Ouch!” you squeal, and the stinging makes you grab onto the bed sheets. “Sorry, baby. But I have to say I love seeing you in pain like that,” she chuckles.
You have nothing to say, and you’re afraid to break her rule, so you keep quiet. “I want to make this more fun!” she admits, and her hands return to your panties. They’re halfway down your thighs. One fist pushes forward, and the other pulls in the opposite direction. With only the tiniest bit of strength, Natasha rips the front of your panties in half. She continues to tear the cloth until it’s a useless shred.
It remains underneath you, and she yanks it out with a little more power. A pleasing sound passes through her closed lips, and your eyes remain trained on her. Natasha’s green orbs are blown out with darkness, and she looks as though she’s been taken over by some unholy creature. You wonder if yours are the same or if she just adores them because they’re always glazed with tears.
Natasha’s hands are back on you once again. They’re between your thighs, and she suddenly parts your legs. Your body involuntarily moves with her movements, almost as if you’ve been put under a spell. Her eyes drop from your face to your exposed pussy. Your face heats up with embarrassment as she stares at your most intimate place.
“The prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen… So perfect. But I’ll ruin it eventually, turn it into my little fuck hole,” she whispers as her mouth salivates.
Your Step-Mother’s cunt is soaked beyond belief, and so she rubs her thighs together for a bit of friction. She grinds her hips downwards and into the bed, but it’s not enough to fully satiate her needs. “Fuck. I want to take it slow, baby, but I just can’t control myself anymore. But I know you’re fine with that because you’re a good girl,” she smiles, even though you’re staring at her in disgust.
Through your drunken haze, you’re still able to know right from wrong. And what Natasha is doing is certainly not right at all, despite what she may believe.
“Don’t you dare move,” she orders, and you obediently nod your head. Natasha gives you a gentle smile. She runs her fingers through her dishevelled hair while exhaling shakily. Her hands leave your thighs again, and she sits up on her knees. Her strong legs are folded up, and you can see the way they flex and clench. You remain beneath her, and you have no choice but to watch as she unbuckles her belt.
In one swift move, it leaves each loop, and the ends hit each other. Natasha throws the belt to the side before hastily unbuttoning and unzipping her dark gray jeans. She does it slowly and almost teasingly, and you have a feeling that she’s trying to solicit a reaction from you. A moment of weakness? Anger? What does she want from you? Your mind is a muddy puddle suddenly, and you can’t seem to think as straight as you did a few seconds ago.
You notice a slight bulge that reaches the middle of her right thigh. It’s unusual, and you’re not sure what it is.
“Look right at my pussy, baby. I want to see your eyes there,” Natasha demands, and you find yourself following her instructions. Natasha looks downwards to her crotch area, and she pushes her jeans down. Pale skin fills the gap between her thighs, and at first, you just see her bare leg. Knitting your eyebrows together, you focus hard to refocus your blurry vision.
“Dumb baby,” she mutters underneath her breath, frustrated with your lack of common sense. “Не думал, что вы настолько зависимы... Раздражает, но это мило. Я всегда предпочитаю глупых шлюх умным. Их легче сломать,” she sighs with a smirk on her face. Natasha snaps her fingers twice, and the short sound is loud enough to grab your attention. She points at her core, and your gaze follows her finger.
You gasp quite loudly, even though it’s not enough to fully capture your shock. A long, thick, detailed piece of plastic that is the same colour as Natasha’s pale skin hangs between her legs. It bounces up, and it’s stiff. There are veins on the side, and it is a little too realistic.
Natasha moves around wildly as she gets rid of the rest of her clothing. She discards her shirt, bra, pants and underwear. All she has is a necklace and a fake cock, and she is more concealed than you in the most peculiar way ever. Your jaw remains slacked in shock, and you don’t realize it until a bit of saliva wets your lip. You quickly shut your mouth with a painful snap, and Natasha laughs at you.
“What’s wrong, baby? Is it too big? Not big enough? Just what you dreamed of? Even better than you imagined? I mean, you’re drooling, and your mouth was open, so it must be good,” Natasha smirks, and her overconfidence has your stomach fluttering with both half-dead moths and newborn butterflies. Her lips are upturned in a wicked smirk that rivals your slight frown.
Before you can say anything to her or squeak out any mouse-like sound, Natasha roughly grabs your arms. She lifts you with ease and pits you to sit on the pillows that she’s lied on numerous nights before. Your back is against the head of the bed, and she sits in front of you with her legs slightly parted. Natasha kneels in front of you, and she gets as comfortable as she desires.
Her right hand grabs the base of her fake cock. It weighs heavily in her grip, and she treats it like it’s real. “N- Nat…” you whisper out, and you so badly want to bargain for her to leave you alone. “Shh… I didn’t say you could speak, baby,” Natasha hushes, and her features harden in frustration. Your mouth remains open, and yet you don’t say a word.
“And don’t call me Nat. I’m not your friend,” she adds, tracing her finger against the most prominent vein on the cock. “Call me ‘Mommy’ because I’m your Mommy,” she demands, and you choke on your alcohol-flavoured saliva. Your eyes widen in shock, nearly falling out of their sockets—your stomach twists in disgust. You feel nauseous for many reasons.
But your pussy drools at the title, and hearing it come from her makes your clit throb just a tiny bit.
“Got it?” Natasha questions, tilting her head to the side. You nod your head, but then Natasha brings her other hand up to her head. Her pointer finger taps her ear, and your heart beats wildly once again. “Got it, Mommy,” you whisper as quietly as you can, and you’re upset with yourself. “Good girl! God, you’re so good for me, baby,” she praises with her cheeks as red as the wine.
You don’t say anything else to her, and your eyes dart around wildly as you try to focus on something other than her. You find yourself continuously returning to where her dominant hand is, and now and then, you stare for a few seconds too long. The veins, the length, the thickness, the sheer sight of it is so much for you to handle.
You can’t help but imagine her using it, and your imagination takes the reins to guide you to the image of her plowing into you until you’re sobbing as she promised.
That tight hole of yours drools with want and need, and you squeeze your thighs together to try and stop it. Natasha catches you, and she chuckles. “Oh, is that little pussy of yours wet, baby? There’s no need to be ashamed…” she purrs, batting her lashes. You whimper at her condescending tone, and she smiles widely.
Before you can say anything else, Natasha’s hand leaves her cock, and it comes up to her puckered mouth. All while locking eyes with you, she spits into her palm. She brings her hand back down to her cock, and she wraps her fingers around the thickest part. You follow her movements with your gaze, and suddenly, you’re watching your Step-Mother jerk herself off.
Her hand moves from the bottom of her cock, all the way to the fat tip. She strokes herself at a slow pace, almost as if she’s teasing both you and herself. The plastic shines a little bit, well-lubricated but not enough to smoothly fit into you without a wail or two.
Natasha’s other hand travels up to her chest, and her tits shift just a bit from the movement. The cold air has her nipples all pebbled up, and you can tell they’re just aching for some form of touch. Her fingers punch at her buds, and she lets out a soft moan. The sound travels straight to your wet pussy, and you’re drenched in your arousal.
She cups the soft skin, massaging one and then moving to the other in a pattern. Natasha rubs her hand over her chest, and her hips buck up into her fist. “Oh, baby, I’m so wet for you. You make me so wet, I can barely stop myself from touching…” she whispers for you, staring as she continues to play with herself. Natasha’s cheeks hollow out, and she leans forward to spit on her cock once again.
You watch as a wad of her saliva drips down to her hand, and it eventually disappears. Her hand moves quicker, and you’re so mesmerized by her movements. “I love touching myself while thinking about you. I think about fucking those holes of yours and sitting on your pretty face. Just using you as I please because that’s all you’re good for,” Natasha groans, squeezes one of her breasts harshly.
Biting down on your lip harshly, you can’t help but feel flustered with this new knowledge. “Mommy loves you so much, baby. My little fuck toy, all mine. Look at my hand. This could be your mouth, or maybe even your pussy if you’re lucky. I’d fuck you stupid and empty that mind of yours. Treat you how you deserve to be treated,” Natasha husks, and you let out a whimper.
“Oh, poor baby, you want my cock? Yeah? Do you like watching me play with myself? Say it, fucking say it to me,” she demands, and she moves her hand more roughly. Squelching sounds fill the room, along with her soft moans. Her skin is red and covered in a slight sheen of sweat. You want to be near Natasha so badly. You know it’s wrong, but the wine in your system makes you not care at all.
“I- I want your cock, Mommy. I love watching you play with yourself. It makes me so wet. Please, Mommy, please give me your cock,” you pathetically beg, and you find yourself grinding down against the bed for some sort of relief. She clicks her tongue and smiles in delight. “Good girl,” she praises, and suddenly, she stops touching herself. You feel the need to whine and beg for her to keep going, but you tell yourself not to.
Your Step-Mother’s right hand leaves her cock, and her left hand does the same with her chest. For a split second, the light catches on her diamond ring. It shines in your face, and the reminder has your stomach dropping and turning like a pot of acid. You’re repulsed—no, no, you want to be repulsed. But you don’t find it in you to want to throw up or scream at her or make a run for it.
Suddenly, Natasha is on top of you. She grabs your legs and drags you downwards. “Beg me to fuck you, slut,” she commands roughly, and you gulp thickly. “Uhm, uh,” you stutter, trying to come up with something as quickly as possible. “Or else I’ll tie you up and leave you to watch me for the rest of the night. I have this nice vibrator I wanted to try,” she threatens, and even though the offer isn’t that terrible, you still don’t like it.
