“Really!” You giggle breathlessly, making sure you push your chest out just a little further as you lean in towards him, “and then what happened?”
Chuck preens like a peacock under your attention, running a hand through his glossy blonde hair as he continues to tell you about how he “single handedly” won the teams most recent lacrosse game.
Or maybe it’s soccer.
Baseball?
You really can’t remember, because you really do not care.
Charles Baker Vandermeer III (Chuck for short), is sweet (ish). But so terribly gullible.
So vapid.
He should care about his far too loyal girlfriend downstairs, about the party he’s supposed to be hosting, or about the fact that you’ve never shown him a shred of interest until you’d found out about the ring daddy dearest recently bestowed upon him. The family heirloom that’s rumored to be worth a whopping 80k.
Possibly more.
But based on his storytelling abilities, or lack thereof, self awareness is not one of Chuck’s finer qualities.
You eye the ring on the dresser behind him, tossed carelessly next to his textbooks and wallet as if it’s no more valuable than a Ring Pop.
The audacity of these stupid people.
You know your foster dad, Steve Rogers, meant well by trying to send you to the most elite college in the country. His love and kindness, his generosity and patience is more than you can fathom.
Certainly more than you deserve.
But all you’ve learned in the last three years, much to Steve’s dismay, is that this school cares only about money and prestige. They care about status and social rank and whose dad knows the other dad better and how.
And that it is so easy to steal from these people it’s almost criminal.
Well…it is criminal in that it’s literally a crime to steal.
But more criminal in the sense that it’s so easy, it’s almost boring.
Almost.
“So then I passed the ball to Greg, which obviously was a mistake but then,” Chuck is still droning on but now your ears are perking up to a distant sound.
There’s a feeling of discontent and irritation that moves through the party below your feet. And even though it would be impossible to hear this all the way up in Chuck’s room, perched on the end of his unmade bed, you can still sense him, feel his energy like a storm rumbling on the horizon. You envision him bursting through the front door, the dark locks of his hair brushing over his shoulders as he turns his head side to side, figuring out the best way to get to you, sniffing you out like a wild dog.
Your ears can barely make out anything other than the steady thump of the bass through the floorboards and yet you can still hear him pounding up the stairs, his boots heavy on the landing as he strides toward the door.
“I’m really sorry about this,” you whisper insincerely, watching Chuck’s drunken eyes fill with confusion.
You hear a “hey watch it!” out in the hall before there’s a splintering sound of wood, the separating of a door from its hinges.
He could have just opened it like a normal person, knocked even.
But Bucky isn’t exactly known for his subtlety.
The door falls into the room with a loud bang, making Chuck jump before he lets out a very unflattering screech.
You try to seem as unphased as possible, curling your fingers in to admire your fresh pastel lavender manicure.
It’s not like you’re surprised that he’s here.
It’s just you’ve never quite gotten used to the look of him, the way his presence fills up an entire room.
He runs an aggravated hand through inky black hair, the strands falling back into a perfect middle part, the length perfectly framing his strong jaw, his dark eyebrows, his slightly broken nose and stunning eyes. He’s wearing a simple black t-shirt and black military style joggers, the ones with all the pockets that cinch at the bottom to show off his boots, the same ones he always wears.
It’s all a great contrast to the flawless silver of his left arm, the bionic fingers flexing beneath your gaze.
You meet his gray blue eyes as they take in your outfit of choice for the night, a bright coral mini skirt, lace up heels and a cropped white tank top that leaves very little to the imagination.
His jaw twitches with displeasure.
As it should. Serves him right for bursting in here and ruining all your fun.
Again.
You cross your legs underneath his watchful gaze, twirling a perfectly pedicured foot around and around as you try to steady your pulse.
“Oh hi Jimmy,” you say to him by way of greeting.
He hates when you call him that.
“Dude, what the fuck?” Chuck finally manages, his too smooth clammy palm resting on your thigh in a way that you assume you’re supposed to interpret as possessive.
You will yourself not to laugh.
Bucky’s eyes flick down to Chuck’s hand before his eyes harden back on you, a murderous glint laced in his irises.
