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A Bucky Barnes Winter Soldier Fic - The Constant	By : TheConstant1944 Category: Marvel Verse Comics > Captain America Views: 2391 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any Marvel characters. They are solely owned by Marvel and MCU. No money is made from this story.

Chapter List
- 41
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- 43
Chapter Forty-Two
The Constant & Winter Soldier - The Mirror

He is there when you return to your room. It has been a long day; he has been training and you have been running schedules. You are tired. This is only your third day together. He still does not know you yet.
Strangely, he is sitting on the edge of your bed instead of his own. You wonder if something is wrong. You approach him. He watches you and smiles. It is not a nice smile, it is a smile that makes you go cold to your very bones.
You want to turn and run...but what is the use. Where would you go? Nowhere.
He grabs your wrist and pulls you closer to him. When he is in these moods you can't read him; can't predict what he is going to do. He pulls you down to him and kisses your lips hard, then turns you around so you are sat between his legs, perched on the edge of the bed. He moves back slightly so you don't fall off. His grip is strong.
You're confused. What game is he playing now? Why sit here?
And then you look up and realise.
Opposite on the wall is the full length mirror. He is watching you to see your reaction. Your eyes meet his.
"Please don't," you say, the tiredness showing in your voice.
He lifts your plait and brings it forward and releases your hair, running the end of it down his cheek, watching you the whole time. He lets your hair go.
He has trapped your legs by putting his ankles over yours. You try to rise but he won't let you. He moves the hair away from your neck and kisses you, then nips you and you feel the familiar stirring low down in your stomach.
If only you could hate him.
If only you didn't have that knot of want for him in the pit of your stomach.
"Please,” you repeat. “I'm tired."
He looks up at your reflection in the mirror.
"You said you were always here for me," he whispers in your ear, using your own words against you, and then bites gently and his right hand slides up your leg under your skirt.
What can you say? Nothing. You are beginning to lose yourself already to his touch.
Your skirt is short and he pulls it up so he can see your suspenders. He also wants to see the star he marked you with, the one he saw earlier, the one that means you belong to him and only him. In the mirror you watch his eyes looking at you, looking at your body as he uncovers it. His eyes are difficult to read. Is he just playing with you?
His metal hand unbuttons your blouse and then disappears inside, and he moves the material away so he can see your bra. He pushes the strap down and releases your breast. His hand closes over it and you feel the coldness of the metal; it makes your nipple hard and you want to groan.
His other hand strokes the soft flesh at the top of your leg, outlining the star, and then works its way down the fabric of your pants.
"Look in the mirror," he whispers - but you don't. Slowly the metal hand squeezes and you feel the pain. "Look in the mirror."
You give in. You always do when it comes to the Winter Soldier. He is looking at you, directly into your eyes. The fabric of your pants is damp and his hand moves up the material to the top, you want him to stop but you also want him to continue.
Slowly his fingers draw the material down and he readjusts his seating so he can get his hand in further. His legs draw yours wider. His metal hand relaxes its grip on your breast. You know he can feel everything with that hand and he starts to gently roll your nipple between two of the fingers.
You feel sick. You feel desperate as the fingers between your legs slide down and into you.
"You're wet," he whispers, looking straight into your eyes in the mirror again, seeing the blackness in them turning to liquid. He knows he has you.
Your mind is blank to everything but the feel of him. His fingers know your hidden places, they know how to turn you into a whore. You lean back against him. He watches you as he sees the need and want in your eyes and you moan as he goes deeper. He kisses along your neck and shoulder but his eyes are watching both of you in the mirror. You see that smile on his face: oh God, you know he is going to hurt you but you don't care, you just want him to carry on and you can't help but beg him not to stop.
He doesn't. He can feel the heat on your body rise and feel the sheen of sweat, it fascinates him as to what he can do to you, to see how he can control you. To test you he goes to pull his fingers out of you and you reach down and hold his hand and make his fingers slide back in deeper and you leave your hand there. He knows you are so close and his metal hand goes back to stroking your breast and squeezing, and as you come he bites deep down into your neck and when you cry out neither of you know if it is in pain or want, or both.
You fall back into him.
