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Another anti-fairy meeting overwith.
That isn’t the way he’d usually talk about them, mind. Meetings can, despite all odds, be productive. Ego-boosting. Inspiring, even! So promising that it feels as though not even his dimwitted wife can foil what’s to come. This time, however, he’d think her keen on doing so on purpose — even before any plans have been put into motion.
Once he’s sure everyone’s gone from the castle (and that it’s properly locked up, doors and windows and all), Anti-Cosmo takes in a sharp breath and turns to face his wife. “You!”
Anti-Wanda sits at one head of the meeting table, wearing a half-lidded gaze and a smug little smile. She questioningly points to herself, displaying what he’s certain is a rare case of only playing dumb.
“Just what was that all about? I could hardly focus on my own perfect plans. What if anyone noticed? My reputation as leader is not to be swayed by me looking so…” He trails off there, but the word he’s looking for and nearly admitting to is flustered (or anything along those lines). In its place comes a sigh, his arms crossing in resignation.
“Ah-huh… Yer gonna hafta remind me what even happened. I ain’t really rememberin’.”
Anti-Cosmo blinks at her, then narrows his eyes with suspicion. He was certain a moment ago, but now…? She could very well mean that. This could also be one of her surprisingly clever ploys to get a (further) rise out of him, if her behavior during the meeting was any indication. The latter prospect is, as always, terribly enthralling to him, and it is for that reason that he isn’t actually as upset as he seems.
“Oh!” Anti-Wanda continues, “Was I tryin’ ta eat some fancy important documents? Or some fancy important peoples?”
“No, miraculously.”
“Was I tryin’ ta sleep? Interruptin’ ya a lot? Breakin’ out the banjo and beatin’ someone with it?”
“No,” Anti-Cosmo repeats himself, letting his voice sound more impatient.
“Aw, but yer all annoyed at me, honeybun. I musta done somethin’ really distractin’... Somethin’ ya really wanna tan my hide for…”
“Hm. There’s no lesson to be learned when you don’t admit to what you’ve done.” Like he’d ever apply that do-gooder wisdom to himself, ha. “Your punishment shall be me ignoring you until you do just that.”
With that Anti-Cosmo turns and proceeds to float away from her, pretending he’s going to fully leave the room. If she’s going to try and egg him on, then he’ll do the same. They both know this game, but he has the advantage of knowing which of them has less self-restraint.
Right on cue, he hears the clumsy sound of chair legs scraping across the floor as Anti-Wanda clambers to her feet, caring less if the whole thing topples over. Before he knows it his wife is pouncing on him from behind, clinging to him with all four limbs like a more feral koala.
“Grahh, c’mon, ya know I can’t resist ya sometimes! Yer so big and handsome runnin’ them funny meetings, I just wanna eat you up… Crawl all over ya and inside ya, heh heh…” As if to drive her point home, she then clamps her teeth down on Anti-Cosmo’s shoulder—not enough to break skin beneath the fabric of his coat, but enough to make him tense up and grunt from the initial shock of it.
“...So you do remember,” he chides.
That gets her to release his shoulder, which he’s sure is only temporary. “Oh. Yeah. I just pretended I didn’t,” she states the obvious, clearly proud of herself.
She didn’t actually do any crawling nor attempts to “eat” him during the meeting, thankfully, but Gods had something made her particularly bold today. She was all but undressing him with her eyes alone, trying to cop feels with her feet beneath the table, making the most obscene gestures with her hands and mouth in the corner of his vision… Each time he’d cast a warning look her way she’d stop and play innocent, only to resume again once Anti-Cosmo’s eyes were back on everyone else. It took all he had to ignore it the rest of the time, not wanting to divert everyone’s attention and derail things further.
And yet… It worked. Not in his favor, no, but hers. The leading mastermind of all anti-fairies would love to convince himself no one noticed how he’d clear his throat, shift uncomfortably in his seat, and have to repeat himself because he’d lost his train of thought, but he knows he can’t. Damn her, he’ll think with all the affection in the world, for he can’t resist her either.
“You should know there’s a time and a place for those things, and being in the middle of business is not it. I’ve told you this, dearest.”
“Yup,” Anti-Wanda responds, and judging by the nonchalance of it, she’s neither listening nor caring. She bites down on his shoulder again, harder this time, making him hiss in hybrid pain and pleasure.
“Ngh… And get off of me already,” he orders. He couldn’t actually care less that she’s clinging to him like this, but he’s testing to see just how unruly she feels like being tonight. The answer usually ranges from ‘a little’ to ‘extremely.’
Of course, her limbs only tighten around him, and he sighs. Seems it’ll be the latter after all. “All right, then…”
Anti-Cosmo forces his freedom by teleporting elsewhere in the room, observing from a short distance away as his wife is left hovering with nothing to hold on to—even feeling the empty air in front of her for good measure.