He takes a step into the room almost unconsciously before thinking better of it and stepping back to stand on the outside of the threshold.
“Time to go,” he rumbles at you, his voice low and impatient and angry.
He still has that slight accent, not fully German but not quite American anymore either.
Between what Steve has told you and what you could find online, you’ve pieced together easily enough what happened to him after he fell to his presumed death in the Swiss Alps all those decades ago. And still there’s an air of mystery about him, something alluring that won’t seem to let your interest just die out already.
“But I only just got here,” you pout, batting your lashes up at him as you poke out your bottom lip.
You can practically hear his molars grinding.
The fact that Steve even commissioned Bucky to “keep an eye on you” while you’re away at college is so annoying and insulting.
Yes, the petty theft is…childish you’ll give him that. But you don’t need a babysitter, you’d been taking care of yourself just fine long before Steve came along, thank you very much.
And you don’t want Bucky to see you as a child much less to treat you like one.
You want that brief glimpse of heat you see in his eyes to engulf him the way it does you. You want him to feel incinerated by his need for you, to be overcome by it.
Maybe then you won’t feel so ridiculous about this unrequited crush. Maybe then you’ll stop acting out just for a shred of his hard won attention.
“Ich werde es dir nicht noch einmal sagen, kleiner Fuchs,” he growls at you in German.
A flame rolls up your spine at the words.
He speaks German often, a hard to shake habit you’re pretty sure, but he does it the most when he’s trying to get his point across which is ironic given that you almost never understand it. Or maybe, like everything else about him, he wants his words to be a secret.
Well, except for those two at the end.
Kleiner Fuchs
Little Fox
He typically means it as an insult, of this you’re almost positive. He finds you cunning, sly and untrustworthy, but you bloom like a flower in a spray of spring rain every time he says it anyways.
You don’t know why you enjoy the thought of him humbling you, of putting you in your place. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t intentionally push his buttons just to see what would happen.
Your eyes flick over to the dresser, staring uselessly at your lost treasure.
You sigh.
Another time perhaps.
“This ‘protective uncle’ routine of yours is getting awfully tiring,” you say as you stand, reaching for your purse as you ignore Chuck’s useless grumbling behind you, “I mean don’t you have better things to do on a Saturday night other than ruin my fun all the time?”
“Yes, actually, I do,” he whispers angrily as you brush by him, intentionally rubbing your shoulder against the broad expanse of his chest.
Fucks sake he smells good.
“Oh really?” You retort, feeling suddenly tense and sickly green with envy as you think of his potential Saturday night activities, “hot date?”
“None of your business,” he responds impatiently, his accent picking the words up in such an authoritative way, his long strides already paces ahead of you.
“Can’t you walk any faster in those sticks?” He grumbles over his shoulder, eyes tracing over your heels disapprovingly.
“No, I cannot. But you’re more than welcome to leave me here, Jimbo.”
You give him a sugary smile and click your heels together like Dorothy on her way to Oz.
He stops, shoulders heaving on a deep breath before he turns to face you.
He stares down at your pedicured toes, eyes zig zagging over the thin cords of your heels snaked around your calves, the exposed skin of your thighs, the short cut of your skirt. His eyes blaze over your midriff, your belly button and its ruby colored heart shaped piercing, the sparkly lotion you spread all over your arms and cleavage.
And then his gaze holds on your mouth for a second too long, like he wants to look away but can’t. The slight pink of your lipgloss, the dip of your cupid's bow. Until finally those glacier blue eyes meet yours and his mouth curls up into a snarl.
He steps toward you so suddenly, forcing you back against the banister as your heel slides through a sticky puddle of spilled beer and you nearly lose your balance. You clutch the wood behind you to brace yourself, heart thrashing inside your chest as he invades your personal space. You can practically feel your pupils dilating from his proximity, your senses greedy to smell him, lick him, dig your short stiletto nails into him and climb him like a tree.
“Do you think I enjoy keeping track of your immature ass all the time?” He spits out, his words hitting you like a slap in the face. He tilts his head to the side, inspecting you the way someone would assess a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of their shoe.