Your whole body is sweating. Your legs are weak. He slowly moves his hand away and you can smell your sex and it shames you. He is still watching you in the mirror: your reactions, everything about you. There is a small trickle of blood running down your shoulder and you know tomorrow there will be a nasty bruise there; he has bitten you before.
You wonder if it is over, but it isn't.
"My turn now," he says to your reflection and he sees your eyes widen. Watching you in the mirror has wormed its way inside him, he wants your mouth on him so badly. His legs release yours and he turns you around and forces you down, onto your knees.
You want to cry: you ache, you feel so sore. You feel sick from seeing your own reflection, from seeing what you have become.
“Look at me,” he says and you do. He studies your eyes, your face; his metal hand strokes through your hair. He loves the feel of it. Then he brings his other hand up, his fingers still wet from being inside you and you realise he is going to put them in his mouth to taste you. Your stomach turns.
“No,” you say, pushing back his hand. You can't watch him do that. If you do, you will be sick.
He smirks as if he can't believe you have stopped him, but then you see his eyes widen and you feel his metal hand slip from your hair to the back of your neck and he holds you in a tight grip. Then you whimper as he offers you his fingers.
You shake your head. You can't do it.
“Please, no...I can't. Please,” but instead of listening to you he starts to force his fingers into your mouth, his metal grip pushing your head forward so that you can't escape. You gag.
“Don't,” he warns, so very quietly, pushing them in further. “Now suck,” he says.
The taste and smell fills your mouth and tears are rolling down your cheek. He draws his fingers over your tongue and then around the inside of your mouth. Your mouth is full of your own taste and you think you are going to be sick; you are trying to breathe through your nose.
His eyes are on your face, on your mouth, watching until finally he takes his fingers away and then his metal arm lifts you up slightly higher and his mouth clamps onto yours so hard his teeth bruise your lips.
His tongue invades your mouth and licks your tongue and all the places his fingers have been until finally all you can taste is him. Then you feel his grip loosen and he lets you pull away. He leans forward and licks the small trickle of blood from your shoulder. He is still smirking. You are his, you must always do what he says, and you shouldn't forget that. He likes the control he has over you.
He lets go of you and you wipe your hand across your mouth and lean away from him. You are trying to breathe deeply because you still feel nauseous.
He is wearing his normal combat trousers and black tee shirt. He undoes his zip and scoots back so he can open them just enough to do the job; he adjusts his shorts and you can see how hard he is. He reaches out to you, wraps some of your hair around his metal hand and pulls it to his face and smells it. You cannot see the mirror now, but he can and his stomach wavers as he thinks about how he is going to see everything you do to him.
He lifts your chin and bends to kiss your lips, forcing his tongue into your mouth again and he curls more of your hair hair tight around his fist.
Then he lets your chin go.
"Suck me off," he breathes and you swallow, hard. You lean forward and try to forget everything and just concentrate on his pleasure. You feel like a back-street whore. Is this how he sees you? You wrap your hand around his shaft, meaning to bend your mouth to it but he has misinterpreted your move.
"Use your mouth. Not your hand," he growls and pushes your head down towards him. You open your mouth and take the first inch of him in, slowly, you run your tongue over the top of his cock and the slit, already tasting the liquid there.
He groans and you hear his breath expel.
His hand is holding your hair. He tightens its grip and as he looks down at you he can see the shadows of your breasts inside your open blouse. He is not far from coming after watching himself masturbate you in the mirror and his breathing is harsh. He wants so badly to be deep inside your warm wet mouth and as he looks in the mirror he can see your lips wrapped around him, it is too much and he can't help but push your head down harder, not caring that he may choke you. You panic, but this has happened before and you try to take deep breaths through your nose. You have one hand steadying yourself on his leg and the other buried at the base of his erection.
It is not going to take him long to come so you continue to slide him down your throat, using your tongue to stroke the hardness and you suck. Your hand at the base of his cock tightens and you hear him groan again and he shifts slightly.
“Oh God...oh God...” his voice thick with need and grows louder and then you feel him arch back. Your mouth and throat are full of his semen, warm and salty it floods your mouth and you want to get away but you can't because his hold is too strong. You swallow and try and breathe again as he thrusts into your throat again and again, you feel more of the hot liquid as it slides down, each thrust producing the salty liquid until you think you are going to drown. His hand stays on the back of your head keeping you down on him.
