Utopia takes work, and it takes time. It also takes a lot of patience and resources, most of which has to be outsourced. Creating a new haven for Sokovian refugees and displaced survivors of the Blip isn't easy work, but it is rewarding, even if it sometimes forces Zemo and Bucky to separate.
This time it seems particularly cruel. Two rival companies, one in Estonia and one in Belarus, both of which could have been perfect for constructing housing in the new settlement they're building, until they both decide to go and pull a ridiculous and petty stunt by insisting that the only time they can meet with Zemo happens to be the exact same time and day. He attempts to reschedule with both companies, but they refuse, and claim with even more determination that it's the only time they can meet. Zemo isn't stupid, he knows they're trying to force him to pick a side-- but he won't be outsmarted like that. Instead, he sends Bucky to deal with one side, and tends to the other himself.
And then regrets it, almost as quickly. Parting is such sweet sorrow, and from his beloved wolf it's all the more challenging. They'd grown to be remarkably, perhaps even unhealthily attached to one another, and even just 48 hours apart feels like agony. It's even worse, knowing that it's during the week of the new moon, when Bucky is at his weakest and most vulnerable. Sending him across Europe alone feels like torture on both Zemo's body and soul.
It's on his way to the airport that he calls Bucky and informs him to put in the plug he'd packed for him in his suitcase. He has a six hour flight across the continent, and he wants to find Bucky ready and waiting for him in the bed of his holiday home in Estonia.
After Zemo disconnects, Bucky's such a mess of energy he has to burn it off somehow. He takes a run, a dozen laps around the perimeter of Zemo's lands, denoted by the very pointed change in gardening from open, green lawns to dense forest. Every stride bounces the plug deeper into his body, but the pressure and pleasure makes his entire brain go blank-- which was the point. Bucky runs until he makes a mess of one of the t-shirts Zemo had packed for him, thin and damp with the sweat he manages to wring out of himself. Everywhere in the house seems too nice to put it, so Bucky awkwardly tucks it into the bathroom to be dealt with later, when Zemo was doing... something else. Something other than him.
A warm shower so he doesn't smell disgusting lulls him into the warm and cuddly place that comes with nighttime, even though every glance at the clock serves to tight him in knots all over again. By the time he leaves the bathroom his phone declares it as 9:03. Bedtime. The fact Zemo was basically only an hour away made his entire body throb. He can barely control himself as he tugs on his pajama shirt. He doesn't bother with pants, but does with underwear-- for no other reason than his poor dick is already hard and he would rather not make a mess in Zemo's bed.
With one pillow hugged to his chest and buried into the other with his face, Bucky breathes deep and is immediately swarmed with the smell of Zemo, filling every inch and crevice of his sinuses pleasantly and making his entire brain turn stupid with static-- until eventually, with the warmth of the shower and the comfort of his person, he accidentally falls asleep entirely.
Zemo arrives just a few minutes behind schedule, at 10:06. He half expected to see Bucky already whining at the front door for him when he dismounted the car that drove him here, but it would seem he actually did do as he was told and stayed in bed. He leaves his suitcase by the front door to deal with later, far more interested in finding his puppy than with unpacking.
His footsteps are light on the stairs, made of carpeted marble so they don't creak to announce his presence as he ascends to the second floor, and as soon as his shoes touch the carpet runner-lined hallway, he can smell Bucky. His advanced sense of smell always alerts him to the presence of others, often a few seconds after Bucky himself has caught wind of them, but in this case Bucky is the only one to smell. He smells musky and warm and animal, and it puts a tingle up Zemo's spine as he lets himself into the bedroom.
There he finds Bucky sprawled on his stomach, cuddling one of the pillows with the blankets shoved down to his thighs. He always did run hot, and the blankets on this bed are no joke. He looks like he's dreaming, his brows furrowed and a soft whine muffled in his throat against the pillow, and Zemo sees his hips shift against the bed just once, and knows exactly what he's dreaming about. He has to move quickly because this sleepy Bucky is not one he gets to play with often, so he plans his attack accordingly.
All in one motion, he kneels on the bed, slips his hand down the back of Bucky's underwear to grab and twist the handle of the plug, and press his lips to the wolf's ear with a softly crooned, "Shtenyaaa..."
Sleep happens so rarely for Bucky, especially without Zemo's presence, and especially in a strange country, that when he went down he must have gone down harder than he thought. Warmth clutches Bucky's entire gut, hot like liquid metal, and the crooning of his partner rouses Bucky's body before his brain can tear itself out of the slog of his nap. A low huff of air leaves Bucky, then a whimper, as his eyes squeeze shut and his body reacts on instinct.