Maybe she’ll leave you alone afterwards, and perhaps you can run away and never speak to anyone ever again.
“No! No, please don’t do that, Mommy. Please fuck me. I want you inside me so badly. I need you, Mommy, please. I’ll be your good girl, just for you,” you wail, and Natasha slowly parts your legs as you speak. Her cheeks turn pink, and she chuckles. “Fuck, you’re such a desperate whore. Surprised you haven’t tried to fuck me at all, especially with those wandering eyes of yours,” she smirks, and you’re ashamed of yourself.
Natasha pushes your legs up to your chest slowly. Your thighs touch your stomach, and her hands are between the backs of your knees. Your wet pussy is exposed to her entirely. Slickness drips from your tight hole down to your ass. Stickiness stains you in the best and worst way possible. You hate yourself for being hot and bothered because of her.
“Oh, you’re so wet, baby. All messy and soaked!” Natasha exclaims in faux concern. “I did this to you, didn’t I? I know I did. But I never thought you’d get this wet… Fuck, I want to clean you up so badly, but you haven’t worked hard enough for my mouth yet,” she groans, and you let out a soft moan. You’re just as drenched as your Step-Mom, if not more.
That dominant hand of hers returns to the base of her cock like a bad habit she just can’t quit. Natasha guides the tip of it to your pussy expertly. The fat head of her cock slaps against your sensitive little pearl. Once, twice, three times. Each hit sends jolts of sensitivity throughout your body, and your legs shake as well.
Her cock drags between your wet folds, and she soaks herself with your wetness. “Mommy… Please fuck me,” you plead one last time, and she smiles down at you. “You beg so nicely, baby. You need me so badly; you always have.” Slowly, Natasha pushes her cock inside of you without warning. Your hole stretches out widely, and you’re crying out in pain. It isn’t your first time, but this certainly is the only time you’ve taken someone with a cock as big as hers.
“Shhh… Take it all like the good girl you are, take all of Mommy’s cock,” she urges, and she sheathes her entire length inside you as soon as she finishes speaking. Your mouth drops open, and a silent scream leaves your mouth. Tears sting your eyes from the burning pain that lethargically dwindles into a dull, pleasurable ache. “Fuck, you’re taking me so well, baby. You’re just gripping me so tightly. I should’ve stretched you out first, but seeing you in pain because of my fat cock is much better.”
Natasha’s words make you clench down on the plastic that impales you. She’s deep in your guts, and she nudges against your sweet spot just a bit. Your Step-Mom looks down to where you’re both connected, and she curses at the sight. “This pussy was made just for me to abuse and use. Only mine, nobody else’s,” she whispers, and you nod your head even though you don’t really agree with her.
But deep down inside, you do.
“Mommy loves hearing how much her dumb baby needs her,” Natasha admits, and she shallowly thrusts into you with a smile on her face. “Gonna ruin this pussy, make sure you know who owns it,” she grunts before dragging her hips backwards. Natasha’s cock leaves your pussy, and the tip is what remains inside of you. Suddenly, she shoves herself back into you roughly and without warning.
“Mommy!” you cry out in pain, but Natasha simply ignores you. She fucks into you roughly. Each thrust of hers sends shockwaves of pleasure throughout your body. “F- Fuck, Mommy,” you moan lewdly, and your heart clamours wildly. Wet sounds come from your pussy, and along with the simultaneous moans, they fill the room up. Natasha’s cock slips in and out of you smoothly, and she fucks you relentlessly.
“You sound so fucking pathetic, baby, just like the whore I know you are. My little whore, just for me to fuck,” Natasha pants as she fucks you. Your body is hot as the fire, and you’re sweating profusely. You nod your head at her words rapidly, and she bitterly chuckles. “Already gone stupid for my fat cock, hm? How cute. Such a lovely keeper,” she shakes her head as she slows her thrust down.
The beginning build-up of your orgasm suddenly disappears, and you whine out her title. “Shut up,” she snaps, moving upwards. Natasha’s cock is shoved into you even more, and now, she’s fully bottomed out. “Those sounds are pretty and all, but you’re pretty selfish right now. Mommy deserves some pleasure too… Open your mouth,” she demands, but instead of obeying, you knit your eyebrows together in confusion.
“I’m not going to ask again or repeat myself, baby. I’ve been too nice to you. Just be the good girl you are, and listen to me. Don’t make me hurt you,” she threatens with a bone-chilling smile on her face. Natasha then licks her lips, and they darken in colour. Your eyes become round, and you stare at her in fear. Despite the wishes of the diminished voice in the back of your mind, you do as she says.
Your mouth drops widely, and you flatten your tongue. Natasha’s cock remains still inside of you, and your pussy throbs around it. Your walls are soaked, and so is her member. “Hold your legs,” she follows, and you do exactly that. You push your legs further against your sweating chest, but Natasha ignores your job well done. Her chest hovers above your face, and her tits hang right in your view. It’s a pleasant sight.
Slowly, Natasha lowers her body down to you, and one of her hands holds her up. The other travels to her left breast, and she slowly places it in your mouth. Involuntarily, your lips wrap around the sensitive and slightly hard skin of her nipple, and she lets out a moan along with a choked-out sound. “Put that empty brain of yours to work and do something. Mommy is tired of your stupidity. Lord knows how long that lover of yours dealt with it,” she snaps, and you start to suck on her breast.
Your tired tongue swirls around her sensitive nub, and your Step-Mom lets out a sigh of satisfaction. Her sounds go straight to your pussy, and she has you getting wetter by the second. “Good girl,” Natasha praises, and she pulls her hips backwards. You moan around her tender tit, and it sends vibrations to all her nerves. You flick your wet muscle up and down, and Natasha groans loudly.
“So good for Mommy,” she breathlessly says. All of a sudden, Natasha thrusts back into you roughly, and she starts to fuck you again. Her tit slips past your lips with a small ‘pop!’ sound, and without her saying anything, you move your head to take her right nipple into your mouth. You give it the same treatment as the other one. Your moans can be felt by her through her chest, and Natasha brutally ruins your pussy.
Different levels of burning sensations hit your body, and a searing flame licks at your lower abdomen. Natasha moves her hips at such a quick, rough and marvellous pace. “Y- You’re making me feel so good, baby. Thank God that lover of yours took my money. I can’t believe he would let go of such a precious little thing,” Natasha grunts, and you’re incredibly confused.
Suddenly, the tip of Natasha’s cock starts to pound against your sensitive spot. You mewl around your Step-Mother’s breast, and she pants loudly. Your pussy hugs her cock so tightly that she struggles to move just a tiny bit. Your moans grow louder and louder as the most sensitive parts of your pussy are being stroked. The plastic shines just as bright as her diamond ring, and it’s even accompanied by strings of wetness.
“My good little whore, letting her Step-Mom fuck her pussy without a care in the world…” Natasha growls, and her thrusts are now more passionate. You moan loudly, and you suck a little harder on her tit. That hot pressure in your abdomen begins to climb, and it gets more intense with each passing second. You’ve never felt anything like it, and your cunt clenches down on her tightly.
Your eyes roll back into your skull, and Natasha’s do the same. Though the pleasure she’s feeling isn’t that strong, it’s still enough to partially satisfy her. Natasha moves her chest away from you at a sudden, and your teeth lightly graze her sensitive nipple. She hisses, but she enjoys the pain regardless of her reaction. Her breasts are covered in saliva, and so are your lips.
In a frown, you stare at her intensely. Your moans become more high-pitched and pathetic, sounding just like the noises pornstars would make. “Oh, you’re going to come, baby? You want to come all over Mommy’s cock?” Natasha asks, and she grabs your chin to angle your head downwards. Your eyes turn up even more just to look at her. You look stupid and silly, yet still so gorgeous.
“Uh-huh, I’m gonna come, Mommy!” you squeal out, feeling yourself being pulled towards the edge of the steep cliff that she’s been luring you towards for the past few minutes. It’s like you’ve got ropes tight on every limb and your waist, and despite your best efforts, you just can’t fight them. “You gotta ask nicely, little baby. Or else…” she warns without even mentioning what terrible things she can and will do to you.
You’re quick, and you know what she wants to hear—a high-pitched voice referring only to her, begging her for something you so desperately need and desire.
“Mommy, can I come? Please? It feels so good. I want to come all over your big cock. Please, please, please!” you plead, slurring your words together. You’re drunk on both alcohol and pleasure. Both yours and Natasha’s tits shake with each movement of hers. “Please, please, please, Mommy. I need to come so badly,” you beg once more, and you don’t think you can hold off any longer.
“Good girl. My good little whore, so desperate to come. Go ahead, come all over my cock,” Natasha grants, and as if on command, your pussy convulses. You wail her title loudly, and your back arches off the bed. Black stars fill your vision, and Natasha eases you through your violent orgasm. Wetness soaks her plastic cock and drips down to the bedsheets. Your skin is stained, and so is hers.
Your heart shakes wildly in your chest. You gasp loudly, trying to catch your breath as Natasha knocks it out of you. “You’re so pretty when you come. All stupid and braindead, such a good look on you,” she chuckles, and she continues to fuck you. Each thrust of hers makes you shake, and you can’t handle the stimulation. You try to call her name and tell her to stop, but your words are interrupted by your cries of pleasure.
“‘S too much,” you whine, and your poor hole starts to ache. You hug Natasha’s cock tightly, and she begins to slow down after a few seconds. “I don’t care. We’re still going,” she growls, and she squeezes your jaw harshly. You try to shake your head, but she doesn’t let you. “Nuh-uh, nope. You don’t tell me what to do. Shut up and take it, slut,” Natasha spits, but you continue to protest.
