Joaquin Torres
“Y’know, I’m—”
His hands — strong and steady as they usually are — had trembled over your hips when you’d first sat yourself on his lap; fingers had slipped up under the hem of your sundress and tangled in the unnecessarily thin straps of a lacy thong, palms pressed into the doughy flesh of your ass. He’d acted surprised — he always does — as if you didn’t have the tendency to give him a nice, long, send off. Especially with the longer trips.
“—’m shipping out tonight,” Joaquin mumbles now — reminds you, rather, as if you'd forgotten, but the effect is lost when he grasps you closer, grinds you closer, guiding your hips over his lap, thighs scratching against the hard, starched cotton of his uniform. “Can’t — can’t stay too long, honey—”
(A reminder he always tries to stick you with — as if he hadn’t grinned at you in that way of his when you first curled up next to him on the couch, as if he hadn’t tugged you closer towards him. As if he hadn’t been the one to snake a hand ‘round to the back of your neck and bring you closer to kiss him.)
He groans against your lips, then, when your hands slip through his hair — ruts his hips up when your fingers tug. If you open your eyes, you’ll see that his cheeks have flushed, that his eyes have grown glassy, lips bitten and swollen — neck a mosaic of purple and red, your parting gift to him. You don’t know how long it’s been since you unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out; don’t know how long it’s been since you sunk down fully and began to ride him. All you know is that your thighs are burning and you’re sticky and wet around him — that he’s grabbed you by your ass and begun to help you lift you up and down the length of him, his little wife.
“I know,” you breathe, connecting your lips again for another series of pecks, “I know, that’s why I gotta—”
Your words die in your throat; leaning forward to kiss him again, all sloppy and warm, and as his hands tighten on your ass and his tongue slips into your mouth you almost don’t care to finish what you’d been saying — it can wait, can’t it, when the scratchy fabric of his pants is grinding against your clit like that? When he breaks away and ducks his head to where your neckline has hastily been pushed down, taking a nipple into his mouth and releasing it with a pop! just a second later?
“You’re gonna be gone for six months,” you continue, breathless, together far too long to worry about the embarrassingly wet sounds that reverberate from between you — the steady, squishing, stickiness of your insides, contracting and relaxing around the length of him. “So, you fill me up well enough, maybe by time you get back, we’ll have a, uh — chick in the nest?”
Joaquin’s movements don’t stop — but his head tilts back to look at you, eyebrows furrowed somewhere between pleasure and confusion, and: “Did you — was that a bird joke? Because I'm the Falcon now?"
“And a pregnancy joke,” you nod.
“God, I — I am not gonna cum right after you make a bird joke,” he groans, chest beginning to tremble with the first shaking breaths of a laugh, “I refuse to — say something else. Something sexy.”
You pout, pressing forward to nuzzle fondly against the side of his neck. “My bird joke wasn’t sexy?”
“Oh, no. It was very sexy, Mrs. Torres, just not exactly—” His head tilts back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, tongue dipping out to lick over his lips — and you know he’s close, you know he is, his eyes always close and his mouth — “not exactly what I want to hear before I give you my kids, baby.”
Fuck. Fuck, you didn’t think he’d so readily go along with it — didn’t think that he’d just take it and run with it, but he is, and you find yourself shuddering before you can stop it. You hadn’t exactly planned to cum before him, but he’s just — fucking pulsing inside you, thick and hot and heavy, and that crease in his pants is grinding against your clit, and you clasp a hand over his, feel the cold, metal band on his left ring finger, and it’s just — your husband, your Joaquin, the thought of having his baby — fuck—
You’re cumming around him before you even know it, crying out a garbled mix of his name and some other curse — burying your face in his neck, the smell of his cologne and his shampoo light and dizzying in your nose—
"Fuck — baby—" You're hoisted closer to him — practically lifted off his thighs and into his arms as he begins to cum, hips flush against you, his voice thin and whining— "Ugh, shit, I love you."
Warmth spurts inside you, his arm caging you against his chest, blunt fingernails digging into your ass. His cheek pressed against your tits, his breath coming in shaky, tired puffs — and Joaquin laughs, quiet and pleasure-dizzy.
"Always send me off real good," he mumbles, tilting your head by the chin towards him for another kiss — but your head returns to the crook of his neck in seconds, both of you plastered to each other wherever your flexibility allows it. "Hey, did you — uh, did you mean that?"
"Mean what?" You yawn. Your fingers brush against the camo on his shoulders — he'll be gone in a matter of hours. The thought sobers you up more than you'd like. Six months isn’t exactly a walk in the park, no matter how many times it’s happened before.