His hips arch back, back bowing into an elegantly defined curve. He tilts his head back and opens an eye to see Zemo, and his heart clutches in his chest. Another immediate, low groan leaves him as he gets one arm underneath him, sleep slowly and effectively being replaced by warmth as he manages to prop himself up-- all the better to see him with, and he did want to see him, even if he was still groggy, body moving slowly and heavily, like through molasses.
"You did as I asked," Zemo praises as he twists the plug again, like he's trying to open a bottle of wine, and his gloved hand finds Bucky's shoulder, shoving him back down into the pillows from where he'd tried to kneel up to meet the vampire. He can't get the right leverage with Bucky's underwear in the way, so he opts to pull his hand out of them and tug his hips up in the air so he can pull them down his thighs.
Shamelessly, he raises them to his nose and inhales deeply once they're removed from Bucky's legs, and he takes a knee between the other man's spread thighs, so the iron-pressed seam of his slacks grinds right up against the length of Bucky's nethers, from cock to taint to hole. He feels him grind back immediately, but stills his hips with one hand so he can reclaim the pickaxe shaped head of that plug and give it another rough twist, the burgundy garnet gem twinkling in the low light of the room.
"Yes, Baron--" a guttural, hungry moan leaves Bucky with the cruel twist of Zemo's wrist, the metal plug grinding into his prostate at the right angle and stretching his walls in a wide circle. He can feel it, had been able to feel it all day, but at some point he must have gotten used to it just sitting inside of him, because Zemo's hand on it was working him apart all over again; And as always, Bucky lets him.
His body moves without complaint or resistance, knees falling beneath him dutifully to hold himself up, even when the grind of Zemo's fly threatens to knock him right back over again. Bucky's fingers fist in the sheets, knuckles going white as his entire body strains and bows low. He buries his face between his arm and the pillow as Zemo wrenches a moan out of him loud enough to make his entire body heave for breath, hungrily biting at his own arm to stifle himself, hair hanging in front of his eyes as he pants raggedly. There's a rustle of fabric, and Bucky's thighs spread lower on the bed, pressing his chest to the mattress and arching his hips back-- and maybe also grinding his own dick into the sheets in the process.
Zemo's cock gives a polite twitch at the sound of Bucky's voice, but he doesn't appreciate it being muffled by the blankets and pillows. He grabs Bucky by the hair, the leather of his glove creaking as he tightens his fist around the longest part, and he yanks him back and up so he has to get his elbows under him and Zemo can hear every last grunt and whine as it's fucked out of him.
"Good that I came now, not tomorrow," Zemo's voice is casual like he's talking about a flight layover or what to make for dinner. "My poor staff would have had to listen to your howling."
To prove his point, he pulls back on the plug until he can see Bucky's rim flexing around the widest part of the bulb, only to twist and shove it deeper again, right to the base, punching it up into Bucky's guts like he wants it to come out the other side.
Bucky gives him what he wants. He shouts with relentlessly-taken pleasure, treatment harsh but a goddamn dream as far as he was concerned. He can feel the burn of his rim as it flutters and bears down, trying to find any familiarity or pattern to the thrusts or the way his churns his insides with each twist of the handle. It makes him him groans and choke with each breath he takes, every little shift or nudge now making very audible noises from Bucky-- thanks to his new position wailing to the entire house.
"Thank you-- Thank you--" he murmurs clumsily. Bucky's head burns with white-hot, stinging pinpricks every time he threatens to bow it to regain himself, Zemo's gloved hand allowing no quarter, and certainly not allowing him to direct his pathetic, pretty moans anywhere at the far wall, where they bounce right back at them.
"You are welcome, James," Zemo says affectionately. He pulls the plug out of Bucky all the way and tosses it onto the bed in his ward's line of sight so he can see it bounce flecks of moisture. The second the plug is out, Zemo is hit with the full brunt of the lube Bucky had chosen-- peppermint, of course. "Did you choose this one to entice me?" Zemo asks, one of his still leatherbound fingers grinding into Bucky to the knuckle, just to watch his rim close in a panic.
A noise leaves Bucky like he'd choked on his own tongue; He would recognize the weight and width of Zemo's fingers anywhere, gloved or not, and feeling one inside of him after so long without-- Barely more than 24 hours, really, at this point-- felt like heaven, the best gift he could ever ask for. "You... packed it," Bucky counters, hips hungrily twitching back as he tries to grind into Zemo's hand, wanting more, delirious for more.