“Huh?” She sounds genuinely confused, turning around to look for him.
Just as their eyes are about to meet does he reappear in front of her, grabbing her by her upper arms and using that hold to pin her back against the nearest wall. It’s as smooth of a motion as he can muster, making his wife shriek in surprise as well as glee. They then hold one another’s gaze for a few wordless seconds, hers playful and wild, his cool and authoritative.
“There ya are,” Anti-Wanda says in a lower voice, making him suspect he’s being teased for caving in to her. Oh, the gall on her. He does so adore it.
His hands move to grab her face instead, knowing full well the risks of letting her go unrestrained, and pull her in for a not-so-gentle kiss. She returns it hungrily, grabbing onto the collar of his shirt with both hands and wrapping a leg around him—just the one, this time, but she’s using it to try and yank his body flush against hers. Anti-Cosmo resists for the sake of being a brat, knowing that’ll only fuel her mischief.
Sure enough it makes Anti-Wanda growl and try harder, their kiss devolving into messy bites and pulling of lips (—on her end, mostly).
“Mmf– What has gotten into you today, my sweet?” he asks, acting as if he’s never seen her in this state before.
“I’m waitin’ fer it to be you!” she says, louder and more brusque than the last time she’d spoken.
“So impatient,” he tuts, “and horridly vulgar.”
“I can do worse,” she boasts. Threatens, more like, leaning in close to his face. “I would’a let you screw me silly in front’a all them anti-fairies. I would’a thrown you on top o’ that table and shown ‘em what I can really do with my–”
“That’s enough,” Anti-Cosmo says in a hurry, truly wishing once again that he wasn’t so easily flustered by this woman. He’s trying to have the upper hand, here.
She only gives him that same toothy cheshire grin. “Or else what?”
He doesn’t answer that. Instead, turning around with wife in tow, Anti-Cosmo starts pushing her back toward the table. She’s biting her lip in excited anticipation but at the same time making this difficult for him, hardly moving her own legs so he’ll have no choice but to really force her along. Once they’re there he has her sit on the table’s edge, glaring at her with the same faux irritation he’s been playing with this whole time.
“I really do hate to look so undignified, you know.” And that part isn’t entirely a lie…
“Iunno, yer givin’ me a good view.” Anti-Wanda then starts reaching for the buttons on her husband’s coat, and if there’s anything he knows about her it’s that it won’t end in his clothes coming off untorn. He stops her before she can make contact, grabbing her arms once more and pulling her to her feet (even though he’d just had her sit down—call it an abrupt change of mind). She looks like she doesn’t know what to expect but is eager for it anyway, giggling when Anti-Cosmo turns her around and nudges her forward. She resists it, of course, wanting to coax as much force out of him as possible.
“Honestly, darling,” he chides, still more than happy deep down to give her what she wants. He presses against her with a good deal of weight, overwhelming her ‘til she’s forced to fold forward. She’s still holding herself up a bit with her hands splayed on the table, but she’s more or less bent over it… perhaps not as much as he’d like, but he’ll deal with that in a bit.
“I felt ya’ pokin’ at me,” she says huskily, chuckling again. Anti-Cosmo ignores that (as well as the blush it’s caused him).
He turns his attention to her lower half, working on getting one of her usual spiked belts undone. He could magic her clothes away, but where’s the fun in that? His wife is still owed a bit of vengeful teasing, as far as he’s concerned. Once the belt is unfastened (she always does wear them loosely, so there’s little difficulty there), he tosses it aside and takes his time undoing the buttons of her pants next.
“Sugarbear, hurry uppp,” Anti-Wanda groans, wiggling her hips impatiently.
“Hush,” Anti-Cosmo replies, affection laced in the otherwise curt response. He hooks his fingers beneath the hem of her pants and pulls them down, underwear and all. “I’m not doing myself any favors either, you know.”
“Then hurry it up,” she insists again, starting to straighten her posture. “Or else I’ll do it myself—”
“Ah-ah,” Anti-Cosmo tuts again, putting a hand on her upper back and shoving her down again. His free hand then comes up between her legs, running a clawed finger between the folds of her labia, feeling how wet she is already.
She lets out a shuddering gasp in response, placated enough by that alone that she’s bent further down than she was before.
“I’ll give you what you want,” he drawls, continuing to glide the tip of his finger back and forth with light, unsatisfactory pressure. “If you promise to behave yourself.”
He can practically see Anti-Wanda’s mind churning from this angle, considering how to respond through whatever horny fog her already-insubstantial thoughts have become. She then lets out a mischievous, goofy little laugh, eyeing him from over her shoulder. “Not a chance, stud.”