“What? Poor pussy can’t take it?” she mocks, punctuating her sentence with a sharp thrust that leaves you trembling. “Mommy…” you whisper, yet you have no words to tell her how badly you need her to stop. “You know, you shouldn’t talk back to your elders. Especially your Step-Mom. So you better listen to me, baby,” she intones, and you nod your head even though her words haven’t sunken in.
“Good. And since you want me to stop so bad, I will. You can repay me for taking care of you by coming here and putting that mouth of yours to work. It’s what I deserve for helping you escape your demons,” Natasha entices, and you don’t say a word. Her cock slips out of you, and the sound of straps moving starts to fill the room along with your pants and whines. “C’mon, I’ve been so kind to you,” Natasha further presses.
Yeah, right. As if she hasn’t been making you crazy all this time.
Butterflies, took residence inside of you. Not the blue kind that makes you feel nauseous right before you stand and speak at a public event nor the kind that sat heavily at the rim of your stomach when you had bad news to deliver. No they were lavender, white and light pink. Fluttering like leaves in the wind. They almost lifted you off your feet and into the air. Thats what it felt like to talk to Helmut. You wondered if you ever felt this way with Bucky?
Warnings : Kind of fluffy, Mentions of Avengers with a bit of angst. (Not sure what I was thinking when I wrote this or where I wanted it to go.)
Summary: You got left behind by the Avengers and now you get to spend your days in the rift, When a familiar stranger ends up being your prison neighbor.
There was a beauty in the cruelty of this structure. It gave you a certain kind of sympathy for caged animals. You wondered if a Lion ever roamed its exhibit rethinking its entire life, each memory and each face haunting its mind. Or if it just plotted the day it would escapes it’s prison. It wasn’t the boredom that ate away at you. It was the constant flow of thoughts that never ceased to plague your memories. It was quiet while not being quiet enough. The metal skeleton groaned in the night as the waves violently slapped its under belly. If you were somehow able to escape the raft, chances were you would only be leaving it to meet your watery grave.
The light was too bright. It never seemed to fade or flicker, they never came in to change it either. You made small notches on the wall to count how many days it had been that the light never dimmed. It would be useful if you had some books to read. The man across from you had plenty of books, even a radio. His only problem was trying to find the best position to read his novels in. Lying down or sitting, sometimes he paced back forth in elegant strides. His stubble slowly began to grow into a small beard. It looked good on him. Sometimes you tried to count each hair as he tilted his head taking in the information within the pages. You were curious to what he was reading and why such a sophisticated looking man would do to end up in a place like this.
includes: smut ( minors dni ), dub con, light bondage, sex toys (vibrator & strap on!), degradation, mistress kink, au where Hela conquered Asgard
4k celebration prompts / please reblog if you enjoy !!
limitless ;
you’d lost count of your orgasms after the third. in true Hela fashion, she has you in the most vulnerable position possible, your wrists bound to your knees by braided rope of the highest quality. you were going nowhere. you couldn’t even bring your legs together to guard your hypersensitive sex from the seemingly endless waves of mind-numbing vibration.
you thrashed against the toy she presses between your folds, gliding it up and down to test your sensitivity from every angle. you had reached a limit, and surpassed it. you were breaking.
“I don’t know if I can take anymore!”
what a silly thing to say. you realize it once it’s spoken, and the goddess looms over you with her piercing eyes narrowed, an unholy grimace on her face. “Don’t know if you can?” she feigns concern, her free hand reaching to caress your heated cheek whilst the other holds the whirring vibe to your core. “Is my little one all spent? Her sensitive, little snatch all swollen and sore, now?”
collecting your lower lip between your teeth and biting hard to relieve the pressure from the abuse between your hips and muffle your hopeless mewling, you nod. “It… hurts…”
Hela simpers. with a click of the button on the bottom of the device, the vibration stops. you’re met with relief, but your hips still undulate, you still squirm with your legs wide open. tilting her head to one side, her raven tresses obscure the sharpness of her features, and long, slender digits tease your aching clit with butterfly strokes. your brows knit together, breath catching in your throat in a horrible croak, and you jerk against the restraints much more violently. “It hurts?” she asks, mocking perplexity as the expanse of her thumb pad rubs over your engorged nub. “Does this not feel good, little one? Your swollen cunt is dripping with desire, shuddering and eager to take your mistress’ cock, and you have the gall to tell me it hurts?”
throwing your head back, you spasm helplessly. “It-it’s too much, mistress!” you plea, arching your back up off the seat of the throne. Hela’s favorite place to play was always the throne room in Asgard, and she loved to pin you on the throne and fuck you while the guards watch. after all, Asgard was hers now, and therefore, you were hers.
“Have you forgotten that you are here for your queen’s amusement? That you are a little plaything for me to use as I please?” she demands, ignoring your cry for mercy, she has instead busied herself with smearing the juices collected on her fingers from your core on to the obsidian phallus harness to her naked hips with gilded straps. “I’ll have to remind you what you are.” her voice is low and coarse, and dripping with a ruthlessness that only the goddess of death can possess. it always sends an icy chill down your spine.
Hela guides the broad tip of her faux cock to part your folds and jab into your clenching hole. toes curling, you whine and babble, but take the first few inches in a single thrust that has your eyes rolling in your head. “Quite melodramatic, aren’t we?” she taunts, before drawing back almost to the point of slipping free from you. Hela’s hips buck forwards and she fills you completely this time, the icy kiss of the golden ring that holds the cock in place sending a shiver through you as it presses against your sex. you practically squeal at the sensation of being completely full paired with the overstimulation that has your entire core throbbing and screaming for a break. “You can take it, you’ve done it before.”
Hela hunches over your body, grasping your face hard. “Look at me,” she hisses, and you’ve no choice but to obey; eyes watery and wide, you look up at the goddess taking you without remorse. the pace at which she ruts into your poor frame is merciless and greedy, and you’ve no other option but to writhe and buck against the reckless fucking. “You’re my little whore, a living fuckhole. My property, and no whore of mine is going to tell me when to stop. It’s time to break that nasty habit, fucktoy, time to destroy every limit you ever thought you had. Your queen’s cock will keep you in line.”
summary. | He knows you can’t make it on your own, so he’ll put you in his movie.
warnings. | Dubcon (reader doesn’t know what he’s doing but consents to it), smut, drinking, age gap (reader is legal), virginity loss, choking, spanking, dirty talk, degradation, corruption kink, innocence kink, cream pie kink, penetration, teasing, praise, filming, voyeurism, porn (the industry), fluff, yearning, Daddy kink, humiliation, overstimulation, dumbification kink, and more. SMUT, 18+ MINORS DNI.
word count. | 6.5k.
pairing. | Grey!Pornstar!Helmut Zemo x Innocent!Reader.
a/n. | please enjoy and don’t forget to reblog! if you take ANY inspiration from my fics (and i’ll know, trust me) and you don’t give credit, you will be blocked and i’ll let others know. inspired by wet, written by the talented @thewritingdoll! do not translate or repost my fics at all.
You don’t like the heat, but you love the summer. The way the days are seldom cold and cloudy, with that occasional breeze that your skin gracefully soaks up in the same way your beach towel soaks up the water on your bathing suit. Popsicles of different flavours dripping down your skin and onto the hot sidewalk. The sticky residue makes you cringe, and you’d use the damp side of your towel to wipe it away. It would work for a few seconds, maybe even a minute or two, before the feeling returns.
You hate the heat, but you love to see him. Those swim trunks of his sticking to his wet skin. They’re a blue colour that seems easy to describe at first glance, but you’ll soon realize just how many shades of navy blue there are, and suddenly you don't even know what colour they are. Maybe it’s the colour of the jeans the cameramen wear, or perhaps it’s the colour of the night sky at around six in the evening during the summertime.
They lug heavy equipment, and you just wonder if they’re filming a movie. If your friends and family members got word, they’d probably lose their minds before begging you to get them a part. Vying for fame runs through the family tree branches, and even you would want a small part in it as well. You give them empty promises, forgetting their words after a few minutes until the following text message or phone call.
You don’t spend much time at the beach anymore. Heck, you haven’t been there since June. Your friends have left with their boyfriends and girlfriends on a trip to Bali, and all you have are your family members to keep you company. Your white fence, magazine and lawn chair are all you know of now. You spend your days outdoors, knowing each one will be filled with the same things. The sunlight, bees buzzing, and seagulls having unwarranted ferociousness.
Your parents spend their days at work, and you stay home to hold your small fort down. You don’t water the grass or touch the garden because your father does it better than anyone. You don’t touch the paint meant for the walls or the furniture boxes that are strewn across the floors because your mother knows where to put them and how to paint. You just relax, and you don’t mind it at all.
That was until you saw him.
Curiosity is your closest friend other than the blue raspberry flavoured popsicles that take up more space in your freezer than anything else. So when the empty house next door suddenly filled up with around half a dozen people, you just couldn’t help but wonder what they were doing. So you peer over the fence, standing on the small two-step ladder that your dad stole from his previous job.
Women and a few men are laughing, dressed down in both swimsuits and t-shirts. Their bodies are lovely, the pinnacle of beauty that you sometimes envy. Other times, you’d feel as though you’re the prettiest girl in the world, and that’s not far from the truth. They’ve got different brands of alcohol in their hands, White Claw cans littered on the ground, and you cringe at the mess.
They must be mentally younger than you’ll ever be again because no person older than you can act like this. Heavy, black cameras are resting nearby briefcases, and you hope to god that nothing illegal is going on. The last thing you need is the police questioning you at 1 in the morning. Some of the men ogle at the younger ladies, and they bask in the attention. You watch as their eyes rake up and down their shiny, sweaty bodies.