"I did," Zemo admits, pulling his finger back out of Bucky's wet, abused hole. He leans down to lick across him, his fangs pressing into the tender flesh on either side of his perineum as he chases the crisp flavor of the lube up across his taint and ends with a filthy slurp to his hole. His hands keep Bucky's cheeks spread as he presses in tighter to devour him, and his fangs actually manage to knick his skin beside his rim, he presses in so tightly.
"Ah-- Ah--!!" Bucky's entire body hitches and jerks as Zemo descends upon him with all the manners of a starving man, toes curling and thighs twitching as he struggles to remain still. The power in his body could get overwhelming, the emotions Zemo could twist into him making him stupid and impulsive. Those fangs send fire straight to his gut, urging him to push back, his walls going slack as he gets a couple hungry grinds back into Zemo's teeth and tongue.
Zemo doesn't indulge too long, the taste of Bucky's skin past the lube has his stomach cramping like he's starving. It has been almost two weeks since he'd fed from him, tomorrow would be the 14th day if Zemo couldn't steal a meal from him. They both know he will. He leans up, and Bucky's keen ears catch the sound of Zemo's fly being undone, just one moment before he feels his blunt cockhead press against his soft hole and then breach him in one motion.
With a low, soft groan, Zemo connects their hips with a single thrust, bottoming out without any effort. Bucky was kept so soft and open for so many hours that he's just velvet soft on the inside, opening for his lover's cock without a stitch of resistance. Zemo doesn't make nearly as much noise as Bucky does, but his sounds of appreciation are still picked up by Bucky's advanced hearing without issue.
Bucky moans pathetically and tries again to tuck his face into his arm for some sort of muffle, something at all to stifle the litany of pathetic mewling and whining that leaves him like a bitch in heat. Hell, for Zemo he was a bitch in heat, the man's cock spreading him wide and perfectly. He would live with Zemo's cock inside of him, jaw working as he grinds his teeth together, desperate for something to chew, to sink his teeth into, to melt into.
With a noise that sounds like a blissful sob, Bucky's shoulders finally go slack as Zemo pulls back and finds home with another sharp thrust, reiterating what Bucky is and where he is and what they were doing here. So he lets his body sink into the burning pressure of his hands and hips, holding himself upright despite the tremoring in his arms and legs as he does just that-- it was more than worth it.
Zemo's need to see Bucky's face outweighs his desire to claim him on his hands and knees like he's trying to breed him, but when he pulls out completely Bucky yelps and tries to buck back to chase his cock. He gives Bucky a gloved swat to the ass for the effort and then flips him over roughly onto his back.
Re entering him from the front, Bucky's finally able to see him. His hair is mussed from a long flight across europe, his bangs hanging across his forehead and moving with every thrust, in time with the swinging of the single silver cross necklace he wears just as a joke to his nature. His turtleneck is tight, his gloves creaking around Bucky's thighs as he lifts and spreads them, and his eyes catch the dim light in the room and shine unnaturally, cognac brown flashing molten gold.
Bucky can't stand to look away, but it seems unlikely he would even he could. He indulges in Zemo's look, in the hungry penetration of his gaze. He can feel it sinking into him, warming in from the inside out as his back is pinned flat to the bed and he's allowed to indulge in the sight of Zemo, looming over him to tear him apart.
The heels of Bucky's feet dig into Zemo's lower back as his legs raise and spread hungrily around his hips. Each thrust draws him in deeper, as the support gives Zemo some leverage to thrust with, and Bucky's hips raise to meet him every time. Bucky's face is flushed, temples shining with the dampness of his sweat. His own hair is spread almost romantically across his pillow beneath him, fanned out beneath him in a dark halo. He wants to touch him, his fingers twist and grab ineffectively at the blankets in his attempt to stifle just that urge.
"Please-- Can I--?" He's not asking to cum just yet but asking to indulge all the same, trying to be good in the wake of his excitement and, like a child, only barely able to control himself.
"You may," Zemo replies, before leaning down to scrape his fangs over Bucky's throat. He doesn't bite, doesn't press hard enough to pierce him, but his fangs catch his skin and split it in a couple places, enough for the baron to lick away a single drop of blood before Bucky's body heals it instantly. It's a tease for them both, Zemo just as much as Bucky, who wants to be bitten as much as Zemo wants to bite him.
But this, their first foray into their week together at this home, Zemo wants to be free from his venom. Not only because it would really only effect Bucky for a couple minutes before his body processed it at lightning speed, but because he's hungry enough that he doubts he could stop himself once he latches on, and he would fail to have the strength of will to bite him several times and inject the venom over and over. They have to be patient. He'll feed his wolf, and then his wolf will feed him.