If you weren’t so pissed off, it’d be enough to make you cry.
To be so desperate and so deprived of someone’s attention is a harrowing feat for your emotional constitution.
“I’m immature?” You screech out, even though he’s not wrong, he never is. You’ve just never been one to admit your mistakes once you’re confronted with them.
Especially not to Bucky.
Being defensive about your flaws comes to you a lot more naturally than embracing them does.
“What about kicking down that door just now? What about humiliating me two weeks ago in front of my friends? And let’s not forget about you waiting in front of my apartment like an absolute psycho last month to make sure I got my studying done.”
You want to throw something at him. You want to yell at Steve for making it seem like you need some kind of guardian, yet another savior. You want to claw at Bucky’s chest, you want to pull his hair and hit his mean, beautiful face.
And then you want him to do that to you too.
These arguments always turn whatever fantasies you have about him blood red.
You want him to step on you, to spit on you, to place the heel of his boot right in your mouth and -
“These people aren’t your friends,” he retorts sadly, as if it’s obvious, as if you should know that by now, “and someone has to look out for you, someone has to make you understand that your actions have consequences. You think you can lie and steal and half ass your way through life forever?”
He steps closer, exasperated, cold eyes flashing white hot like the glint of light off a dagger.
“Erwachsen werden,” he snarls at you, white teeth bared like a wolf, his whole body vibrating with anger.
“Don’t you fucking lecture me! All you did with your life is ride on Steve’s coat tails until you were saved from near death to be used as a human lab rat! You think you’re really the right person to be telling me that my actions have consequences? Do you really want to talk about what exactly it was you were doing before you and your beloved Captain reunited?”
“At least I’m trying to make it right,” he responds, his voice low and menacing as he grabs you tight by the chin, “at least I’m not a bored spoiled bitch who has to steal from rich kids just to get a thrill. A sad little girl who was so neglected growing up she can’t accept love even when it’s handed to her on a silver fucking platter.”
He lets go of your chin and pushes your head away, the lingering imprint of his thumb sending a throbbing echo of desire between your legs.
You feel hot tears threaten against your lower lashes, your chin quivering as his form blurs a little in front of you.
Because he’s right, of course he’s right. Steve gave you a life you never dreamed could be possible. To grow up and be raised by people who never knew you even existed, who let you starve, let you go to school unshowered in clothes that didn’t fit because all the money was spent on God knows what else, does something to a person that is hard to erase. Parents whose faces you barely remember, who left you alone in bed for weeks until your neighbor had seen you taking the garbage out, had asked you where your mother was and you couldn’t think of a lie quick enough. Could only cry and cry and cry.
And then one day Steve was there at the foster home, learning how to play chess with you because it was the only game you liked, a game that didn’t require you to talk just to play. Teaching you how to ride a bike and finish a puzzle and do a cartwheel. Showing you that love doesn’t actually have to be earned. That it can just be there, the whole time, all along.
But you’re so afraid of losing it, of losing him and his loyalty and his undying fatherly affection for you that somewhere along the way you decided it was easier to push him away. To consistently disappoint him and let him down, just in case. In case he changed his mind, in case he couldn’t do it after all, at least you couldn’t say you didn’t see it coming.
You can’t be abandoned if you never let yourself belong to begin with.
Bucky unfortunately just became collateral damage along the way. Your quiet brooding “uncle” who reunited with his best friend right before your 17th birthday. Who rides a motorcycle and cooks like you wouldn’t believe and never ever lets you win at chess. Where your heart swells when you see Steve, your insides have always done something else entirely when you see Bucky. Despite your slight age difference, now that you’re older you like to think you could be the kind of girl he’d actually be interested in long term, but you can’t seem to give yourself the chance to prove it.
You don’t actually know if you’re worthy of someone like him. Someone who did terrible things and did his best to make them better. Someone who is loyal, who is steadfast, who is good hearted. Someone who, despite everything, has been one of the most constant people in your life.
