Baron on the Run

You remember when you had the conversation. Only a few nights ago on a Friday, barely more than a week since first going on the run with him, you and the Baron drank a few glasses of his expensive scotch at the new safe house, and you had found yourself opening up about fantasies, or lack of. 

"Come now, Schatz - there must be something you have been intrigued to."

A simple shrug is what you give. "Maybe a few times…. But it's not something I put much thought into or anything like that." You take a sip, the alcohol rough in its burn. 

"Why is that?" he questions without missing a beat. 

Meeting his gaze across the couch you see he's been watching you the entire conversation, as though there is nothing that even comes remotely close to being more important than whatever silly ideas you have to share. “I mean I’ve spent my whole life as this bigger, intimidating person. Hell, I’m taller than you, by what an inch and a half? And most people that much, if not more,” you lightly scoff and sip again from your tumbler of scotch. “It wasn't something feasible being bigger I guess-” you gesture to your torso “-so I dropped the ideas before it could really set in as something I wanted. I told you - I'm always on my own and having to do my own thing. Had to get a grip on my life and be an independent woman and all that," you chuckle.

Zemo had been more than thorough in acquainting you with the basics of intimacy the last week; yet he let you take the lead as much as possible. Almost entirely, truly. You weren't at the point of anything wild or experimental, nor were you brave enough to try going rogue. So it was easy, it was standard - not that you had any complaints. But Helmut was adamant that it was you who controlled how he kissed you, how he touched you, how he broke your body and soul piece by piece in the long hours of the night. 

You look across the room into the flickering light of the fireplace. Quieter, you add "just once I’d like to feel like the small one in a situation, to have to look up to someone literally and figuratively, to not feel like I’m too big and to just be able to let someone else make the choice for me." Looking back at him and speaking a little more blase, you finish "but I don't know. That's about as far as I got." 

“I like looking up at you, Schatz, it’s like looking at an angel,” Helmut whispers. Since you had unofficially gotten together after escaping Riga he was constantly praising and complimenting you. You always expected to feel like he was just flattering you, but he made it such a point to talk about your intelligence, kindness, generosity, humor, and how beautiful he found you in equal parts. 

You don't bother fighting back your grin. “I’m sure you do, Baron.” Downing the rest of your drink you tell him you are tired and head off to bed with a kiss.

Helmut had business to attend into the late evening. You made yourself busy reading some old book from the safe house’s upstairs library. The sun set as you read. Oranges and pinks and purples cast the room in a peaceful glow as you engulfed yourself in tales of times gone by. Maybe three hours later you hear him call out for you, breaking you from your page; “Schatz, could you come down here?”

Excitement bubbles within you at his arrival. “Be down in a sec!” You closed the book and placed it on the desk. Wandering around in the darkness you think you hear him in the kitchen. You call out “Helmut are you-” as you reach for the light switch when a shadowy figure backs you into a wall, knocking the breath you had from your lungs. For a second you panic, heart beating wildly out of your chest, until you see a glint of that familiar chocolate in the shadow’s eyes. The white-knuckled grip you have on the fabric of his top relaxes.

Pressed up against the kitchen wall by the man, you can just make out that he's clad in his gear. A thick burgundy turtleneck covers the expanse of his broad chest, the leather straps of a holster secured around his shoulders. Sturdy combat boots brush the sides of your ankles from where he has trapped your legs between his. The shoes give him an extra inch compared to your barefoot state, in addition to the commanding way he carries himself at present. Even as his gaze is eye level with your own like this he looks as if he towers above you.

Searching his eyes as best as you can in the limited light, you attempt “Hel what-”

A calloused palm cups the skin of your cheek, his thumb pressing softly against your mouth and silencing you. He says nothing; you wait, swallowing in anticipation. The digit glides slowly along the seam of your lips before pushing slightly between. You don't mind the intrusion, instead finding the taste of his skin intoxicating as you run the tip of your tongue over him. Pupils flit from your own to where his thumb rests. Zemo sighs. Feeling the fire within your core ignite you decide to take initiative, giving a gentle nip before sucking delicately on the pad of his thumb. 

There is no mistaking the way his eyes blacken. The softness in his tone doesn’t match the formidability of his presence as he whispers “My Leibling…” 

Zemo’s body presses yours further into the wall with such force it tears a gasp from you; his lips and tongue ravage yours with such a ferocity unlike anything you’ve known. Hands clutch at your jaw like vices. The thought crosses your mind that perhaps his fingertips might leave bruises. Nevertheless, you can’t be damned to stop him, especially not when you feel the beginnings of his hardening cock pushing into your hip, or the wetness seeping between your legs. 