In the meantime, Bucky takes every scrap Zemo lets him have. His hands release their white-knuckled hold on the high-count Egyptian cotton bedding, and he pretends he doesn't see the ten very specific claw gouges he'd dug into the fabric. Fortunately, he can hope Zemo is just too preoccupied to notice. How he couldn't he be, when every thrust fills Bucky to the brim and now brings them closer together. His cock gets trapped between their bodies, the grind of Zemo's fly and belt almost cruel against his poor, neglected cock, which leaks clear pre but nothing more.
One hand shoves its way up Zemo's shirt for no other reason than to press a clawed palm flat against his smooth, soft stomach there. He's not pushing him away or even impacting his rhythm, but he marvels at the way those muscles bunch under his hand, fingers curling around to the soft skin of his hip to hold on. Meanwhile the opposite hand lands on Zemo's shoulder, pulling him in even as he refrained and controlled himself. Restraint Bucky didn't have, if the way he was hungrily opening himself up to Zemo's mouth and teeth and cock was any indication.
Zemo can feel his peak mounting, but he knew it wouldn't take long. He'd been riding a low buzz of pleasure ever since ordering Bucky to put the plug in, knowing he would keep it in for the next six hours. He wanted to know what Bucky did in that time, how much the plug impacted his ability to go about his day, but he doesn't have the strength to ask. He funnels all of his energy solely into pounding Bucky into the mattress.
"They asked for you," Zemo's voice is gritty and rough as he fucks into Bucky, looming out over him like a predator. "At Reishtaltz-- they asked why you were not with me. You want to know what I told them?" He grabs Bucky by the jaw, angling his head back a little so he can watch Bucky's throat bob with his breathing and swallowing. "I told them you were keeping my bed warm for me. I wish you could have seen their faces..."
Bucky's cock is hard and bouncing between them, flushed a brilliant, pinkish-purpling red. The veins across him bulge, his entire cock straining with the effort of sustaining without so much as a hand or the aid of a cock ring. It was that programming, that deliciously terrible programming, that could keep him running for days, weeks, a month without cumming once-- although with Zemo's words, it seemed to be a pretty fucking thin line as far as this man was concerned.
With just those words he's able to get Bucky to swallow, and it feels like he does it with every intention for Zemo to feel it, his adam's apple bobbing deliciously into his palm and being cradled there by the steel of his grip. Bucky doesn't even mind that the pressure makes it just a smidge difficult to breathe. In truth, he likes it.
"I did," he says without hesitation, adoration in every note. The hand on Zemo's waist moves, metal curling around the vampire with about as much strength as a normal human hand might. There's enough strength in Bucky's body to fully put up a fight, but he never fucking would. Catching Zemo's eye again, Bucky lets out a pathetic whine as he pulls that hand tighter to his throat, guiding his thumb to settle just over the heavy pulse point at the nape of his neck, where his blood pounded through the rest of his body in tempting, powerful pulses.
Zemo's hand closes around his throat when bidden, unable to resist the suggestion. A normal person might not have been able to choke Bucky if they tried, but Zemo is strong enough to go toe to toe with Bucky at the best of times. His grip is strong enough that Bucky sees stars, his face turning red, unable to choke out even a single squeak. It's the look on Bucky's face as his eyes roll back and his mouth drops open around a silent scream that has Zemo finding his peak.
With a low grunt, he spills into Bucky, bearing his teeth as his lip curls in a way that lets Bucky see both his top and bottom fangs. He keeps his hand over Bucky's throat so he can listen instead to the sound of his cock fucking wetly into the wolf under him, each thrust sounding filthier than the last until he finally stills, but doesn't pull out.
He grinds in at the hilt, his cock throbbing as Bucky continues to keep it warm and wet inside him, and as he pulls his hand away from Bucky's throat he hisses, "кончить"
Bucky's orgasm hits him on cue, so hard it does make him scream. Gasping for air like a man held under water, Zemo's hand pulls away just in time to let it happen. His entire body goes rigid and his hips crane up, hole clamping down on the cock still buried within him as what seems like four orgasms worth of seed spills over his belly until its dripping in sluggish, messy dollops down either side of his belly. He twitches and writhes in the bed, moaning Zemo's name with salacious, lustful hunger; only sobbing his way through when the waves of pleasure hitting him become overwhelming and and made his face twist in tormented split between pleasure and pain.
He can't speak, an animal made of overwhelming pleasure and feeling, can only look up at Zemo with wide, expressive blue eyes-- as always needing the man to fill in every unspoken praise and prayer of Zemo's name, when Bucky was rendered unable to do it himself.