“I’m not doing this shit with you any more,” you force out now, your words wobbly as your face burns with embarrassment. You search for your phone, fingers fumbling around tubes of lip gloss and tampons as you try to get a hold of your emotions.
A group of girls rush past you in a cloud of bubblegum sweet perfume and boisterous laughter and you stumble into Bucky right as your hand grasps your cell.
Instinctively he reaches a hand out to steady you and if you weren’t already on fire, weren’t already furious and shamefully wet over from this public dressing down, the feeling of the cool vibranium of his hand against your blazing skin is just a jolting reminder of how deeply and how quickly he affects you.
“Let go of me,” you snap, wrenching your arm out of his grasp, thumbs punching against the screen as you search for Steve’s number, tears dripping like raindrops against the glass screen.
You haven't had anything to drink tonight but everything inside of you feels unsteady and loose, Bucky’s close proximity making you too delirious.
You need to call Steve so you can finally end this tyranny once and for all.
Bucky is never going to put you out of your misery so you need to get away from him and wallow in peace. You can’t stand the way his muscles fill out every seam of his clothing, how he always smells like freshly fallen snow and pine trees. You can’t deal with how his voice scrapes down your spine like sandpaper, how his mouth can be so venomous and so unbelievably kissable at the same time.
You don’t want to think about that time he grinned at you when he drove you home months ago after you’d made some corny joke, his eyes glittering with humor in a way that made you breathless. How a few weeks ago he’d brought you chicken soup in the middle of the night after he’d found out you had the flu, checking your forehead periodically with the back of his hand, a deep divot fixed permanently between his eyebrows. How during your 19th birthday party a few years back he had grumpily put on a sparkly cone shaped hat and sang with the gusto of someone whose teeth were about to be pulled and the smile that had put on your face had made him reluctantly smile too.
Or how you sometimes imagine him with another woman and have to scream into your pillow until your head feels like it might explode to keep from losing your ever loving mind.
You need him to release you from a prison he doesn’t even know he holds the key to because if he doesn’t you’re afraid you’ll finally admit just how much you like that he’s the only person in your life who’s really told you what they think about you.
That you’re in love with someone who’s off limits, who’s uninterested, who’s perfect for you in every way.
Your thumb is poised over the call button when the phone is suddenly yanked out of your hands.
“Hey!” You shout at him, watching as he swiftly deposits it into one of the many pockets on his pants.
“You are such a brat, you know that?” He seethes before he turns and strides toward the steps.
He’s going to win.
Again.
He’s going to leave here with your phone in one of his pockets and your dignity in the other and then he’s going to strap you into his car and pat you on the head and take you home so you can be a good girl.
He’ll go back to his apartment and do whatever else he’s supposed to be so busy doing after he reports back to Steve about another “job well done” and the thought of that, the fucking nerve of him, makes you so livid theres suddenly a high pitched ringing in your ears.
You’re not sure if it’s a conscious decision, it must not be, because if you were in your right mind you wouldn’t take a few long steps toward his back, more sure on these high heels than you’ve ever been, plant your palms against the rigid muscles of his shoulders and shove.
Hard.
He doesn’t fall, obviously, he barely stumbles forward. But before he even turns around you can tell that his mind is reeling. Playing back if he did in fact just feel what he thinks he just felt.
You’ve crossed the threshold of simply poking the bear to outright stabbing it.
“Give me,” you say through clenched teeth, heart pounding, vision blurred from adrenaline and utter madness, “my phone back. Now.”
He’s looking at you like you’re a complete stranger.
“Have you lost your-”
You push him again, in the chest this time.
“I mean it Bucky!”
He goes completely still with barely restrained fury, something dangerous flaring behind his eyes.
“You sure you want to do this?” He asks, his voice so low it sounds like it’s coming from inside your own head. He tracks the tears on your face, your fists clenched at your sides, the furious pink lighting up your cheeks.
And there’s a moment you could have turned back, you could have let your shoulders sag, gone down the steps and gotten in the car and forgotten all about this little outburst.
But despite the noise of the music, the laughter and the kissing and the chatter of the raging party below you still register the distinct crack of your open palm against his face. The ever so slight turn of his head, his hair falling over his cheek like a dark curtain closing over one act of a play before the next is about to begin.