"The — the baby stuff.” Joaquin clears his throat — shifts a bit, and you both wince at the sensitive tug of it. “Y'know. Chick in the nest, and everything."
You peer up at him. "Uhm… well, I mean — I wouldn't mind."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Well," he clears his throat again, and you see that — despite his attempts to act blasé — the tips of his ears have begun to flush, his eyes flickering between yours— "I've, uh, got a few more hours to kill."
Sharon Carter
It's not too often that she lets you do this — or, rather, that she does this for you — but when she does, it's a treat.
You feel her breath against the back of your neck; smell her musky perfume, her spicy shampoo, the leather of her jacket. If you lean back even minutely your back will meet her chest — her lips will meet your ear.
So close she is that when she speaks, her lips do touch your ear, sending shivers up your spine when she opens her mouth and says, quietly: "Choose."
She means, of course, to choose from the selection in front of you. Four paintings — stolen a number of years ago and finally prepared to resurface on the black market — propped carefully against the crates they'd been transported in. Two Rembrandts, a Vermeer, and a single, miniscule Van Gogh.
Beautiful. Breathtaking. You almost feel like you could cry. And, as if to make matters worse—
"Clock's ticking, darling," she coos in your ear, and you can almost hear the smile in her voice — arms snaking around your waist smoothly and surely. "The buyers will be arriving soon. Better take your pick before then.”
Sharon knew way before she put a ring on your finger that you lived and breathed art — pencils in your hands before you could walk, art sets for every Christmas and birthday, straight from high school and into a prestigious college where you earned your degree in Art History. It’s one of the reasons you met, too, and so it’s only right, she thinks, that when the chance arises to own one of the various masterpieces you’d spent years studying, she should let you take it.
Of course, she couldn’t give you them all. Some had to be sold. She had customers and clients to satisfy and a lifestyle to finance — but her wife comes first, always. In more ways than one.
“Sharon—”
It’s the first little gasp that always gets her — that breathy, whining gasp of her name when her hands first slip past the hem of your skirt and into your panties. The way your hand grasps her wrist, steadying yourself, anchoring yourself to the present. You try to focus — she told you to focus — but how can you? She’s circling your clit in a way she knows is unfair, brushing the pads of her fingers along the sensitive little bud.
“C’mon,” you whine, but your hips buck into her hold, head tilting back against her shoulder, “This — this isn’t fair, Sharon—”
“I never said it would be,” she says, grinning. “But don’t let me stop you. Make your choice.”
Your wetness begins to coat her fingers — slipping up from your slit to where she plays, and you whimper at the feeling of it all, her touch gliding effortlessly and quickly over you. You like it best like this, she knows; the slippery, stickiness of it, the messiness. Coming apart with nothing more than two quick fingers and a couple of casual words.
“I want — um, the — the—” Your voice trails off, pretty (and expensive) nails digging into her wrist, but she doesn’t falter. Your hips are trembling, chest shuddering with each laboured breath — and when Sharon tilts her head to the side to take a look at your face, she sees your eyes bleary and glassy, focused only on the images in front of you; the rough brush strokes, the cobalt blue and vermillion red, the golden spiral, the chiaroscuro.
“C’mon,” she says, parroting your earlier words back at you. She begins to rock you back and forth, amusement digging at her chest when you let out a shaking sigh. “Use your big girl words, darling.”
"Fuck—"
There's no doubt in Sharon's mind that if she were to shift just the tiniest bit — if she were to press her fingers in, to the deepest, warmest parts of you, she'd find your walls trembling and pulsing, prepared for the peak she's driving you towards, prepared to squeeze and drag around her. When time is short, you cum easily — something she's noticed. Maybe it's the thrill of being caught; the thrill of knowing that, if you don't cum in time, you'll be left to soil your panties alone for the rest of the night.
Her fingers still. You cry out, blinking rapidly, bottom lip warbling when you twist your head to look at her. “Shar? Please, please, I was so close—”
“Five minutes until the party starts,” Sharon murmurs, tilting her head. She has to hide a smile when she notices how you crane your neck, desperate to feel her lips against yours — she can’t help herself: she bows lower, letting you kiss her like you like. Soft, and sweet, and far too tender for what she’s doing to you. She whispers her next words against you, eyeing the clock on the opposite wall: “Now, unless you want everyone to see me making you cum, you better choose. I’m not gonna ask you again.”
“You’re mean.”