Finally, when the burn in your lungs becomes too great he breaks away and instead attaches his mouth to your throat. You have no doubt he can feel the pounding of your heart where he sucks and bites at your flesh. The Baron slides a hand under the edge of your top. His fingers are hot where they dig into your soft side. A feeble attempt to maneuver your hands to remove your shirt results in a tsk from him, his own larger ones moving to rip the fabric of your nightshirt right down the middle and exposing your peaked breasts to the cool air and his hungry stare. “Fuck - Helmut, what’s- ugh-” a particularly hard pinch to your nipple breaks your concentration, “what’s gotten in to you?” The question comes out as a moan.

Instead of an answer he tugs at the waistband of your shorts. With your reassuring nod he pushes them over your wide hips and thick thighs. Not a minute later he’s pulled a leg to wrap around his hip and opens you up to the grind of his still-clothed cock. “Don’t think, Leibling, just feel,” he commands. 

The material of his pants rubs a delicious friction; your juices soaking through the fabric. You can feel the inferno growing. Breathy moans fill the near-silent kitchen. “Mein Gott, Draga I can feel how wet you are. Does this excite you? To know that you are enough to drive the great Baron Zemo to such primal need? To such depravity as to not even give you the luxury of a bed, but instead to have you right here and at my mercy?” He punctuates his statement with a harsh roll of his hips. 

You whine in need. The pressure between your hips grows, you need him more than you can bear to think. Quickly you move to undo the fastening of his trousers between you. He does not stop you, only slows his movements to make it easier for you to work. When his bared cock finally rubs along your soaked core you manage to whimper a pathetic please. Helmut’s grip on your leg around his hip remains firm. He uses his free arm to place each of your hands on the straps of his holster along his pectorals. You pull on the leather as if to test its strength. There is barely enough room for your wrists between you where your chests are crushed together.

Suddenly Zemo drops as he leans to wrap his free hand underneath the leg that still supports your weight; his brute strength lifts you completely before you realize what he’s doing. “Wait no- Helmut I’m too-”

“No.” Zemo snaps his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt in one fluid motion. 

“Oh my god.” You sound pathetic as you keen at the fullness within you.

Both of his hands support you under the soft curve of your upper thighs. You tighten your legs around the small of his back on instinct. Panic surges through you despite the wonderful feel of him inside you. You aren’t small, you weigh too much, you’ll hurt him. 

He jerks his shoulders minutely to bring your attention to where your fingers are wrapped around his holster straps. “Do not let go, Draga. Do you understand?” 

“But-”

“Do you understand, Leibling?” he asks again, this time more demanding than you’ve ever heard.

“Yes.”

The first slam of his cock is fierce. It is precise. It is beyond any sort of pleasure you’ve ever felt, to have this man fucking you within an inch of your life as he all but cradles your body within the palm of his hand like it was your destiny to be there. Through all your sobs and cries of ecstasy he does not let up on the onslaught. Each thrust hits deep within you. His hips angle to brush your bundle of nerves with every movement. The peaks of your breasts tease and graze his sweater; probably an unfair advantage for him to be clothed and yet you at his complete mercy. You can’t fault how the sensation only heightens your euphoria. This time you know for sure his fingertips will paint your thighs with their memory for days to come; will create a masterpiece along the expanse of your skin that no Van Gogh or Picasso or Da Vinci could ever hope to produce. 

Your release comes all too quickly at his attentions. Helmut doesn’t let up, nor does he seem to even break a sweat at his herculean task. At one point you swear you feel the leather straps start to give under the chokehold of your fists as he orders you to come again along his shaft, his words leaving no room for you to think otherwise. 

Helmut reaches his own peak as your channel tightens around him, the growl of your name against your temple like a bolt of electricity. Hips slowing to a gentle roll, he does not pull himself from you, instead adjusting his hold under you to keep you pinned between his body and the wall. Your forehead comes to rest on his shoulder. The Baron drops sweet kisses to your temple, to your cheek, as you both come down from your high. 

“Mmmm…Maybe you should put me down now? My legs are sore,” you mumble into his sweater, flexing your thigh and calf muscles where they still circle his waist. 

“And if I do not want to? What then, my Leibling?” At your answering groan he hums in contentment before slowly removing himself from you, moving from the wall, and carrying you to the loveseat in the next room. Oversized boots thump with each step. The loose pants hanging from his knees slow his walk to a shuffle. He sits, situating you in his lap. Zemo looks down to see your fingers still wrapped around the holster. With a smile he says “you may let go now, Schatz. You did so well for me, such a good girl.”

It takes your digits a moment to cooperate as you untangle them from their place. “I’m not sure I can move my hands…?”

Helmut chuckles at your admission, taking your hands in each of his. He brings them to hip lips and places delicate kisses on them. Carefully he begins to massage your fingers and palms; “well, we must see to that, shouldn't we?”