Your skin stings, your hand shaking as you take one tentative step back, then another.
Oh no.
Oh shit.
“You’re fucked,” he growls right as you turn to run.
How far you thought you’d get in these shoes you really can’t say. 3 steps? Maybe 4? You make it a whopping 2 before his arms are banded around your waist, hauling you off the ground as easily as someone would pick up a quarter that they knocked off the kitchen counter.
He lifts you up and over his shoulder as you slam your fists into his back, kneeing him in the stomach as he strides down the hallway like he has a wet hissing kitten in his arms.
“Put me down!” You yell, clawing at the skin of his back. He doesn't hear you or he doesn’t care and neither does anyone else. You might as well be stranded on a desert island for all the people who are rushing to your rescue right now.
Not that you really have any true desire to be saved.
He stomps down the hallway, before he kicks open the first door he can find, scaring the life out of two girls making out in the bathroom.
“Out!” he demands with a shout, barely sparing them a glance before he’s throwing you back onto your feet, shoving them out the door and then slamming it closed.
“That was rude,” you say with a sneer, pointlessly flicking your hair out of your face.
He turns toward you and the look he gives you makes your heart feel like it’s lodged in your throat.
No, worse than that. It feels like he’s reaching down your throat and pulling your heart up and out with his fist.
“You want to see rude?” He asks as he reaches around your head and fists your hair, the metal of his hand ice cold against the nape of your neck. He turns you to face the mirror, smudged with lipstick kisses and dim since there’s only one working lightbulb in here.
“I’ll show you rude.”
And then he forces your head down so that your cheek is pressed firmly to the (thankfully clean) countertop, your eyes level with the dripping faucet. He hikes your skirt up, keeping his fist clenched tight in your hair as he reveals your lime green thong.
“Bucky don’t you dare-” you splutter, struggling uselessly against his hold.
But his palm is already rearing back and coming down hard on your ass. Once, then again and again.
“I would have tied you up and done this properly if I had the patience but you make me so fucking angry I can’t think straight.”
He strikes you again and you try to hold it in, hold back how good the pain feels, how much you like this, how long you have wanted this from him.
“Why can’t you just behave? How hard is that, huh?”
His hand lands on you again and you have to curl your hands into fists and squeeze your eyes shut to muffle the whimpers that are threatening to get out. If you could just press your thighs together to release the sudden ache without drawing his attention, maybe push back against him just a little bit for some relief that would help tremendously. Every now and then the front of his pants brushes against the back of your bare thigh and you imagine grinding back on that strong leg of his, pressing your soaked pussy against him and riding his leg like an animal in heat.
You’re bracing for another blow, teeth clenched, fists still so tight your knuckles have whitened, so that when he slides a finger beneath your underwear and twists it around, tightening the fabric against your cunt, the desperate sound you make seems to surprise you both.
He pulls your head up so that you can meet his eyes in the mirror, one of the crimson red kisses perfectly placed on his reflection so that it gives him this devastating heart throb sort of look.
“Did you wear these for him?” He whispers menacingly, tugging on your underwear again for emphasis.
Him who? For you there is only one him and he’s currently standing behind you with your hair wrapped around his hand like a rope.
“Hello?” He asks again in the most condescending tone, yanking on your hair twice to emphasize that he expects an answer.
“No I did not wear this thong for Shit for Brains Vandermeer,” you pant, your eyes watering because your ass still burns something fierce.
And because you’re so horny you actually do want to cry.
“Lügnerin,” he replies unhappily as he tugs your underwear down.
You don’t know what he just said but it sounded like an accusation.
Unfortunately now with your panties tangled around your ankles and your skirt hiked up to the middle of your back there’s really no way to hide how wet you are.
It’s indisputable when he shoves two thick fingers inside of you without so much as a warning.
“Bucky,” you whine, barely able to catch your breath, knees wobbling in these stupid shoes as you twist your hips in a futile attempt to work his fingers deeper.