“Oh, please, the least you all can do is wait for me before you start the party,” a man snickers, stepping out of the house. You look over to him, and your breath is taken away. Water drips down his face, cascading down to his neck and onto his slightly hairy chest—a navy bluish-purple robe and those blue swim shorts that peek through underneath the cloth. The colour of the fabric goes oh so well with the blue of his eyes. They all laugh until they’re sighing and already cracking open another bottle of beer.
You admire him from afar, and you can’t help but be mesmerized by the way he moves: such grace, such elusiveness. The glass in his hand isn’t cheap beer or tequila; it’s whiskey that looks rich as fuck, and he swigs it back like it’s water. You remember the first time your father and mother brought whiskey home from the local liquor store. Your father didn’t enjoy it, and neither did your mother. It sat in a random cupboard until a year ago when your mother decided to throw it out.
He lets out an exhale as the amber liquid flows down his throat, and you watch in awe as he handles the burn like a champion. God, you can’t even handle beer if you try hard enough. He gently places the glass onto the table, far away from the men’s feet, as he knows that they can be quite clumsy. There must be a proper name for all feelings; you believe. Like that feeling when it dawns on you that you’ll never experience something like this ever again.
Or maybe the feeling that Helmut has right now. Not the excitement of finishing this film, and not the tiredness that is a result of working too hard. No, the feeling that he knows you’re watching him from over the fence. He sans his hand towards you, and you quickly duck down, letting out a whimper. You nearly fall from the small ladder, but it wouldn’t be so graceful if it did happen. “What’s wrong, Baron?” one of his co-stars teasingly asks.
“Nothing... Must’ve been the whiskey…”
You don’t hate the summer; you just don’t like the boredom. Even relaxation is something you can tire of, believe it or not. You’ve got nothing to do. Your friends are still out of town, and your parents are at work. You’ve cleaned the house not once, not twice, but three times. Your closet is as clean as it’ll ever be, and the pantry is now organized by most used to least used. The plants have been properly watered, even though it wasn’t necessary since the forecast said there’d be light rain.
You love the rain, especially during the summertime. The sky makes the surrounding world have an almost orange tone to it. The after smell––an earthy, oceanic scent that is so unique––is something you’ll forever look forward to. You’re excited for the day it’ll rain, but even meteorologists tend to be wrong, and Mother Nature has a thing for keeping her children on their toes. It’s one of the many reasons why you love her. So with your little red dress on, you spin around in the backyard.
You’re sensible. You know what creepy crawlers lie underneath the dirt, between the fluffy grass. So instead of being barefoot (just like in those Sofia Loren movies) and playing around, you grab that little latter once again. You’ve scrubbed the grooves and cleaned them of their plant stains––sloppily, of course. Your oversized slippers belong to your dad, and they struggle to stay on your feet, but it doesn’t matter.
You’re not going to be moving around much, anyway. You move the latter closer to where you last saw the group of men and women. You truly hope you don’t get caught and get into any trouble; the last thing you want is your parents scolding you and embarrassing you. You step up on the ladder carefully, grasping onto the wooden fence for support. The surface is hot to the touch, and you really want to let go, but you really shouldn’t. You whisper affirmations along the lines of ‘I won’t fall…’ over and over again, under your breath.
And you hope to God they work.
Admittedly, you also hope he’s wearing those blue swim shorts of his again. The look (and he) resides in your heart, amongst other tubes and canals that have learned to make room for friends, family and passions. But he’s not a friend, he’s not family, and he’s most certainly not a passion. ...He’s something else, that’s for sure. An enigma, really. He reminds you of that feeling––the one that has a name, temptation. Someone tells you not to do something you weren’t going to do in the first place, and now you want to do it.
Except the case is different. You shouldn’t be perving on strangers like this––sneaking up on them, spying on them––all because you just can’t help it. Your mind tells you to stop, but it’s just giving you all the more reason to continue doing it. So, until you nearly get caught one more time, you’ll continue to watch him. Desperate to figure out who he is and what he’s doing.
The cameras are no longer on the ground; a smart decision, given that there’s a pool that takes up more space than anything. The blue water of pools has always fooled you. You grew up believing that it was the true colour of water, not even knowing that it was, in fact, the tiles and not the water. There’s no mess there either, clean and tidy. Maybe professionally done, because the concrete has but not one dark spot or crease where grass grows out of it.
Laid perfectly, you know your mother and father would admire it for a few minutes. You squint your eyes and gaze at the glass sliding door. Inside is him. You let out one of those dreamy, love-filled sighs that only main characters do in romance movies. You watch him as he pours himself a cup of coffee, two spoonfuls of sugar, and a dash of what seems to be almond milk.
You wonder if he likes iced coffees, as they can be so nice during the summertime. He wears those lovely blue swim shorts once again, hair slightly damp (with a pretty curliness to a few strands) and a navy bathrobe. It’s that same outfit as the other time you saw him, and you realize that they’re probably filming a movie. He moves around the counter, putting away certain little ingredients and whatnot.
The most mundane actions ever, ones that even you did just this morning. But god, he just makes it all seem so unique. He cards his fingers through his brown, almost dirty blond hair. There are clumps of strands that stick together, wetness that’ll dry probably as soon as he steps outside. He faces the window, staring out towards the fence that has been freshly painted, and sighs.
His head lulls back, and his neck is exposed. He’s probably both an actor and a model, you think to yourself. His chest hair has grown a bit more, and you can’t find yourself complaining. Tingles run through your body and even down to your pussy. You rub your thighs together, trying to make the feeling go away, while still being careful about holding onto the fence. You hope that he doesn’t know you’re watching him because you’ll never be able to live that down.
And it’s just so unfortunate that Helmut is such a clever man. Heightened senses from when he used to camp a lot when he was younger; he just knows practically everything. He knows you’re watching him, squinting your eyes until they’re nearly shut close. The skin around them wrinkles in the most adorable way, just like the way your nose scrunches up out of instinct. God, he could kiss every crevice of your body, even if you don’t know who he is.
“Hey, Helmut, we have a few re-shoots to do. Do you want to start now?” one of the cameramen asks him, holding a microphone in his hand. “No… I’m tired; we’ll do it all tomorrow,” Helmut says, waving his hand. He’s no longer looking outside and instead at the man who he’s addressing. He nods and walks off before Helmut follows him. Common courtesy is to always escort your guests out, and Helmut was raised with manners. With a hand on the man’s lower back, and a smile on his face, Helmut gently pushes him out the door and locks it.
You watch him as he disappears, seemingly leading someone out of his home, and you think all is fine. That is until that little voice in your mind decides to be obnoxious. The slight possibility that you’ve been caught and he’s mad haunts you, and your breath hitches. Your eyeballs are wide open, as big as the eyes of an owl, and your hands shake a bit out of fear. They dampen up a bit, not enough to the point where you’d be disgusted, but they’re clammy nonetheless.
You make a move to jump off the latter, not caring about the possible risk of falling and scraping your pretty legs. Your hands begin to let go of the fence, but they’re stopped by someone grabbing you by your wrists. You let out a squeal of shock as they hold you tightly from over the barrier, and you’re screwed. “I’m sorry!” you quickly yell, squinting your eyes out of fear. You’re not sure what to expect, whether he would yell at you or threaten to call the cops.
“No, it’s okay. Calm down, I’m not mad. Come back,” Helmut tells you, and you calm down. Yet you’re still nervous, scared that he’s a liar and that you’ll be in deep shit with the law. You step back onto the latter and are wary of looking over the wood. His eyes meet yours, and you swallow thickly. “I’m not mad, okay? I think it’s kind of cute. You’re like a curious little bunny,” he smiles, and you giggle.
“Never been called that before, usually just a curious cat,” you share with him, and he laughs. “Well, that’s not wrong,” he adds. A brief silence intrudes, and you just stare at one another. Helmut’s eyes jump from feature to feature on your face, relishing in that unique gorgeousness of yours. Someone like you will never be found amongst models because you’re an absolute angel. You’re like a pretty rose amongst other flowers; all are beautiful in their own ways, but you always manage to stand out.
You wonder if Helmut is the wolf to your bunny. That dark look in his eyes that compliments his features and overall attitude. He carries himself in such a way that old Hollywood actors wish they were so graceful. He’s the polar opposite of you––seemingly. But from the few words you’ve exchanged with each other, he just might be a bunny friend to yours. “I- I saw that there were cameras and I heard people talking… Are you filming a movie?” you ask him.
“...Yes, we are, bunny. I apologize for being so loud. Do you forgive me?” Helmut questions with a smile on his face. You nod your head and bite on your bottom lip, watching as his eyes brighten up a bit. “What’s it about? Can I know? Are you the main protagonist? Or the antagonist? What genre is it?” you interrogate, flooding him with questions. “Shh, one at a time, bunny. It’s very, very special and secretive. I can’t tell you much. But I’m the main protagonist, and it’s a bit of a naughty movie, so I don’t think a little girl like you should know much,” he whispers to you.
You nod your head as you listen to him, so intrigued about the work of art being filmed next door. “I’ve always wanted to be in a movie! Especially in one of those old Hollywood ones, they’re so good,” you admit to him shyly, with a coy smirk on your face. “Really? I think you’d be an amazing actress. You’d be even more popular than Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe,” Helmut praises, and you giggle once again.