Zemo pulls out after Bucky has gone still, and only then does he notice the holes he'd put in his sheets. He sighs and rolls his eyes, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping his fly. When Bucky tries to blearily push up onto one elbow, Zemo holds up a hand with a command of "Stay," and then opens the door to the adjacent bathroom.
With the door wide open, Bucky can watch as Zemo spots and then picks up Bucky's discarded shirt, where he'd chucked it in the corner after his workout, and he lifts it to his face to breathe in deeply. His shoulders and chest expand as he sucks in a full lungful of Bucky's smell, his eyes fluttering closed with pleasure. He sets it on the chest beside the sink and instead grabs a box of tissues from the cabinet, carrying it back over to Bucky.
"Now I am going to have to change the sheets," he scolds as he begins the process of cleaning Bucky up, sopping up and discarding wet tissues two at a time.
He hadn't been given the command to release, so Bucky stays pinned to the mattress like he was kept there with needles and cork. He watches Zemo find his shirt, watches him smell him, feeling warmth plume through his gut at the familiar gesture. Nice to see the gesture was reciprocal, at least. He feels apprehension when Zemo returns to clean him up, and he looks properly chastened when the topic of the sheets looks up.
"Sorry," He grunts, and his voice sounds rough for all he really doesn't sound like he's that sorry, at all. It sounds like he had just spent all night shouting at a concert then running a marathon in the snow. It sounded like he hadn't had a drink in weeks, the force of his stifled screams taking their toll. His voice sounded similar to this after a transformation, too, he would be alright. For now he reveled in the way his skin still throbbed in every last place Zemo's hands had graced, his thighs, his hips, hips sides, his jaw.
When Bucky is fully cleaned, Zemo takes a couple steps back and lifts both of his hands palms-up towards Bucky with the simple command, "Undress me."
One of their many rituals, is Bucky removing all of Zemo's layers. He's always been prone to getting cold, so the layers are a must-have, but in this case Zemo doesn't have his sleep clothes with him. He'd left his suitcase downstairs, which means he's just asking for the basics from Bucky. Gloves, watch, jacket, shoes and socks.
Eagerly Bucky leaps to the command without a word, despite how his entire body had been prone just a second ago. He always recovered quickly and with enthusiasm, especially when presented with a task at hand. He starts with the jacket first, no shame in the way he delicately pulls the thick wool from Zemo's shoulders while still completely nude. He hangs it in the closet, returning to where he'd left Zemo to undo the snaps at his wrists and remove his gloves, bowing down to kiss the center of each palm.
The watch joins the gloves, then all three are set on the long, dark dresser set against the far wall, Bucky setting each item down with a reverent quality to each gesture and touch, fingers lingering across his gloves and on the ticking face of his watch. Reaching around him, Bucky pushes the disheveled sheets and pillows to the side, offering Zemo an opportunity to sit before kneels, waiting to be presented with a boot.
Zemo does exactly that, sitting at the edge of the bed and presenting his boots to Bucky one at a time for him to unlace and remove, followed by his socks. His feet are icy cold as always, but Bucky never complains about the temperature of his skin. One of the many things he loves about him.
Once he's dressed only in his slacks and turtleneck (and his necklace, he'd waved Bucky off for trying to remove it) he reaches down to fetch Bucky's discarded jeans and tosses them at him to pull on so he's not quite so indecent as he leads the way down the stairs and into the kitchen. He perches Bucky at the edge of the spacious kitchen so he's out from underfoot, with his back to the side of the island counter, and hands him a teething cane in the meanwhile to gnaw it and keep himself occupied while he begins unpacking and setting out the mise en place for his favorite lamb dish.
"Tomorrow we will call Ivanova to inform them that our deal with them is off," he says as he begins to prepare the lamb shoulder by rubbing it down with an herbaceous dry rub. "Either they will simply send us on our way, or they will demand to know what we settled on with Reishtaltz and make us a better offer."
Bucky can't help but watch Zemo, entranced as he begins to work. Never much of a cook personally, Bucky had developed an affinity at least for being nearby when Zemo cooks, something about his passion and intensity managing to draw him in. He presses his back to the cool counter; a couple degrees cooler and Bucky swears Zemo would be able to see the heat radiating off of him in clouds of steam. He lets himself be swathed in the cool air as he tucks his head down and bites at the cane, a sickening crack filling the air like the breaking of a bone.
"Won't they be mad?" Bucky asks as he pulls a small strip free from the cane and chews, eyebrows furrowed over his eyes as he peers up at the man through his hair. He has to ignore the stupid, idiotic fluttering in his chest that always happens after a tryst or an affectionate gesture is shown his way. It's hard, though. He wonders if he could get away with touching Zemo's pants, or if that'd be considered a distraction, too.