“You really are a whore aren’t you? Soaking wet and so desperate for it already,” he mocks, glaring at your reflection before he tilts his head down and spits on his fingers.
You’re going to die here.
You thought you could handle him like this. What a joke, you thought you could handle him period. But he looks insane, completely unhinged. You’ve actually scrambled his brains and now he’s going to turn you inside out and you’re not going to be able to survive it.
“Tell me who you wear these slutty outfits for then. I want an answer dammit.”
He pushes his fingers in deeper, rougher, and curls them up, teasing your g spot before easing off.
“James please,” you beg, hoping by using his real name he’ll show you some mercy, snap out of it a little, but it only seems to make it worse.
“I should have taken his grubby little hand clean off of his body for touching your thigh like that. Like he owns you,” he tugs your hair again, teeth bared as he watches your slick drip down his fingers, “now tell me the truth or so help me-”
“You, alright! I wore them for you. I wear all this shit for you.”
There.
Now he knows.
As if he didn’t already know. As if you haven’t been so obviously begging for his attention for years. You know your skimpy clothes, your body glitter, your piercings and your fluorescent skirts and see through tops don’t sway him at all, but it was this or nothing. If showing too much of your tits irritated him enough to keep a spare sweatshirt of his in the backseat of his car then so be it. If getting little butterfly tattoos in random hidden places could snag his attention for even a second longer then it was worth it.
You’re willing to take up space in his life no matter what it takes.
He seems to accept your answer because he loosens the fist in your hair and places the cold metal of his hand flat against your ass. The change in temperature makes your eyes roll, your head loll against the granite countertop. He smooths his palm over you, soothing you it seems as he buries the fingers from his other hand deeper.
“Explain,” he commands, silkily sliding his fingers in and out at a torturously lazy pace.
He seems in no hurry to get out of this bathroom or to take you back home. Now that he realizes all the things you’ll let him do to you, time might as well not exist at all.
“You want me to fluff your ego now? Don’t you think I’ve lost enough dignity tonight?”
But you’re panting, breathless, thighs trembling from the strength of your desire. You would do much more humiliating things than this for his attention.
“I’m sorry if that sounded like a question kleiner fuchs but you’re not really in a position to be making demands.”
He raises his eyebrows pointedly at his hand on your ass, his fingers in your cunt, his tall, broad body dressed in all black and poised like the grim reaper behind you.
Prepared to steal all your secrets.
“You already know,” you whisper, closing your eyes in hopes that it will make this admission easier, “I just want you to look at me, to notice me. You still treat me like a kid, like I’m beneath you.”
He curls his fingers, a reward for your honesty and your knees buckle. He presses his hips into you, pinning you against the counter to hold you upright, his erection like steel beneath his clothes.
“I don’t know how you manage to know me, to understand me and still make me feel so invisible.”
This admission stills him, you can feel his eyes boring into the back of your skull.
Contemplating.
And then his hands are gone, and there’s a rustling of fabric and the sudden warmth of his skin against your bare bottom.
You keep your eyes closed.
There’s a part of you that wants to look at him, to drink him in, that wants to dissect every second of this. But there’s another part of you that wants to keep this feeling, this side of him, locked tight in your memory where it can’t escape. Your body floats on this moment like you’re on top of the ocean, riding it as far out as it will take you.
You don’t know what this means, where it leads, what happens next. But you know that you’re under a spell inside this small bathroom and you’ll do everything you can not to break it.
He leans over you, his breath warm and peppermint sweet against your neck. You feel the plump head of his cock brush against your opening, stretch around him just the tiniest bit before he retreats. You can feel his hand between your bodies, guiding himself to you and then away, closer and then farther.
It’s absolute madness.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your neck, his body held taught, hovering physically and mentally away from you, “say no,” he continues as he nips at your earlobe, kisses down your neck, “tell me this is wrong, that you don’t want this.”
You angle your hips back and whimper in refusal of his request.
“Say it,” he pleads through gritted teeth and it’s that sound in his voice more than anything that makes you open your eyes. You don’t lift your head yet but you can see the bright silver of his palm braced against the counter, feel the tension in his forearms like he’s hanging onto a rope that’s swinging over a deadly precipice. You tilt your head up just a little and lock eyes with his own.