“T- Thank you so much! ...Can I be in your movie?” you politely request him, but he shakes his head. You frown, your bottom lip jutted out. “You wouldn’t want to be in this movie, bunny. Remember what I said? It’s a naughty movie, and you’re just a little girl,” he reminds you, but you’re still pouting. “Is it a violent movie? One with curse words and lots of scary stuff?” you innocently ask, not sure as to what he means.
Helmut laughs quite loudly. “No,” he stifles a chuckle, “but one day I’ll shoot a movie with you, and I’ll show you how it’s all done.” He promises, and you can just tell he’s honest. You’re elated, hoping that the day he’s talking about will come soon. “What is your name, bunny?” Helmut asks, and you tell him. He nods before repeating it, giving you a smile. He brings both of your hands close to his face. You go on the tip of your toes to properly watch him once more. He presses his lips to the back of your hands, kisses them one by one.
“Go get some rest, bunny, and come by my place tomorrow,” he tells you before letting go of your wrists. He walks off before you do anything else. Sliding the glass door behind him, he disappears somewhere, and you’re left all by yourself. You’re still standing there, sighing dreamily as you replay the moments that will surely turn into a broken record. You hope that he’ll wear those blue swim shorts again, even though he’s already worn them twice.
There’s a skip in your step—nothing new and nothing unusual. Your shoes scratch against the concrete of the sidewalk that connects to Helmut’s front door. The sun only rose an hour and a half ago. The sky is a bright blue, filled with a few clouds that compliment the colour. The sun beats down onto your skin, and you haven’t forgotten to put on sunscreen once you finish twirling around in your little sundress.
You’ve got a miniature backpack that is slung over both of your shoulders. It’s orange, a bright one, in fact. It reminds you of the tangerines you love to peel, and those creamsicle treats that can be quite rare to find at this time of the year. You climb up the two steps that lead to his grey door, and you rap the wood a few times. There’s a doorbell too, one of those high-tech ones that record everything in its view.
Nothing but silence echoes back. No cars driving by, no birds chirping, no insects buzzing. Nothing. You wonder if he’s woken up yet, or if he’s even home. But as the door suddenly swings open––without a squeak, mind you––you’re met with the smiling face that belongs to Helmut. “Good morning, early-bird, is everything alright?” he questions, not one ounce of sleep tainting his look.
“Good morning! Everything is alright… D- Do you remember what you told me yesterday? About coming by?” you ask him, almost thinking to yourself that you’re just insane and that conversation never really happened. “Oh, right! Sorry, I've been a bit forgetful lately. But come in, have you eaten already?” Helmut asks as he moves to the side for you to enter.
Hesitatingly, you step inside his home. You kick off your shoes and look around. It seems sleek and modern at first, quite… different from the familiar feel of your house. Now, there are no wild polygons or geometric shapes that make you feel like you’ve been placed on a spaceship. No, it’s something that even your mind can’t come up with. The walls are a cream colour, engraved with different patterns that make it resemble marble. The chairs and couches have clear plastic legs on them, adding to that newfound era feel.
The floors are a light brown colour; wood in the shape of long, skinny parallelograms fitting against each other perfectly. The lights hang down a bit, high ceilings that you can’t even fathom reaching. You spin around and look up at them as they shine down brightly on you. They stem down from a pretty grey bronze appliqué that is attached to the ceiling. It’s practically art, just like the portraits of half-naked ladies that hang on his walls. There’s a specific piece that is above the fireplace.
It’s a mirror, and your reflection is in it. So is Helmut’s. You’re in front of him, looking at him through the mirror. He’s behind you, staring at your reflection. You both stay like that for a bit before you look away and admire the windows. He has such a lovely view; you can’t help but envy him for it. “Now, bunny, I have to be honest with you. We wrapped the movie up last night, and it was very late. I didn’t call you over because of that, and I’m really sorry about that. Do you forgive me?” Helmut questions.
You nod your head eagerly, just sensing that he’ll lead on with some sort of good news. Your parents have done that far too many times for you not to know better. “But, if you want, I’ll put you in a movie. It’ll be just between you and me because it won’t be too professional, okay?” Helmut grabs your hands and looks you in the eyes, waiting for your answer. “Oh, yes, please! That sounds amazing. Thank you so much!” you cheer, wrapping your arms around him.
You hug him tightly, and he eventually hugs you back. “Now, I want to finish it as soon as possible. So set your bag right on this couch, and go sit on that one,” Helmut instructs, pointing at the biggest couch in the living room. You nod and do exactly as he tells you. He walks away, possibly to set something up or to get ready, but either way, you still sit on his couch, filled with pure excitement. You cross one leg over the other, your pretty white dress covering the upper half of your thighs.
Lace that is on top of the cotton, both the same colour, and you realize how much you love this dress. Helmut saunters back into the living room, holding a giant tripod in one hand and a small camera in the other. You gasp at the sight, and he chuckles. Setting them up from the other side of the small coffee table, you watch him in awe. “This is going to be… a big girl movie, okay? Just like the one I was in. But I don't think it will be visible to the public eye, might just be between you and I,” Helmut tells you.
You nod in understanding. “Are you fine with that, little bunny?” he asks you just for reassurance. “Mhm, you can do anything you want; I don’t mind!” you reassure him, with a giant smile on your face. He swallows thickly as blood rushes downwards to his cock from your words. You still grin gleefully, such innocence on your features that he almost feels bad for having feelings for you.
He presses the little power button on the camera and waits for a green light to come on. With a smirk, Helmut walks around the table and stands in front of you. You look up at him, waiting for him to do something. He bends down and grabs both sides of your face––gently, of course––and he makes you stand up. He tilts his head and leans forward, slotting his lips against yours.
Now, you’ve kissed someone before. His name started with something along the lines of ‘J’ or ‘L,’ but that doesn’t matter. But that kiss was nothing like Helmut’s kiss. His kiss is soft and passionate, something you struggle to match. His lips stay locked with yours before moving to push his tongue into your mouth. You’re not sure what to do, so you just give up and let him kiss you until you both run out of breath. His tongue runs against the wet skin of your mouth, and you gasp at the feeling.
He eventually pulls away, and he looks at you with his eyes blown out. Helmut sighs and smiles at you. “You gotta trust me, okay?” he tells you once more, and you nod. “Ok…” you trail off, not knowing what to follow up with. “You gotta call me by a nickname, bunny… Hmm, how about Daddy?” he exclaims, his accent becoming more prominent. You love it and how unique it is. “Okay! I like that one a lot, my friend calls her boyfriend that sometimes,” you share with him, and he laughs.
He sits you down on the couch again, and his hand inches up your dress, making you giddy. He smiles at you, and you can see from the corner of your eye how the camera is filming you both. Helmut just knows you’re wet already, but you probably don’t know it. And he’s not wrong. You feel slightly tingly, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary. Your panties slide down your legs, a wet patch on them, and Helmut throws them to the side. He lifts your dress over your head and tosses the fabric away, too.
He takes a step back and admires you. You still have your ankle socks on, but God, you’re so gorgeous he thinks he’s in heaven. “You’re so pretty, bunny. The prettiest bunny I’ve ever seen,” he compliments. You grow shy and smile before whispering a thank you. You smile at the camera, and he begins to undress. The first thing that goes is the robe, and his chest is now exposed.
Helmut hasn’t shaved his chest hair, and you’re glad. It looks nice on him––but to be fair––anything does. All he has on is those swim shorts. God, you love those shorts so much. They’re no longer wet, and yet they still cling to his thighs. He slowly pulls them down––and you feel as though you should look away and give him privacy––but you just can’t. His cock is hard, and it shows through the fabric, but you’re too busy staring at his hands to notice it.
His Adonis belt is slowly exposed, along with his pelvic bone, as he pulls down his boxers as well. There’s a small bush of hair right above his cock, and you find yourself wanting to tangle your fingers between the strands. Helmut’s cock bounces up––hard, red, and leaking––and the tip slaps right below his belly button. You let out a gasp, and he chuckles. His swim shorts lie on the floor, and you’re suddenly being urged to lay back.
Helmut climbs on top of you, caging you beneath his well-built body. Soft abs that are just perfect enough for you, and big hands that hold you so lovingly. He wants to feel his rough palms against your delicate skin, falling into every groove and curve there is. Like an artist admiring their artwork, he runs his hands along your body. From your thighs to your hips, over your stomach, between your breasts, all the way up to your neck. His hard cock is between your legs, nearly touching your sensitive little pussy.
You swallow nervously at the feeling. Helmut’s left hand wraps around your throat, and his right hand moves downwards to your legs. Gripping your calf, he places your right leg on the head of the couch and moves to position your left leg so that it hangs off the edge of the seat. You’re spread wide open for Helmut, not able to hide your naked body or close your legs. Your hands rest above your head, almost as though you’re pathetically shielding your hair from the rain.
Helmut’s hand still rests on your neck, but he doesn’t squeeze your throat or anything like that. You’re not sure if he’s playing the antagonist or not, but you decide to just go along with what he does. “You’re okay, right, bunny? You’re fine, I’m gonna treat you so good,” he promises, and you give him your best superstar smile. You have to admit that you’re nervous, but you trust him completely. Helmut would never do anything wrong to you.
“Has anyone ever touched you down here, bunny? Have you ever touched down here?” he questions you, walking his fingers up to your soaking wet pussy. “Hmm, uh, I touched it once, but I didn’t know what was happening, so I stopped,” you shyly explain to him, and he nods. “That’s okay, bunny. Can I touch you here? I won’t hurt you too badly, I promise,” Helmut assures you, and you nod. His index finger sticks out, and he watches as slick drips from your hole and coats the silky skin around it.