Anti-Cosmo merely smirks. “As I thought.”
With much more deftness than he’d granted his wife, he gets his pants undone and pulled down—just enough to free himself. Gravity can do the rest. He’s been hard for a while now but he forces himself to wait just a bit longer, coercing Anti-Wanda’s position until she’s at a better angle for him. She helps by kicking her pants and undergarments away and hiking one knee up on the table, though this show of compliance doesn’t quite save her from the extra restraining she’s about to be in for.
No fanfare tonight. Anti-Cosmo pushes into her in one swift motion, making her squeal and grope desperately for a part of the table she can hold onto. He nearly catches himself off-guard with the sudden surge of pleasure but proceeds with his plans, taking both of Anti-Wanda’s wrists and forcing them together behind her back. One of his hands pins them there while the other finds its way to the back of her neck, keeping her head down with a firm pressure held there.
“Oohh, Cozzy,” he hears her nearly purr.
“Is that good, my dear little harlot?”
The word earns him another shrill giggle and moan of delight.
Satisfied with that, Anti-Cosmo wastes little time working up to the fast, rough pace he knows she wants right now. This position he’s put himself in isn’t the easiest, confined as he is by the placement of his more outstretched arm, but he welcomes the difficulty—thousands of years’ worth of willingness to please a spouse whose needs can challenge his physical and staminal limitations will do that to him.
Each moment he’s able to keep his eyes open is spent admiring his wife’s form (and vaguely regretting that she’s still half-dressed, but he’s not going to bother with that now), drinking in the sight of flushed, warm skin and how it feels to touch it. His constraint holds fast despite her occasional squirming (which he could swear she’s doing just to test him), being used as leverage to pull her body toward him each time he drives his into her.
He can tell they aren’t going to last terribly long, but again, this isn’t the night for that.
“Mm, Cozzy. Call me a…a what’s-it again.”
“I—” Anti-Cosmo starts, then falters, and after a steadying breath tries again. “I called you a whore,” he grunts out. To use less than his usual decorum is an illicit little thrill, reserved only for Anti-Wanda’s ears. She loves her sweet-nothings, but she also loves this.
It’s getting more difficult to focus on anything but his efforts and the near-overwhelming pleasure they’re granting him, but he does his best to keep an eye on his lover’s face—what he can see of her profile, anyway. She looks utterly blissed out, eyes nearly closed and lips curled in a wide smile as he keeps going. “A proper slut, my dearest wife. Listen how you m-make me, ugh—”
He doesn’t bother finishing, any and all coherence lost in favor of his orgasm crashing over him. It takes a few more hard thrusts of chasing it before he’s crying out at an embarrassingly high pitch, his nails digging hard into Anti-Wanda’s flesh one second and loosening the next. Judging by her low, satisfied hums as he slows to a stuttering halt, she’d came with him.
He stays inside of her a couple of seconds longer, relinquishing the grip of his hands and cursing the weakness he feels in his legs.
“What was that you were gonna say~?” comes Anti-Wanda’s lazy voice. “How I make you dirty yer tongue or sum’n like that?”
Anti-Cosmo steps back with a clear of his throat, mindlessly adjusting his cravat and casting a sidelong glance at nothing in particular. “Yes, something like that.” Exactly like that. She knows him terribly well. While he’s looking away she gets herself stood up again, stretching her arms above her head before she turns and plops back down on the table.
“Yer so cute. Come an’ sit now, honeybun.”
He means to protest that, but when he looks to see her sitting with her knees apart and her cunt leaking cum on the table’s surface, he kind of forgets what he was going to say. There’s no mistaking what she meant upon asking him to sit, either.
“...There are chairs right here, you know,” Anti-Cosmo mumbles as he climbs onto her lap, making her beam and wrap her arms around him.
“Ain’t one better fer you than this one, though!”
Green eyes roll at that, but he can’t help a little smile. “No, I don’t suppose so.”
“Only th’ best to give yer tired tush a quick rest. But y’know…”
Ah.
He knows that voice. The implications of “quick” rest. He eyes her, that smile of his replaced with an expression of curious suspicion.
“You ain’t the only one allowed to dish that kinda treatment, big man.”
Of course.
His mind circles back around to what he’d mused about earlier — how her needs can challenge his limitations and all that. For all the confident and dominant spotlights he shines upon himself, she always knows how to turn the tables on him. For as much as he can pretend she’s due “punishment” for her bad behavior, she always knows how to make him feel like he’s the one in real trouble.
For all the good sort of trepidation he feels upon looking at her right now, thrown every possible hint that she’s not yet done with him tonight, Anti-Cosmo wouldn’t have it any other way.