“You like when I’m mean,” she corrects. “I can feel it, darling.” She rubs her fingers together; feels the slick, viscous liquid that’s gathered all over them, huffing a laugh when you whine in embarrassment. “Which one?”
“Um — the… I…” Her fingers continue to rub together, slow, irritating movements that she knows don’t stimulate you the way you want them to. “The — the Rembrandt, fuck, please just—”
“Which Rembrandt?” She chuckles. “There’s two.”
“The Storm on the Sea of Galilee!” You cry out, “Now please—!”
“Okay, okay. The Storm on the Sea of Galilee it is, wifey.” The kiss she presses against the side of your head is uncharacteristically gentle — especially now, less than 5 minutes from one of her infamous trading parties, when she’d usually be slipping into the more charming, sly persona she tended to put away with you. Her fingers resume the quick, skillful rubbing they’d abandoned earlier. “C’mon, then.”
It doesn't take long to get you there. You're always so sensitive when she holds off, even just once — your legs are shaking and your grip is tight on her when you finally cum, moaning out your feverish mutters of, "I love you, Sharon, fuck—" and — almost embarrassingly — she feels a moan worm it's way up her throat, feeling herself squeezing around nothing, warm and pulsing and—
“Fuck, Shar.” You slump against her, near brainless, panting into the cool Madripoor night air — letting her (clean) hand drift slowly against your side in the aftermath.
She finally tries to settle her own arousal by dipping those two, messy fingers into her mouth; tongue laving between where the most slick has settled, salt and brine and sugar and spice. It’s caught around the simple wedding ring on her finger, and the tang of metal still dances on her tongue when she releases her fingers with a pop!
It's not much, but it'll do—
There’s a knock on the large, double doors that lead into the apartment.
“Miss,” a voice says from outside, clearing their throat. “The guests have begun to arrive.”
“Hm,” she muses. “Just in time. Looks like I’m needed.”
Still, she lets you turn around in her arms; lets you kiss across her cheek and her nose, lets you nuzzle your cheek against her shoulder and twist her wedding ring ‘round her finger. You get awfully affectionate after you cum. She can't say that she doesn't like it.
“Go get ‘em, Power Broker,” you say, grinning softly.
And Sharon won’t say it — she won’t — but she very nearly abandons all rational thought and hands you all four paintings. Nearly abandons the party, the beginning thrums of club music, the beginning din of chatter and laughter and yelling, to stay in her apartment, to lay you against the couch and climb over you—
She rolls her eyes instead, a traitorous grin tugging at her lips as she pulls away. “Bathroom. Two hours. I'll be waiting."
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sam Wilson
Sam’s childhood home is, well, exactly what you’d think. Warm and cozy, smelling of home-cooked food and saltwater. There’s drawings pinned on the fridge with multicolour magnets, school projects upon the walls amongst family portraits, toys strewn over the living room floor, a rocking chair on the patio.
Every time you come to Sarah’s house — the childhood home, that is — you’re struck by the liveliness of it all. Of course, your own home is warm and welcoming — you’ve both made sure of that. There’s just… something about the history in Sarah’s house. The people who’ve walked through the halls, breathed and lived there, loved and lost. It’s the place that Sam feels most at home, and it’s quickly becoming the place you feel most at home.
Maybe that’s why the thought strikes you. And him, really, because you could tell you were both thinking the same thing. Cass and AJ are in the front yard with the shield, throwing it around, using a giant stick as Thor’s hammer, jumping about the place to fight aliens and save the planet; the early evening is balmy and warm, the sky painted in shades of burning orange and purple. It’s by pure chance that you’d found your way onto Sam’s lap just minutes earlier, curling up comfortably as you kept an eye on his nephews — by pure chance that the idea had popped into your head.
“Hey,” you’d whispered, bowing your lips to his ears. “Whaddya say about it?”
His hand, warm and large and calloused, glided up and down your thigh, pace a product of the day: slow and leisurely. “‘Bout what, baby?”
“You know.” You nudged his shoulder with yours, attempting to stop a giddy laugh when his lips split in the perfect image of your smile. “Having some of our own?”
He’d quirked a brow — shifted so that he could turn his head and meet your eyes. “Kids?”
You’d scoffed, rolling your eyes. “What else? Boats?”
Still — he'd fixed you with a look of intrigue, no doubt recalling your earlier conversations about extending your family; the 'I'm not sure's and the 'let's not rush it's. That'd been a few years ago. Things have changed.
“And you’re serious about this?”
“Deadly.”