Then slowly you feel him begin to relax. His hand moves and you move upwards, trying as he comes out of your throat into your mouth, to catch all the liquid. You can hear him breathing hard, as if he has just run a marathon. You pull away from his cock. You look up and his eyes are focused on you. He is still hard in your hand and a trickle of white cum runs down the shaft onto your hand still clenched around it.
"Lick it off," he says and pushes your head down again. You do as he says, tears pricking at your eyes. "All of it.” And you do until you are sure it has stopped and you feel his shaft begin to soften in your hands.
He lets go of your hair and stands up, towering over you as he adjusts himself, and zips up. You stay kneeling at his feet, you can't move; he is too close to you. He takes one last look in the mirror at the tableaux and then lifts you up by the arm roughly. His other hand grasps your other arm and he looks down at you.
"Look at me," he says.
You can still taste him in your mouth and in your throat. You know you are going to be sick; you can feel it in the depths of your stomach rising up. You swallow hard.
"Look at me.” He shakes you.
You do.
He studies you. Why are you such an enigma to him? Why do you have this power over him he wonders, why you? He takes a strand of hair and runs it through his fingers, he can smell your sex on his hand and he can smell his sex on your breath.
He lets go of you and you move backwards to watch as he leaves the room. But at the door he stops and looks back. He is going to say something but he doesn't, just looks at you, his eyes are cold, judgemental. Then he wrenches the door open and it slams shut behind him. He is angry with you again, and you don’t know why.
You hear his footsteps receding and you rush to the bathroom just in time. You slam the toilet lid up and vomit into the bowl. When you see the white liquid splattering the porcelain it makes you vomit again and again until you think there is nothing left.
This is the first time ever this has made you feel sick. You can still taste him in your mouth and hysterically you grab your toothbrush and toothpaste and brush your teeth until the gums bleed. The minty taste and foam fills your mouth which makes you retch again, into the sink this time, and you kneel and rest your forehead against the coolness of the porcelain.
Why do you feel so sick? But then in your mind's eye you see your reflection in the mirror, him bent over you kissing your neck, his hand doing God knows what to you between your legs and you feel bile rising up. You remember how he forced his fingers into your mouth, and the taste of yourself.
Your stomach turns again and your mouth waters, warning you that you are going to be sick again. You bring up more bile.
This is what you are now, just his whore. Does he have any feelings for you? Each time they freeze him, each time they wipe him he remembers you as his Constant. But then he comes back from programming time and time again, cold, distant, treating you as a whore, with no respect. He doesn't even like you. He doesn't remember the life you have had together; each time he has to discover you afresh. It varies each time on how long it is before he starts to remember, starts to feel but you keep expecting the day when he looks at you and does not like what he sees, does not like what he remembers.
You get up. You ache all over. There are small drops of blood down your blouse and you look in the mirror at the bite mark. You are going to need antibiotics, the small wound is already red and angry, he went deep this time.
You re-enter the bedroom. You can smell both of you. You throw open the small window and the patio door to try and get some air into the room, banish the scent. Your bed is rumpled and there are a few spots of blood from where he bit you. You start to laugh aloud but your giggles turn to sobs: what is it you find so funny?
Nothing, nothing at all.
You pick up your glass on the night-stand to gulp some water. You know you are getting hysterical. You can feel it bubbling up inside you; you want to weep, you want to scream but another emotion starts to also rise up: anger.
You look around and see yourself in the mirror. What a mess. Your clothes rumpled, dirty, soiled, your hair looks greasy and your face is red and blotchy. There is a hole in your stockings; your blouse hangs open and your skirt is still rucked up.
Something snaps.
You can't help it, you bring your hand back with the glass in it and throw the glass into the mirror to break your reflection, screaming as you do.
“Damn you!” You don't know if you mean you or him.
The corresponding sound of smashing glass stops you in your tracks. You freeze and watch the destruction as if in slow motion.
You look at the damage you have done. The mirror has shattered; some pieces fall down onto the carpet, some pieces remain hanging precariously in the frame which now leans to one side.
You sink to your knees, looking at the destruction and crawl forward trying to pick up the glass and try pressing it back into the frame. The hysteria is still there bubbling inside you coming to the surface.