The digit becomes a bit shiny and quite sticky, and he traces your slit lightly. You shiver lightly from his touch, and sensitivity blooms in your core. “Uhm… Daddy?” you call out to him, a bit worried. “What’s wrong, bunny?” he asks, bringing his finger up to your clit. It throbs with want, just like the veins on his cock. “It feels very sensitive, almost too sensitive…” you admit to him, even though he continues to touch your clit.
“That’s okay, bunny, that’s how it’s supposed to feel. But if you want to stop, just tell me,” Helmut urges you. “Okay, Daddy.” He rubs your little nub in small, light circles. The muscles in your legs twitch, and you bite down on your bottom lip. He continues to touch your clit, and you begin to writhe from the overwhelming feeling. You let out a few whines, and Helmut watches as your cunt just gets wetter and wetter.
You try to shift his hands away from you in your weird position. It’s just too much at once, and you’re scared of what will happen next. The pornstar’s finger slips off your cunt, and he lets out a small gasp. The sound is mixed with displeasure, and you look him in the eyes with innocence. “Don’t do that again, bunny,” he warns, squeezing your neck a bit just to add to his threat.
His index finger returns to your clit, and this time, he rubs your little pearl even harder. You see stars, ones that are dark and would be hidden in the blackness of outer space. Your eyes roll back into your skull, and you’ve never felt such pleasure in your life. Helmut’s digit touches the most sensitive part of your clit, and you jerk in response. Your legs try to shut close, but his body stops you from doing so.
When you open your eyes, you’re faced with a displeased superstar. Helmut lets out a shaky exhale, trying to compose himself. He knows he shouldn’t get mad at you, but he just doesn’t like it when he doesn’t have his way. His hand leaves your cunt and moves downwards. Suddenly, a harsh slap lands on your ass, making you cry out in pain. The skin stings and prickles, and you can feel slight tears beginning to form in your eyes.
Instead of staring at your pretty little face, Helmut squeezes your neck even tighter and watches as your little hole begins to leak with even more wetness. “Aww, bunny, did you enjoy Daddy hitting you? Hm? I bet you did; that’s you’re so wet,” he chuckles, and you grow shy. He’s not wrong, though. You enjoyed the pain quite a bit, even though you tend to avoid any and all activities that could leave you with a minor injury.
“Such a little slut for pain. But I bet you don’t like it when Daddy gets mean with you, right? Yeah, because you’re just a sensitive little bunny,” he coos, and you smile. You nod to him, and he grins down at you. Helmut’s cock is a furious red, almost purple if you really look closely. Beads of precum run down the sides of his cock, all the way to his thick base. He slaps your ass once more, enjoying the way you flinch and then smile from delight.
“I guess I’ve been a bit mean, just touching your little button without even letting you come…” he sighs before shifting onto his knees. Helmut looks over to the camera, just to make sure it’s still recording. And it is, so he smiles. He towers over you even more now, a few strands on his hair dangling downwards, and you find yourself wanting to play with them. The hand that was on your ass grasps the base of his cock, and he runs the head through your folds.
A quiet squelching sound echoes between the both of you, and you giggle. Your laughter is cut short when he bumps up against your clit, and you let out a moan. The sound is unexpected on your behalf, but Helmut just smirks. Your moans turn into a string of shallow pants, and he curses under his breath at the feeling. Dragging his head away from your clit, he brings himself down to your hole, and you let out an even louder gasp.
“Shh, just let Daddy in, okay? I know it’s your first time, but it’s okay. You’re fine, don’t worry,” Helmut reassures. You nod your head and let out a pained cry as he pushes into you slowly. You feel as though you’re being torn apart, split into two. He grips your throat even tighter, and you wrap your hand around his wrist in a panicked, fleeting moment.
Helmut sheathes himself inside you, with your mouth parted open in a silent scream and his eyebrows knitted together. He eventually bottoms out, and the stretch of his cock goes from a harsh burn to a pleasurable feeling. His swollen balls touch your aching ass, and he bends down to kiss your forehead lightly. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he questions. “Y- Yes, it feels really good, Daddy. Just a li’l uncomfortable, but it feels really good,” you tell him.
Your cunt squeezes him in a tight hug, your silky wet walls welcoming him in hesitantly. He wishes to stay inside you his whole life, and he would if he could convince you. Helmut pulls out until his head is the only thing inside you before roughly thrusting back inside. You cry out, and his hand loosens around your throat. “Such a good girl, letting me use your pussy for my pleasure. You like being recorded while I fuck you, right? Say it,” he demands, fucking into you roughly.
Your tits bounce with each and every movement. Helmut’s cock gets closer and closer to your sweet spot, and you moan loudly. “I- I like being recorded while you fuck me, Daddy,” you repeat to him. Helmut groans loudly, and you clench down on his cock tightly. “You feel so good, bunny, better than anyone else,” he compliments, feeling slick sweat beginning to build upon his back. “Uhm, Daddy? S- Something’s happening,” you whisper to him through your desperate cries of pleasure.
Searing heat grows hotter and hotter in your stomach, right above your pussy. You’ve never felt like this before, other than when Helmut was touching your pussy a few moments ago. “Let it happen, bunny, it’s okay, come all over Daddy’s big cock. I know you can do it, squeeze me, bunny,” Helmut urges, and you listen to him. The powerful feeling grows and grows, and so do your moans. And the elastic cord breaks eventually. It always does.
You cry out ‘Daddy’ as you come undone around his cock for the very first time. He continues to fuck you through your orgasm, even though you’re gripping him so tightly. You gush all over him, wetness coating his cock, and it makes him fuck you even quicker. The sound of skin on skin and loud moans fill the room, and Helmut hopes to God that the microphone is picking up on it all. The feeling in your body makes you lose all sense of reality, and you’re babbling like a little baby.
“Daddy- It’s too much,” you sob to him, digging your nails into your palms. “Shh, it’s okay, bunny,” he shushes gently, keeping his hand wrapped lazily around your neck. Helmut’s cock slams into your cunt, pounding into you ruthlessly, yet he’s somehow oh so gentle. Your eyes roll into the back of your head again, and you moan gently as you feel another climax being built up. Back to back, and you’re not sure how your body is going to handle it.
He’s close, too. He’s never had this happen before, and he’s not sure what to think of it.
“Awe, you’re going to come again, bunny? That’s okay, shh, Daddy’s here, bunny. We’ll do it together, and it’ll b- be good,” he tells you, and you nod. Helmut bends down and places his shiny forehead against yours. He stares you into your glassy eyes––they’re hazy––and he can tell you’re gone. You’ve gotten all stupid and dumb for his cock, and he loves the idea so much.
You both pant as he sloppily fucks into your cunt, his heavy balls slapping against your ass. “Fuck, I can’t wait to fill up your tight little pussy with my cum. Gonna watch it leak out, and I’m just gonna fill you up over and over again. Make you all mine because you belong to me. Right? Say it,” he growls, fucking you even faster. “I’m all yours, Daddy, I’m all yours,” you say to him, and you’re both pushed off the edge after one specific thrust.
“O- Oh my…” you choke out, squeezing your eyes shut. Helmut curses loudly, saying all kinds of sinful things that a nun would faint if she hears him. His cock twitches as he comes inside you, and your pussy squeezes him as you let go. Streaks of cum shoot out his tip and paint your inner walls, and it all begins to leak out already. Your cum mixes with his, and he can’t lie and say he doesn’t enjoy the sight of it.
He presses a kiss on your nose before slowly pulling out. Helmut’s cock is still hard, and he just knows the afternoon won’t end until he says so. You wince loudly at the feeling of emptiness and overwhelming sensitivity. “Sorry, bunny,” he frowns, reaching over for the camera. You watch him through droopy eyelids as he focuses it on your cunt, then to your body, and then to your face.
“Did I do good, Daddy?” you ask him excitedly.
“So good, bunny. You’re going to be sweeping up at the awards next year.”
summary. | He’s close, almost too close. Just suffocating you, not letting you have one ounce of freedom. But he’s only sitting across from you. So why does the nearness of him hurt so much?
warnings. | Noncon, exhibitionism, orgasm denial/edging, dark themes, breaking and entering, stalking, obsession, use of vibrator, mentions of panty sniffing, mentions of male masturbation, sex fantasies (choking, sadism, penetration, oral, breeding, etc...), drinking, and more. 18+ MINORS DNI!
word count. | 4k
pairings. | Dark!Bucky Barnes x Reader.
a/n. | happy birthday @threeminutesoflife! i hope you have an amazing day and that you enjoy yourself. thank you for being such a good friend. happy birthday, ily! please enjoy, and please don’t forget to reblog! if you take ANY inspiration from my fics (and i’ll know, trust me) and you don’t give credit, you will be blocked and i’ll let others know.
He’s close, too close.
Though the table is around a metre and a quarter in width, you feel like you’re suffocating.
“How’s your wine? Hope it isn’t too much. Expensive things usually mean the creators overdo it,” he chuckles briskly. Yeah, he’s right. “No, it’s fine… It’s just that I’ve never tried something like this,” you admit to him, wringing your hands. They’re cold, yet they have a sheen of sweat covering them. You wipe them over your dress a few times, but it doesn’t seem to solve your predicament.
“Me neither. I honestly prefer beer over this!” Bucky exclaims, even though he tilts the glass back and chugs the wine. “Hm.” Your plate is empty. You find appetizers to be stupid—what even is the point of them? They fill you up for two seconds and just leave you to be even hungrier. “It sounds stupid; it really does, but is it weird that I drink for the taste? I can’t get drunk, but there’s something about the taste that makes me want to grab another beer,” he chuckles, setting down his glass.