It’s a decision made high off summer winds and sticky, popsicle-flavoured lips; a hurried shout to Sarah who’s sitting out in the garden on the phone — something about looking through the old albums upstairs — and you both scurry upstairs to Sam’s old room.
It’s still covered in posters and teenage boy memorabilia — the sheets had just been changed that morning from some old superhero-themed set in anticipation for your arrival, and it’s to these sheets that you find the side of your face pressed into.
Face down, ass up. He likes you like this. Your hands pinned at the small of your back, your balance relying purely on his own strength — and he’s strong enough to hold you there, don’t worry. Strong enough to prop you up and lean forward, chest to back, to tilt your head to the side so he can kiss you.
"Good thing we — we don't have condoms," you pant out, hot breath reflecting off the sheets and fanning back over your face. Half of you is very seriously unsure of how you're managing to formulate sentences — after all, with the delirious drag of his cock inside of you and the feeling of your clit being stimulated by the sheets underneath you, you've been known to go a bit dumb with it.
Sam's own breathless chuckle answers your own. Hips slapping against your ass and his hand warm and all-encompassing where it's clasped over your wrists. "Won't ever need condoms — ever again."
"Getting a bit ahead of yourself there, Sammy."
"Don't play with me. I could feel you squeezin' me when I said that."
Yes. Yes, you had, because you are a simple woman, and your husband muttering about how you'll never need condoms again because he plans to breed you every chance he gets very clearly does something for you. And not just that:
Something about it all is driving you mad. The fact that you hadn't bothered to get naked, just hiked up your sundress and tugged down your panties, pulled Sam out from under his zipper and took him no problem; the fact that you're being defiled in his childhood bedroom, in his childhood home; the fact that for the first time, he's actually and genuinely trying to breed you. It's a frantic, passionate tryst — shoving your face into the bed to quieten your moans, balling your fists as pleasure wracks your entire body.
The soft, spongy sound of flesh meeting flesh is what ends up sending you over the edge; the wetness of your pussy as it sucks Sam in with each thrust, the squelch of it as his hips pull back — the warm, low grunts that bubble low in his throat each time he bottoms out, puffed out against the back of your neck affectionately.
He feels it immediately — the way your soft, gummy walls contract around him, the sudden shuddering gasp that wrings itself from your lungs — and, like he's wont to do, he follows you quickly. The groan he lets out sounds as if it's punched from his chest, drawn-out and lilting, and he leans forward so much you almost think you'll tilt with him and fall from the bed—
"Give it a second," he says, breathing heavily. His biceps bulge with the effort of keeping himself steady. "Stay as long as we can. I want it to take."
Fuck. Luckily, he doesn't make fun of you for squeezing him this time. Just huffs a laugh, lips brushing against your ear, and says: "Good, mama. That'll help it along."
You swear to God that he'll be the death of you.
Bucky Barnes
Bucky never thought he’d like farmer’s markets.
He means — well, he means American farmer’s markets. In Europe, in Africa, in Asia, they were just markets — ones that had always been there, chock-full of cheap, locally sourced goods, stalls that had been there for years, run in the family. In America they were overpriced and underwhelming and he never particularly enjoyed paying twenty dollars for a jar of honey.
But… this one is good. Yes, he’s paying twenty dollars for this jar of honey; yes, he is surrounded by crochet-bag toting hipsters parroting about the newest craze (it’s caffeinated water with added electrolytes — you’re welcome); yes, he is somehow roped into a punnet of heirloom tomatoes despite the fact that he has no plans to eat heirloom tomatoes, nevermind ones that have a price tag about three times the regular price—
But this? Oh, this is easily the best part of the entire ordeal: the Dress. Yes. Dress with a capital D. It's the loveliest thing he's ever seen — and truth be told, he's been trying to stop himself from tugging you home for the past 45 minutes. Sunshine yellow gingham, thick straps across the shoulders, the hem hanging just below your knees.
Sweet and sunny and paired with a straw sunhat and suddenly his cock is hard and he's okay with spending copious amounts of money on overpriced vegetables, because you're tugging him along by the arm and asking him what he thinks about those gluten-free carrot cake slices. Asking him what he wants for dinner — if he wants you to make that butter rice and chicken dish or tagliatelle, if he thinks you should splurge on some tulips for the windowsill.
He ends up buying the tulips, even after you end up spouting something about how you don’t need them, how they’re nice but so expensive, how they’ll end up wilting in a few days, anyways. All so that you can gasp out and gently push his shoulder and whine, “Bucky…” in that way you do — trying to stop yourself from getting emotional. And he rolls his eyes but he’s grinning, and he tells you that it’s nothing, they’ll look nice at home, you deserve ‘em, and he’s not lying, either.