Probably definitely a distraction. Bucky stretches out his foot, just so his ankle can graze Zemo's standing a distance away.
Zemo glances down when he feels something touch his ankle, and though the gesture makes him smile just a little, he scolds Bucky with a gentle kick to his foot to make him tuck it back in. "Trying to trip me?" he asks, knowing full well that's not what Bucky was doing. He pulls his ankle in anyway, properly chastised, as Zemo begins to chop herbs and julienne carrots and celery.
"They might be mad," he says, finally answering Bucky's question. "However, we owe them nothing. Less than nothing. As far as I am concerned, they owe us reparations for emotional damages." He flicks a finger affectionately under Bucky's chin to prove the point, before stacking the herbs and thinly sliced vegetables in the middle of the lamb shoulder and wrapping it up in a roll, tying it shut with oven-safe twine.
Bucky is past the point of being embarrassed by the way he smiles when Zemo touches him, but he has a little dignity left to hate how he immediately sucks in a breath, too. Tucking his head down, he gnaws on the cane again to distract himself, his body throbbing just to be near Zemo again. He can't touch him again, knows he can only push his luck so far, but just to be back underfoot again was a welcome change.
"You gonna try and make them pay it?" He drawls between powerful crunches with his back molars, which really is where the power is. He then adds, for good measure, "Also, do you... need help?" It's always good to ask, even if he already knows the answer.
"I don't, but thank you for offering," Zemo gives Bucky's hair a stroke as he passes him in order to grab a double broiler set of pans and sets them on the counter. Fixing the lamb inside the smaller pan, he fills the second with water, and starts to chop more vegtables-- namely turnips, rutabaga, and a healthy amount of artichokes, a personal favorite of his. "If Ivanova is willing to let this be water under the bridge, then so am I. But if they try to kick up a fuss? I will kick back."
He layers vegetables around the lamb, and pours chicken stock in over them, shaking a generous amount of spices across them and sprinkles fresh rosemary across the whole dish. Turning to preheat the oven, he washes his hands and then sets a pot to boil on the stove for rice. With nothing left to do for a few minutes, he takes one long stem glass and one short, squat tumbler off the shelf and opens the wine fridge off to the side, humming in thought as he twists each bottle around to look at the label, before finally settling on one and pulling it out.
"I will not easily forget the way they insisted on this plot to force us to separate," he says, twisting a corkscrew into the wax covered cork, and then pops it out. A little waft of steam curls out the top, which Zemo inhales with a nod of approval, and then pours a measure of dark red wine into both glasses, handing off the shorter one to Bucky. He doesn't trust him with the stems. "All because of a petty business rivalry."
Bucky takes it with an appreciative sound, not quite as elegant as he takes his sniff. His wine experience is limited to what Zemo indulges him in, but he's found his taste is rarely wrong, even when he sometimes plies Bucky with sweet, delicate honey-wine as a treat around the holidays. He doesn't take a sip, though, waiting expectantly for Zemo to drink first before following suit shortly after.
"Do you think they were doing it because they were being petty, or d'you think they knew what they were doing? As in... to us?" Bucky asks seriously, quietly. He can feel the fire in him and reflects it in kind. There's a not-so-little part of himself that would be happy to have an excuse to kick back, after all the agony of the last 36 hours. He clicks a too-sharp nail against the glass, making a note to file them. After tomorrow.
It would be one thing if they just heard something would inconvenience Zemo and were trying to be brats. Another if they were trying to get them weak.
"I would be surprised if they did," Zemo says, leaning back against the counter opposite Bucky so they can look each other in the eye. "We are so freshly known to them. Humans, I mean. And they have had so little time to come to understand us on a basic level, much less the specific way in which the moon affects you through the month. I would not be surprised in fact, if Ivanova did not know your nature until you arrived. Yours is so much more..." he gives Bucky a blatant look up and down. "Obvious. But even then, humans love to deny when it is convenient for them. Unless you howled and scratched your fleas directly in front of them, I think they would guess you are just eccentric."
He waggles his fingers, indicating Bucky's claws, before taking another sip of his wine and setting it on the counter. "But believe me, if I have reason to believe they did this with malicious intent because of our kind?" he portions out wild rice into the boiling water and covers the pot, reducing the heat. "There will be hell to pay."
"I don't have fleas," Bucky grouses grumpily under his breath as he takes a drink, mostly because the flush warming his ears thanks to Zemo's obvious attention was enough to embarrass him enough. Nonetheless fleas.