“It’s uh, it’s not weird at all. Makes sense, to be honest,” you smile at him. He flashes an even more giant grin, staring at you for a bit before you look down. Your reflection is warped. The circles of the plate are faint; they’re from the hands of the crafter, and you find it so interesting how dishes are made. You’ve taken a pottery class once—it was fun—but the lopsided green bowl you made and painted no longer exists. It fell from a shelf and broke into tiny little pieces.
Maybe because it was too close to the edge.
“Remind me to never come here ever again. I didn’t pay over two hundred dollars for the service to be this slow,” Bucky laughs, and you shake your head. You know he’s just being lighthearted, but it’s still wrong of him to say such things. “Well, it’s busy, Buck. They just can’t rush things,” you remind him. “I know, but we’ve been sitting here for over thirty minutes!” he reasons, and you fight your hardest to not smile.
“How about we play a game to pass the time?” he proposes, and you nod. “Sure, it just depends on the game,” you tell him. Your hands rest on the table, and you can feel an old lady cast a glare towards you. “I spy, have you ever played it?” he questions, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “I have; it was my favourite game to play on road trips,” you recount to him, grabbing your glass of wine again,
This time, you only take a small sip.
“Okay, well… I spy with my little eye, something that is dark red,” he starts. You’d say the wine, but that’s too obvious. You look around the restaurant, trying not to be too obvious. “Hmm… Is it that lady’s hat?” you ask him, nodding your head in her direction. He looks her way but then turns back to you with a frown on his face. “Sorry, doll, it’s just right under your nose,” he hints. You look down, just to be faced with the glass of wine.
“I knew it. That was my first guess!” you exclaim, gripping the stem of the glass. You swirl the liquid around and watch as a cyclone forms inside the drink. It spins and spins, just like those black and white strips that hypnotize you. “Since you lose, I’ll have to punish you,” he smirks, his voice dropping just a few octaves. You look up at him in shock, not liking what he might be implying. You barely even know him—he’s never been to your house, and you haven’t spoken to him other than on the phone and on dates.
“Look-” you start before he cuts you off with a laugh. “I’m just playing. All you gotta do is finish that glass of wine,” he tells you, his eyes a bit glassy and dark. “Oh, my bad.” You pick the glass up and bring it to your lips, swallowing all of the wine as Bucky watches you. Not a drop is left-back, and you feel proud of yourself. “Good girl,” he mutters quietly. The sound of chatter that reverberates throughout the restaurant hides his words, and he’s thankful.
Dim lighting that is the same colour as the sun that sets on the horizon at around seven-something in the evening. There are more shadows in the room than anything, and the darkness hides his wandering eyes from your careful ones. The floors are made of sleek wood, possibly oak or something else. Clearly not suitable for dancing, which is why he believes it’s idiotic for them to have a miniature orchestra playing Beethoven and Tchaikovsky.
“Let me get someone to bring another bottle, that way, we can have more fun,” Bucky proposes, and you hesitate in agreeing with him. If you drink your heart away, the night most definitely won’t end well. Before you can even reason with him, he’s lifting his arm up and signalling a waitress to come by. You burn out the rest of their conversation, ears on fire and your mind buzzes.
The vibration spreads throughout your body, down to your toes and even to your pussy. You’re ashamed, but it’s something you must get used to. Whenever you get drunk—or, well, whenever you drink alcohol—you get a bit… frisky. Your skin turns hot to the touch, and you need to touch something or someone to keep yourself stable. Some of your friends think it’s funny and laughable, but your past flings have always thought it’s cute.
You’re never sure what it truly is.
You watch as your glass is filled up with more wine, all the way up to the brim, and you realize that you could really go for a fancy meal right about now. “Thinking about that food? Me too. Should’ve asked the waitress. But I suppose this wine will do us good until then,” he chuckles, and you can feel the tingling between your legs begin to intensify. Almost like your well-loved toy, there’s a slight vibration that shouldn’t be there. But you suppose it’s just the wine—because it always is. Right?
Warmth fills your core, and you’re a bit flushed. Sweat begins to build upon your back like a thin layer of silk. Your clit pulsates a bit, and you can feel yourself getting wetter and wetter by the second. Your head rolls a bit, only a little bit. You squeeze your thighs together and wiggle them around, trying to alleviate this new ache that just seems to get worse and worse. Closing your eyes, you sigh and try to compose yourself.
“Your turn,” he tells you, and you nod. You look around, trying to find something to settle your sights on. The vase that stands on the lectern where the hostess sits catches your eye, and you smirk. “I spy with my little eye… Something made of porcelain and is black,” you tell Bucky before grabbing your glass again. You tilt it only slightly because it’s already so full. Red alcohol slips past your equally as bloodied lips, and you ask yourself why you don’t drink wine more.
He turns himself entirely in his chair, and you’re sure he’ll never figure it out. “Is it that vase over there?” he asks, pointing at it with no shame. “Yeah, it is,” you tell him, and he smiles at you. He doesn’t turn around, and he keeps looking at the vase. The back of his hair isn’t as gelled as the top, and you’re not sure how to feel about it. The back of his suit is slightly wrinkled—folds and crease lines that could use a good ironing. The shirt is too tight for him, and so is the jacket. It seems a few years younger than your dress, and curiosity comes around the corner.
“When’s the last time you’ve been on a date?” you question, setting down your glass of wine. Your ears, they burn. White noise fills the room, and you wonder if people have stopped talking or if the orchestra has started to play louder. He turns back around, his face stern and stoic. “Few years, what about you?” he asks in return, placing his hands in his laps. He stares into your eyes—and though you can’t see it too well—you can feel it. “Same. Same thing.” You pick your glass up again, and you realize that it’s halfway finished.
You want more. More wine, more love, more space.
But he feels closer than ever. Almost as if the table has shrunken, and he’s tucked himself in so much that his lungs have barely any space to expand. Almost. “More wine? Take it, take it all. I should probably try to sober up, chauffeur’s responsibility,” Bucky jokes, and you laugh dryly behind your cup. The buzzing—tingling—whatever it is, it’s intense. Wetness pools in your panties, and you’ve soaked the black cotton. The pair is new, and it kind of hurts to have them ruined already, but it’s not the end of the world.
You drink, and you drink until there’s nothing in the glass anymore. Your other hand grips the edge of your dress, and you set the cup down. “Easy there, tiger, everything okay?” Bucky asks, tilting his head innocently. He licks his lips, wetting them before flashing you a kind smile. “Yeah, low tolerance, that’s all,” you inform him, waving your other hand. You sit a bit further back into your chair, not caring that it doesn’t look good. You shut your eyes again, and darkness fills both your vision and mind.
Bucky, on the other hand, has a vivid movie projecting in his mind.
His metal hand wraps around your throat as Bucky’s cock thrusts in and out of you gently, only half of himself inside you. You’re begging him so sweetly, “please, Bucky,” and he just can’t say no to that fucked out face of yours. “Shh, it’s okay, doll, I’m gonna fuck you so good, okay? You better be grateful,” he tells you, and you nod fervently. He slowly pushes inside you, and you’re gripping him tightly. “Fuck, you feel so good, baby,” he groans in your ear. Your back arches off the bed as Bucky splits you in two, and it’s so overwhelming.
He squeezes your neck tighter, and he pulls you towards his cock. “Don’t try to run away, baby; I’ll always catch you,” he warns, and you nod. His tip nudges your sweet spot, and you cry out in pleasure. Wetness gushes from your stretched-out hole, and you coat him with stickiness. You feel as though the wind is being knocked out of you, and you struggle to catch your breath. “Fuck, I can’t wait to fill this tight pussy with my seed. Gonna knock you up with my baby,” he moans, beginning to thrust in and out of you. He brings his face down to yours until your noses touch.
He’s close, way too close.
You look up at the clock that you swear you’ve seen at Walmart a few months ago. Or was it last week? You’re not sure, you don’t fully know anything as of now, and it’s just a tad bit terrifying. You bring your left leg over your right, crossing them so that the pulsating pleasure between your legs can go away. It’s a low hum, one that you’d love if your goal was to tease yourself. But that’s not what you want. You want space. “Everything okay, baby? You’re looking a bit… troubled, over there,” Bucky questions, leaning forward.
He places his face in the palm of his flesh hand, and the metal one rests on the table. “Just a bit hot, I guess. But this always happens when I drink, I’m fine,” you inform him, and he nods in understanding. The restaurant is nearly empty, and you’re not sure where everyone went. And your food still hasn’t arrived yet. “You sure? You don’t look too fine. Is it the chills? Those are common during this time of the year, especially when it gets cold at night,” he reasons.
You shake your head and stick your hands up the slit of your dress, pressing them against your soaking pussy. You’re too focused on the pleasurable feeling of your hand to notice the slight vibration on your palm. You press the base of your hand against your clit, and you struggle to hold back a soft moan.
“Wonder if they forgot about us; seems like we’re the only ones here,” he ponders out loud. You don’t take in his words properly, and you don’t pay attention to how empty the restaurant is. You can swear it’s always been this void, and only the music has gotten louder.
“Finish your glass of wine, and I’ll go inquire, okay? Maybe that’ll help out,” he tells you before moving to stand up. “No! No, don’t. It’s not… proper. They’re busy. Sit down,” you snap, your jaw shaking because you’re just a tad bit fed up with his impatience. You don’t feel bad at all because he’s had it coming this entire evening. Bucky stares at you as you take your hands out from between your legs, and you grab your drink. He stuffs one of his hands into one of the deep pockets, feeling around for something. You tilt the glass back and finish the wine inside, and Bucky sighs.