So you get home, and the first thing you do is look for a vase for your flowers — leaving him to put away the groceries, and he pretends to grumble to himself as he does. The Winter Soldier, Fist of Hydra, storing away locally sourced bread flour and pasta in the cupboards of his home — he has to still himself when the thought greets him. It ebbs and flows, the realisation of it all, the fact that he’s got a home, a wife, a fucking — windowsill filled with flowers, fuck. He’s got a wrap-around porch, for God’s sakes, and a cat, and weekly dinners at the Wilson’s, and — speaking of his wife — a nice, big mattress to put her through.
And put you through it he does. Particularly well for someone who, before meeting you, was completely out of practice for some 70-odd years — especially after watching you flounce about in the one fucking dress he’s made clear does something to him. You wear it on purpose, he knows you do, because without a doubt every occurrence of you wearing it ends up just like this—
“Ha — fuck, James—”
God, he loves it — James, it’s always James when he’s got your knees pressed up towards your ears and your ankles hooked over his shoulders. Always James when the hardness of his abdomen ruts against your pretty little clit, makes you tremble and gasp and shudder around him; always James when he’s balls deep inside you, cock ringed with cream, all sticky and gummy. Always James when he grasps your chin between two fingers and tilts your head to meet him, kisses sloppy and sweet and tasting like that expensive honey you’d splurged on.
“Y’ know what you do to me,” he mumbles, somewhere between kissing up your neck and taking one bared nippled into his mouth. “You always fucking wear it—”
“What else am I — fuck, supposed t’ do with a dress?”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Y’know what I mean, you brat.”
“You love when I’m bratty,” and it’s a panted, grinned sentence, your eyes aflame with something that could be competitiveness, something that could be just plain old impertinence, “‘s why you married me, James—”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
Well, you got him there. And it’s not like he can lie and say he doesn’t love it, because he’s made it very clear that he does — the matching, glinting bands on your left ring fingers is enough proof of that. The way his fingers drift between your legs to pet at your clit is enough proof of it, too. The punched-out groan of your name, the stuttering pace of his thrusts...
“C’mon, pretty girl,” he finds himself whispering — cooing, rather, teetering on patronizing —, words smudged and slurred where his lips are pressed against your jaw. His cool, metal fingers are tacky and wet from the mess between your legs, slipping over your slippery-smooth bud in a way that makes you cry out. “C’mon. You’re so close, aren’t you? Oh, I can feel it, baby, you can do it.”
Clammy hands clasp over his wrist — and your eyes are scrunching shut, brows pinching together — your thighs clamp tighter around his waist, and you’re trembling, fuck, walls pulsating and shuddering around his cock, hugging him closer and closer, until—
“James!”
And because he can’t help himself — because he really, really can’t — he finds his end drawing up on him just as quickly, surging up out of seemingly nowhere to spread throughout his body, vibranium arm keeping both his body suspended above you and your legs bent back. Your thighs cushion his hips when they drive forward once, twice, three times — stilling when they press flush against you, one last groan reverberating through his chest.
You’re still panting, even now. Head tilted back to reveal the stretch of your neck to him; left hand resting resolutely over your heart. Bucky dips his head to kiss you there, and:
“Love you, James.”
(Always James.)
Helmut Zemo
Helmut has a tell.
Well, not a tell as such — he’s not lying, or anything of the sort, but you’ve noticed a very specific pattern when it comes to gift-giving. Very specific indeed.
Gifts left on the dining room table mean that he has an impromptu business trip due — they’re left on the dining table because they’re always bought and delivered by one particular butler of his, one that’s still green at the ears and terrified of stepping any further into the house than necessary. He never buys them personally because he’s already halfway to the airport.
Gifts left on the couch are ones bought as he comes home. He’s tired, lethargic; maybe had a glass or two of wine on the drive back, and collapses onto the couch with a call of your name and a signal to a butler for another glass. Folds his fur jacket over the back of the velvet couch and tilts his head back, a tired sigh building in his chest.
Gifts left on the bed are your favourite. Slim boxes and thick, round parcels, placed neatly in the centre of perfectly folded sheets. Gifts like these are brought home when he has time. When he wants to see you enjoy them. When he has the time to revel in your happiness and indulge in you. These gifts come in wraith-like bundles of lace; shining piles of silk and finely woven linen; lines of iridescent pearls and heavy clusters of diamonds, hanging low and swinging between your breasts—
It’s one such gift that you wear now. A thick, weighty band of pink diamonds that hangs around your neck — and nothing but.