For a second Bucky considers their meeting the previous day, the way they'd blustered and huffed and puffed and got exactly nothing out of Bucky except what he was told to do: Show up for their meeting, hear their demands, and offer his apologies that Zemo would be unable to attend directly until the next day. It was turning their sleight against them, their power move jerked out from under them like a sheet under a stack of glasses. "I don't think they realized what I was," He admits, "But this point, everyone knows I'm with you. I think most of them actually believe the shit Hydra used to say about me," Bucky's voice is bitter, low, jaw clenching as he looks down into his glass and hitches his shoulders up. It always happens when he thinks about Hydra, the way he was used before this.
Wasn't like there was a criminal syndicate around who didn't know what The Winter Soldier was, or what it was capable of. Bucky takes an appreciative drag with his eyes down the line of Zemo's back when it's turned to him, hugged by his sweater and pants. Bucky glances down at himself, made of corded iron and steel, conversely. He huffs another breath. "I don't actually look like I have fleas, right?"
Zemo gives Bucky another appreciative look up and down, curled up with his hair a tangled rats nest, wearing nothing but jeans slung low on his hips, no doubt leaking cum and lube right into the denim, barefooted and hunched over a half-chewed stick of petrified jerky, and only gives Bucky an amused head tilt and brow raise for the question before turning away from him to put the lamb in the oven.
Back into the fridge, Zemo pulls out all the fixings to make a nice salad to go with dinner, since as Bucky had said the day before, he could use the vegetables. His default state is to want meat exclusively, while branching out to fruit willingly now and then, but getting him to eat vegetables is like bartering with a petulant child. "In any case, we do not have to worry about it now," he says, tossing the lettuce under the faucet before shaking it out in a colander. "For the next week, the only thing I have to worry about is you. I cancelled all of my meetings, all of my calls, my schedule is clear."
For a man as tightly buttoned as Bucky, with Zemo he always seems to wear his expressions plain as day on his face. It's no small feat to clear his schedule, Zemo an incredibly busy man even outside his personal affairs; barons were not without their duties, even after their lands have fallen. In fact, perhaps with it comes even more trouble, and Zemo to burden it all himself. It makes Bucky's stomach plunge somewhere low in his gut to hear those words, cancelled, like he even deserved a fraction of his time.
Bucky hangs his head like the consideration shames him, tugging his knees further up and tearing at the jerky with his clawed fingers, like one would tear at the label of a bottle. His face burns, his chest that quivering mess of hornets Zemo always manages to stir in him, "Don't get behind 'cause of me, Z," he mutters, voice gruff, "You know I don't mind waiting."
"I appreciate it, James, but I can handle my own schedule," Zemo says, whacking Bucky lightly on the wrist with a wooden spoon to get him to stop shredding his jerky instead of chewing on it. "Besides, it is as much for me as for you. I missed you as well. After all I have toiled for our vision, I believe I have earned a week to simply be selfish."
Bucky's nose wrinkles in distaste at the whack, and he glances up at Zemo before petulantly eating the pieces he'd torn off. They were tough even not attached to their base, and it buys him time to manage himself while Zemo's words soak into his skin like a sunny day. "You packed nice stuff for me," Bucky says slowly. "Nice stuff" for Bucky meant he could online imagine the flash Zemo was packing, "Do you have plans?"
"I do," Zemo says as he dumps the chopped vegetables into the salad, along with a bit of walnut and chopped apples. "We have reservations at a very nice restaurant in two days."
It's a big deal. Zemo rarely even lets Bucky sit on the furniture, he always has to invite him up off the floor before Bucky will even consider lying in his bed or on his couch. Taking him out to an actual fancy restaurant, in public, on a date, isn't something they've ever done before-- but Zemo thinks its about time. He's missed Bucky fiercely over these last two days. Maybe spending six months straight attached at the hip wasn't the best move for their individuality and ability to be separated, but honestly as far as Zemo is concerned, they don't need to be separated.
Bucky's brows furrow, and he takes a quick breath that he quickly tries to mediate by forcing himself to stay.... somewhat professional. It was laughable how hard Hydra had worked to keep him loyal over the course of 70 years compared to what Zemo has cultivated in a fraction of that time. They would have shit themselves to see Bucky as he was right now. He'd kill anyone his baron asked without so much as thinking about a date, but this? "Oh," Is all he says, but by now it's obvious he isn't feeling negatively about the information.
It's a matter of processing, for him. There are hoops to jump through with every transaction, every interaction littered with the minefield of Bucky's past and present fears and insecurities. "Sounds good," He finally manages, a master wordsmith as ever.