"No, no, no, no..."
He is going to be so angry with you for ruining his possession. Your heart jumps and the hysteria now has hold of you fully; your mind is not thinking clearly, all you can see is the broken glass and what you have done.
You pick up more pieces trying to get them to fit back into the frame, unaware you are slicing the skin on your hands and knees. Another piece falls to the floor from the frame and suddenly you hear footsteps at the door and watch as the door handle turns and the door opens.
That is how he finds you. Kneeling in the broken glass, holding pieces in your hand. He cannot quite understand what he is seeing and comes forward.
You back away until the wall stops you. He is towering over you. You hold the mirror shards up.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...I'll get the pieces back in..." you are babbling and he can see blood running down from your hands and knees where the glass has cut you.
For a moment he closes his eyes and then opens them again. He kneels down. Your eyes are so wide and big, full of fear, they watch his every move.
He carefully takes the shards out of your hands and throws them to the side, then he gets up, bends down and takes your elbow pulling so you stand up. He feels you trembling.
He takes you through to the bathroom. He can smell vomit and mint; there are stains down your blouse, your eyes are red rimmed, petrified of him, and he grinds his teeth.
You are so tense in his arms and you can feel waves of anger rolling off him. You don't know that the anger isn't directed at you but at himself.
"Please, please, I'm sorry."
He doesn't trust his voice to answer you.
"Get undressed," he says gruffly, and he leaves you so he can switch the shower on.
When he comes back to you, you are naked and still trembling. Blood runs down from a dozen small cuts but he can see there is nothing life-threatening. He can see the speed at which you are breathing, he can see the terror in your eyes, and he wants to punch the wall.
"I...I..." you start to babble again but also your teeth start to chatter and you can't get any more words out.
Your legs start to give way but he catches you and leads you into the shower. You stand there, blinking as the hot water gets in your eyes and down your body. He quickly strips off his top and trousers and joins you. Taking up a sponge he starts to wipe the blood off you, also picking out slivers of glass from your skin.
You stand absolutely still. You don't want to make him any more angry with you.
But then your hands start to flutter at your sides. Are you supposed to help him? Are you supposed to touch him? You don't know what he wants. You put one of your hands on his chest and he stops. You have worked it out, you are a good girl, he wants you to touch him again but as you move your hand down he stops it and stares at you, the water falling around both of you.
You begin to tremble harder. You got it wrong again. He moves and you flinch and he realises you think he is going to hit you.
He clenches your hand in his and raises it to his lips and gently kisses it, then places it back down by your side. You watch every move he makes as if trying to learn something. Seeing me as some type of dangerous animal, he thinks. Your hand moves to touch him again.
"No," he says shaking his head and starts washing you again.
He is assessing the damage as if he would on himself, but he is shying away from your eyes and the wide look of fear. He can never repair the damage he has done there. He knows he will do it again, and that each time you will be a little worse for it.
He stops the shower and brings you out, towels you down. Your eyes never leave his face, looking for clues as to what you are to do. Then from the cupboard he gets a box of plasters and some bandages and does the best he can. He is no nurse and has no proper medical training.
He takes you back into the bedroom and he tells you to put your nightdress on whilst he dresses. You nod several times and do as he says. He is getting worried about the look in your eyes. It's as if you have fallen off a precipice and he doesn't know if you are still in there.
The mess on the floor is still there, but he will clear it up later. He takes you to his bed and tells you to get in. Your mind is blank; you will not even remember some of this. He then gets in and holds you in his arms and tells you to sleep. It makes sense to him. That is what they do with both of you when you need down time, they put you in your metal coffins and tell you to go to sleep. Sweet dreams.
He lays awake, his mind churning. He is not supposed to feel like this. They have told him a million times that if he starts to feel then he must report it, but he will not when it comes to you. He knows he must protect you or they will take you away from him. You are his only possession. The thought of you not being here makes his stomach churn. He doesn't know why, so many blanks in his memory and the more he tries to think the more his head begins to hurt. You murmur in your sleep and his arms tighten around you.
A memory comes out seemingly from nowhere.
You once told him you would give your life for him.
But now he thinks grimly to himself, does she know it might be my hand that takes it?
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A Bucky Barnes Winter Soldier Fic - The Constant