Ice blue and full of anguish.
And it dawns on you that maybe it wasn’t that he didn’t want you, never wanted you, it was that he wanted you too much. He looks at your mouth, your rumpled hair, your messy clothes and smeared makeup and he seems to be in despair.
He whispers your name and it sounds helpless.
Anxious.
Desperate.
Longing.
“Please.” Is all you say in response instead.
He kicks your feet apart, steps between your legs and notches himself at your opening. He pushes in and then withdraws, pushes a little farther and then withdraws again and this moment? Nothing in the world could stop you from watching this.
You look up at his reflection in the mirror as your hand blindly grabs onto the faucet, holding on as he grips your hips and pulls you fully onto his cock.
You wish you had enough energy to scream but it feels so fucking good it steals the energy from your lungs. Goosebumps spread over your body, your channel bearing down on him as he finally finally finally gives into you. The thick head of his cock drags inside you and it feels like death. Not sunshine and rainbows and pink sunsets or bright orange sunrises. It feels dark and obliterating, consuming. Jet black and cool gray and deep ocean blue. It clouds over you and sucks you in. Drags you under, steals your very soul and buries you alive.
His mouth is open just a little as he gasps and looks down at where you’re stretched around him, his cheeks filling red as he pushes deeper, pulls you closer. He meets your gaze in the mirror and the change in his expression is like the snap of a whip.
“Holy shit that’s so good,” he chokes out as he leans down over you, bracing one hand over yours, the other remaining firmly on your hip, “so wet, so tight.”
He raises up just a little and moves the hand that was over yours to the back of your neck, holding you down against the counter as he fucks you so hard the cabinets against your knees start to rattle.
He stares down at you, angry again now, blazing with rage as he watches you eagerly take his cock, whining and begging for him over and over as you push your ass back into him shamelessly.
“You don’t get it do you? You’re so unbelievably smart and still you never knew, you still don’t know,” he rolls his hips in a way that stretches you so thoroughly you feel your heart beating at the base of your throat, in your temples, deep down through your spine, “du warst für mich nie unsichtbar,” he whispers and then he bites your neck and goes to work on your pussy, spreading your ass open and watching with an expression that is something akin to greed.
His hands are everywhere, down your shirt and in your bra, playing with your nipples, rolling them between his thumb and pointer finger. In your hair, on your ass, between your legs, down your thighs. He feels you everywhere, takes exactly what he knew he didn’t even have to ask for. He fucks you so brutally, without an ounce of hesitation that nothing could stop how abruptly you start to come. His fingers slip expertly over your clit and your eyes roll back so hard you’re blind. Legs numb, fingers trembling, you start to clench around him in a way that feels like the pounding of a drum until you burst and everything around you turns pale.
You gasp his name, breathing so hard you’re fogging up the mirror, desperate for relief even though it refuses to come.
He swats your hand away when you blindly grasp for him, mumbling nonsense as aftershocks wreak havoc on your body.
“You’re gonna keep taking it,” he breathes out, tilting his head back so that his inky hair sways between his shoulder blades, the strong column of his throat on perfect display as he fists the top of your skirt and uses it as an anchor to pound into you.
“This is what you wanted from me so you’re gonna take all of it. I’m gonna fuck your tight cunt so full of my cum you’re gonna taste it in the back of your throat for days.”
He braces his left hand against the mirror, his palm slipping just a little through the condensation, his right hand curled so tight into the fabric of your skirt it cuts into your waist. He yanks on the thin material, using it to tug your snug pussy down harder onto his dick.
It is so hot and so filthy and you love it.
“Just like that,” you whine as both of his restless hands move to curl around your hips, watching him with hooded eyes as he watches you, smiling down at you in such a cocky way it makes you feel like you could come just from the sight of it, “Jesus this feels fucking good.”
He isn’t sweet or tender with you. It isn’t kind or loving or slow. It is the way Bucky has always been.
It is honest.