Helmut had watched as you'd stepped from the shower with a reverence unbefitting of the unlawful man he so proudly is; watched as you dealt with your hair and your skincare and then, finally, lay his gift over your neck to rest about your collarbones. A glass of amber and ice in one hand, his eyes shamelessly traverse the length of your body, lingering noticeably on the curve between your legs—
His throat bobs when he meets your eyes; his voice reedy and quiet, almost pious when he speaks: “Come to me.”
And you do, no questions asked; slot yourself between his parted legs, letting him drift his free hand up and down the back of your thigh — his touch is leisurely, almost, and you’d think he is too if his coming breaths weren’t so deep, as if he’s attempting to steady himself.
“Do you like them?”
You raise a brow. “I like all of your gifts.”
Slowly, he draws you closer; so close his nose brushes against the softness of your stomach, so close that the warmth of his breath fans out and sends goosebumps across your skin. His hands dip deeper between your thighs, the pads of his fingers skimming over sensitive skin with all of the strength and vigour of a ghost. “I am referring to this gift in particular.”
You already have diamonds. Pearls. Amethysts, emeralds, rubies, obsidian — every jewel imaginable, he’s bought for you. You keep them in a professionally sorted cabinet, rows and rows of them, colour coded for when you need a particular shade to match your outfit. He likes to take you out, after all, and it’d be a shame to keep such beautiful gifts hidden away.
You tilt your head to the side, smiling. “Pink is my favourite colour.”
You notice now that he’s put his glass down — grasps the top of your thighs with both hands, warm and soft, practically bare of all calluses and roughness. Fingertips slyly massaging inwards, inching higher and higher— “I know it is, my love. That is why I chose it.”
Finally, he dares to lean forward — presses a kiss just underneath your belly button, a hand curling back around your front and worming its way against the curls that shelter the most sensitive parts of you. A sigh decompresses in your lungs at the touch — he’s got an underhanded way of touching you, really. Lulls you into a false sense of security with the tender kisses and barely-there touches, but the second your guard is down, he’ll—
“Oh,” you moan, head lolling back. There it is — the hard, grinding press of his thumb against your clit, wettened with your own slick. Two thick fingers prodding at your slit, and suddenly they’re inside you, and he’s bowing his head and leaning forward and you think your knees are going to give out, because—
Helmut has a nasty tongue on him, and he puts it to good use — laving the thick muscle over your clit, while the thumb that’d been so preoccupied with it pulls back the hood for him to torment. It’s the type of pleasure that rumbles — gathers and piles in the tips of your fingers and forces you to grasp the silky strands of his hair, mouth agape and stare aimed somewhere between the ceiling and the floor-to-ceiling windows he’s so fond of. The coolness of the necklace around your neck only serves to send shivers tumbling across your skin.
Slowly, your hips begin to rut gently forward, and you’re not sure if you’re trying to get his fingers deeper inside you or his tongue over you quicker or both, but one thing you’re sure of is that either way, you’ll have a hard time staying standing if things continue the way they are — infamously, Helmut knows that you have a penchant for weak limbs when you cum. That much has been tested and proven in the years you’ve known each other and the years you’ve been married for — and still, he tries to test you like this.
You find yourself tilting to stand on your tiptoes as your end approaches — a choice that makes little to no sense, but the burning in your calves allows you some modicum of control, you think. Allows you to wrangle your twisting attention span into submission once more so that you can take in the sweetest, most rewarding image: your husband, the Baron Zemo, with your clit sucked between his lips and his eyes — dark and brown and glared in concentration — focused purely on you — the hand not at work between your legs clutching your ass as if it could anchor you both.
In the end, you almost do collapse with the force of it — rocking back and forth so vigorously that your knees threaten to give out, but you manage to stay standing with a tightened grip on his hair and a violent gasp of his name — both of which have him groaning against you, the masochistic idiot he is. And he doesn’t let up until even those tried-and-true methods begin to feel — tremors that can’t be simply willed away forcing you to wrench yourself from his hold, panting and sweaty and all too happy to collapse onto the couch next to him.
“Well,” you say, blinking tiredly at the ceiling. “The diamonds have been christened.”
From the corner of your eye he’s grinning, even as he reaches for his discarded drink — watered down whiskey, now, because the ice cubes have melted. “I will get you another, do not fear.”
And what do you know? A week later, another box sat on the bed.