“You’re right,” he says, walking back to his seat. He sits down before scooting himself to the side of the table. The vibrations have gone away, but you’re not sure why. Maybe you’re just getting used to the alcohol. Or perhaps it’s something else. “Sorry for being so… abrasive,” you apologize, gathering yourself and putting the broken pieces of your resolve back together. “No, I get it. Being so on edge gets me like that too,” he smiles before looking down at his new leather shoes. They shine so nicely, he can see the light.
But it doesn’t compare to a certain sheen he saw a few months ago.
You tend to present yourself as put together for the sake of the lack of disappointment in your peers. When someone comes over, you shove all your belongings into a closet and hope for the best. You’re not a total slob; you just get busy and tired quickly. He’d take the liberty of cleaning your place up, but then his plan would be ruined, and he’d have to do things he doesn’t want to do just yet. Yet.
So he tiptoes between the Amazon boxes and grocery store bags that take up more space than your furniture, careful to not touch anything. The garbage that litters your home makes him feel like he’s suffering for breath, as if the walls and the ceiling are too close to each other. He gently pushes the door to your bedroom open, and he’s quite frankly surprised. The room is spick and span, not one thing out of place, and you’ve just made reaching his goal a lot easier.
His shoes have no dirt on them, so he doesn’t have to be careful when treading your overly large carpet. No large jumps and no need for gloves either. He doesn’t want to look at the pictures that hang up on your wall or any notebooks that are being squashed beneath your mattress. You’ll show them to him in your own time. Bucky heads straight for the dresser, where the drawers hold your undergarments and other little wants and needs. He pulls the left one open—because he knows it has your panties and the right one holds your bras and lingerie.
He only has this information because he’s seen you accidentally wake up late and rush to get ready one too many times. An alarm clock that actually works could do you good, but Bucky would much rather wake you up with his face between your legs or maybe some soft kisses on your body. Or maybe even with a stack of pancakes coated in sugar syrup with berries and juice on the side. The possibilities are endless, and he just can’t wait to finally meet you and ask you out.
He stares into the drawer, searching for a specific pair of panties. They’re a mix of black lace and cotton, with a small red heart that would rest on your hip when you put them on. He doesn’t want to go digging and searching in your drawer because even though you’re a mess, you’re not stupid and oblivious. And that fact pains him. Sure, he could easily fuck you until you’re dumb and naive, nothing but his girl, but how long will that last? You’d see through every facade of his.
Grumbling, Bucky slams your drawer shut, not caring that some things in your room are shaking from his sudden outburst. He doesn’t take the time to do one of those breathing exercises his therapist constantly reminds him to do, and instead, he struts to the laundry basket. It’s filled to the brim and struggling so hard to contain everything inside. It’s just a tad bit sad, really. You don’t have anyone to take care of you, and you don’t seem like you’re making an effort to learn. Sitting on top of the dismal pile of clothing is that pair of panties he’s been so desperate to touch.
He slowly reaches out to grab them, almost as if he’s about to touch something God made especially for him. He eventually makes the jump, swiftly holding them by the band and bringing them up to his face. You only woke up and left an hour ago, and he shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. Your panties shine and glisten with wetness, possibly from some sort of wet dream or wild thoughts. He wonders if you touched yourself because the mess is so big. But the details aren’t too important to him now.
Bucky bunches them up and brings them closer to his nose before inhaling your sweet scent deeply. Blood rushes down to his cock, plumping it up and turning him harder than a rock. “Fuck,” he groans, wanting so desperately to unzip his pants and stick his hands down his boxers. And he does, all while your panties remain in his left hand. Images and thoughts of you choking on his cock, taking him all the way until you can’t breathe all fill his mind. He’d love to see you get teary-eyed, to slap him so he can let you go even though he’s the one in control. It’s perfect, fucking perfect.
“Bucky? I’m talking to you,” you call, snapping him out of his deep memories. “What? Oh, sorry, what were you saying?” he questions, looking up at you with a smirk. He tries so hard to play off the way his cock is throbbing in his pants, and he does so successfully. “I was just wondering if you were okay with pouring me another glass? I’m much more in control now. I’m just really thirsty,” you explain to him, wringing your sweaty hands. You’re slightly puzzled. You’ve drunk so much, and those tingles went away just like that?
He reaches back into his pocket, pushes the small notch of the remote up a new level before grabbing the bottle. “You sure? I mean, drinking on an empty stomach isn’t good,” Bucky assures, and you nod. “I- I ate the uh, the appetizers before,” you tell him, and you choke on a few of your words. The feeling has returned, and you regret asking for another glass. He nods and stands up to pour you a drink, and you now realize that he’s sitting more so besides you than across.
You grip your thighs and try your hardest not to break the first layer of skin with your nails. You have enough stupid scars; there’s no need for a few more. “Only half a glass, please,” you whisper to Bucky, trying to discreetly move a bit further away from him. “Okay, whatever you want,” he hums before returning back to your glass. You decide to grip the sides of the chair, trying to get better leverage of movement. Slowly but surely, you move away from him. You push the chair a little further, and a squeak comes from it.
He continues to pour, but his eyes snap up at yours. “Where do you think you’re going? I hope you’re not running away from me. The thought hurts my heart, baby,” he pouts, and he tilts the bottle even more. A few droplets of wine splashes onto your dress, and you flinch in surprise. “I- It’s just that you’re so c- close to me, and this is a date, right? So we should be across from each other!” you quickly explain to him, even though you’re spewing utter lies.
“Don’t lie, I hate liars,” he spits, placing the wine bottle on the table. A splash accompanies it, and now the table cloth is stained with a Bordeaux shade of red. You squint your eyes shut, hoping that maybe he’ll see your discomfort and soften on you. But he doesn’t. You open them back up, just to find Bucky staring at you. “Look, I’m sorry, I just don’t like how close you are to me,” you reveal to him, squeezing your hands into tight fists.
“You- You don’t like how close I am to you?” he repeats in shock and confusion. You nod your head and notice the light vibrations on your clit beginning to strengthen. You let out a soft gasp, more wetness soaking your panties and your clit throbs with want and need. Involuntarily, you buck your hips upwards and roll them, practically humping the air like a bitch in heat. “Baby, we’re bound to be close! We’re soulmates, and soulmates are always close!” he cheers, sitting back down.
Bucky grabs your arm and pulls you towards him, but you grab your chair to stop him. Your legs are shaky, and you can barely stand on them. The room spins, and you genuinely wonder if this even is a restaurant because there is no noise from the kitchen, and there aren’t any windows either. Everything is hazy, and you let go of the chair. You fall into Bucky’s lap with a whimper, and he grips your waist tightly. “We’re not soulmates, James. We’re just going on dates, and right now, I want to leave,” you argue, trying to pull away from him.
Your movements are slow and lethargic. They’re pathetic and laughable to Bucky. “Yes, we are, shut the fuck up. I’ve seen every bit of you. I know you better than you know yourself, baby. Don’t break my heart,” he whispers through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw. “You’re fucking insane, oh my God,” you shriek quietly, ready to sob your heart out. He pulls you closer, and you can feel his breath fanning on your skin. He’s so close, too close to you.
The nearness of him hurts, and so does his grip on you. You can barely get any air, and you feel like you’re going to pass out. You finally understand that bowl of yours. It was too close to its doom, and it fell into pieces. “‘M not, just crazy for you and your love, baby, that’s all,” he expresses, as if he’s your boyfriend of three years. “And plus, I’ve technically touched you down there. That seals the deal, no?” Bucky questions, and your face twists in confusion.
“W- What?” you ask, no longer trying to squirm away from him. His right hand reaches into his pocket, and Bucky pulls a small egg-shaped remote. It’s a vibrant pink, and the numbers one through ten are marked on it. “You get frisky when you’re drunk, baby, just not that needy. But it’s okay, I’m here now, and I’m never going to leave your side,” Bucky purrs, pushing the notch all the way to ten. You let out a loud moan, and your eyes roll backwards.
If Billy had survived and he worked as a lifeguard all his life. At 70 no grandma was safe. Hide your granny, hide your wives and hide your grandpas because Billy is coming to seduce them.
Can someone explain to me how an unenhanced human is going to be Captain America? Like, Sam Wilson can’t do any of the cap things without breaking his whole body, he can’t wield the shield in the same way, or even close, so what is the point? He *is* however one of the only people on the planet who can use those wings well. So just let him stay the Falcon.
Bucky is one of the only people that could take up the shield, his best friend’s shield, and physically handle it. It should have been him. And they should have gotten Steve Rogers “out of the way”, so to speak, in a way that made sense. Instead we got ooc Steve/Peggy fan service nonsense.
Captain america isn’t about physical strength lmao. Its about being a good person and doing the right thing. Its about being there for your close allies no matter what happens. Its about having good morals and sticking with them regardless. Sam is all of those things and more. Plus he doesn’t have to be like steve’s cap he can be his own cap with his own decisions and badass wings. Also sam did throw the shield in a deleted scene from civil war
I can’t wait for Sam as Captain America. I love Bucky to death! He is super bae! But also maybe Bucky is good as a different character. Maybe being Captain America isn’t the responsibility he wanted or maybe he is off to do better things. I bet we’ll see a lot of awesomeness with Bucky and he doesn’t have to be Captain America to do it. Also as far as the characteristics go. Sam almost does match Steve in personality and a lot of other traits. I think thats why they matched up as friends so well.
Y’all out here falling in love with a character and not really seeing what each character has for themselves you just want to take the Thanos Gauntlet and put your precious baby in whatever role you want to see. Chill the fuck out lol. Write some fanfiction if you want to control what happens to which characters. Lol
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