You brand each other like this and you know, like you’ve always known, that you could never belong to anyone the way that you belong to Bucky. That even when you’re fucking in a too small bathroom, your body slick with sweat, his human hand rough and calloused scratching against your skin, you communicate with each other on a level no one else could dream of understanding.
“Du weißt nicht, was ich dir geben würde, was ich für dich tun würde,” he groans loudly, the slapping of your hips overpowering the music downstairs, the thrumming in your chest, the pounding of a fist against the bathroom door, “Du verstehst nicht, wie sehr ich dich liebe.”
And you wish you knew what he was saying, wish those German lessons you tried to take in secret had done any good at all. But there’s no hope of deciphering this fevered way he’s talking to you. How his lips skate over your skin like he wants to embed your taste onto his tongue, his nose buried in your hair, inhaling the fresh kiwi scent of your shampoo deep into his lungs.
His breathing starts to stutter, sweat beading on his forehead as his hands grip you tighter.
“Inside me, I- please Bucky” you beg incoherently and without shame, watching, entranced, as his need to claim you takes over, his eyes going glassy, faced flushed from heat and exertion, “I want to feel it when you come.”
“Dear God,” he breathes out, banding his arms around your middle and pulling your back upright against his chest, “ohfuck,” he moans before he grinds his hips in a slow circle, pressing his cock so deep you can feel the head swell before the dam bursts and he starts to come. His arms dig into your stomach, holding onto you for dear life as he fills you up, his left arm blissfully cool against your over warm skin. His forehead falls against your shoulder, yours falling back to rest against his, his right hand flattening against your thundering heart and holding you in place. He pulses inside you and his cum feels so good, there’s so much of it you wish you’d asked him to finish on your face instead.
Just so you could see it all.
Your heartbeat slams against his palm the same way his pounds against your shoulder blade, the warmth of his release turning you on so immediately and in such a primal way you almost feel embarrassed by it.
He brushes the sweat slicked hair from the back of your neck before he replaces his fingers with his lips, showering your neck with kisses in a way that’s just shy of worship. Then he licks the perspiration away, which is disgusting and unreal and so utterly sexy it makes you dizzy. He pulls your top down and plays with your breasts, his blue eyes glowing in the mirror like an owl in the night. He keeps it up until your breath hitches until your arms start shaking until, unbelievably, you start to squeeze around him again.
“James I’m-” you gasp but you can’t seem to get the words out, and he understands anyways. He’s still pressed inside you, can still feel it after all.
“I know schatz, I know.” He replies quietly, blowing cool air on your pulse, rubbing his hand along your sternum, telling you that you are a good girl, he knows it. That you look so pretty when you come for him. That he loves when you fight with him, loves your tenacity, your fearsomeness, because the battle is just as satisfying as getting you to break.
Your back arches when your orgasm finally takes over, a feeling that starts in your toes and travels up to your hairline. It tingles over your whole body and you underestimated how good it would feel, when he holds you like this, when he talks to you in that tone of voice you only get to hear on the rarest of occasions.
He lets you tremble against him for an undetermined period of time, the party fading away to nothing as he eventually pulls out of you, as you both finally start to settle.
After a while he whispers your name in a way that sounds like a question and you can’t help but dread what comes next because you don’t know if you can do this, not yet.
You don’t want to see his rejection written all over his face so soon if that’s what he’s about to say. The idea of having to bear the eternal burden of his indifference already would destroy you.
Especially after tonight.
“Don’t ok?” You reply almost silently, bringing your arm around to cup him by the back of the neck, your thumb rubbing back and forth in a slow soothing rhythm, “just…let me keep you for a few more minutes.”
He hesitates but you eventually feel his head nod in agreement, his breath perfectly timed with your own as it puffs against your collar bone. Your hand rubs up and down, fingers finally twisting into the decadently thick strands of his hair and scratching his scalp.
“Mein kleiner Fuchs,” he sighs, burying his face into your neck and squeezing you tight against his body. And you could swear, if it wasn’t for this post sex high clouding your mind you could swear that he’s smiling just the slightest bit into your skin, “Ich bin für immer dein.”