Setting the salad aside to be dressed when the time comes, Zemo pulls out the ingredients for the last dish. As he opens containers, the kitchen is filled with the smell of ginger alongside the rosemary baked lamb, and Zemo smiles to himself when he hears Bucky's stomach growl from across the kitchen. He cracks open a jar of pre-prepared pears poached in wine and fishes a few out that he'll need for dessert with a fork. The first one he cuts into pieces and carries one chunk over to Bucky, offering it to his lips.
"And there is an art gallery opening in four days in the heart of the city," he says, "With an afterparty. I intend for us to go."
Bucky opens his mouth, accepting the fruit and diligently licking Zemo's fingers clean of the tart, sweet syrup the pear had been coated with. Chewing then swallowing, Bucky doesn't take his eyes off of Zemo while he goes on. "A real one?" He asks, the question hanging in the air; would he be The Winter Soldier at this party, or Bucky, his dutiful hound?
When Zemo pulls away again to continue cooking, Bucky forgets himself chasing his hand, catching himself only when he nearly stood to his feet, forcing himself back down with an embarrassed huff. The cabinet was cold across his shoulders, and he tucks the jerky back into his mouth to take a breath. "That all?" He asks, not sure if he could even handle more. He already wanted to grab the man in front of him and kiss him everywhere; it was easier than trying to express himself verbally.
"Yes, those are our only two planned outings," Zemo says, portioning out the ingredients to make a ginger spice cake batter, and he pours it into a greased ramekin for baking. "If we go out apart from that, it will be spontaneous. Otherwise I am perfectly content to languish in my beautiful home with my beautiful shtenya."
He hears Bucky huff through his nose predictably at the use of Zemo's favorite petname. It's getting a little warm in the kitchen, so he rolls the sleeves of his turtleneck up to his elbows, before setting into making a whipped topping for the single-serving cake. The more he works, the more evident it becomes that he doesn't intend to eat any of this food he's making-- and it's no wonder why. It's all in preparation to get Bucky's advanced metabolism so bogged down with calories that it doesn't have the strength to process Zemo's venom too quickly once he bites him to partake in his own dinner.
Bucky knows this ritual. This will be one of the few times they've partaken at his most human, but that only made his anticipation mount. He knew what to expect after a meal like this, the following meal that would happen for Zemo, the result of that, on him. He knew the effects when he was more monstrous than he was now, and how that impacted his body. As he was now? Bucky was already buzzing, every inch of him devoted to watching Zemo with rapt attention. He can feel that happy, weightless place humming happily in the back of his head. He could fall back into it at any point. But he wanted to be here, wanted to keep talking to Zemo and hearing him talk back. There would be time for that place of peace, later.
For now, he pops the last third of the jerky greedily into his mouth to keep himself in line, crunching noisily and hungrily on it to give him something to do. He needed the distraction. "Can I swim in the pool, at least?" Bucky asks, only a little petulantly, unable to help the smug little grin that curls on his lips when he sees Zemo glance at him.
"If you rinse off first," Zemo says sternly. "I don't want anyone to have to clean dog hair out of the filters." He pulls the lamb shoulder out of the oven and sets it on a hot pad, where it sizzles pleasantly and hits Bucky in the face with the rich aroma. It'll need some time to rest, just enough time for Zemo to pop the cake in the oven and let it rise. "Wash your hands and sit at the table. It will be easier for you to eat there."
Not just easier, but faster. Time is always of the essence when they play this balancing act. If he eats too slowly, his body has a chance to kickstart its metabolism and nearly keep pace with the feast. If they want to have the maximum amount of time to play, then getting Bucky's system overloaded quick and hard is their best bet.
Bucky's chest rises and falls with a hungry breath as he sighs through his nose and pulls himself to his feet. His body crawls with the entire interaction, the entire day, and when he moves to step by Zemo on the way to the sink, he can't help himself. He has his back to Bucky, tending to the lamb, and Bucky crowds too far into his space to be respectful, pressing his nose into the soft skin behind Zemo's ear and taking a huge, steadying breath. Bucky's eyes close, his body slotted perfectly into the man's side, hands braced on the counter on either side of his body, claws leaving little knicks in the countertop.
He takes his moment to scent Zemo, long and deep, lingering in the moment before pulling away without another word and knowing damn well he deserved a hit for that, too, ducking his head before going to the sink to wash his hands and do as he was told.
He might deserve one, but Zemo lets him get away with just this one. It puts a pleasant tingle down his shoulder and spine, though he does shoot a Look in Bucky's direction the next time he glances over at Zemo from the table, letting him know that won't continue to indulge his misbehavior all night. He dresses the salad first, with a light and acidic cranberry vinaigrette that will compliment the flavors in the salad beautifully, as well as a generous crumble of feta cheese, and then he sets the bowl down on the table for Bucky along with a fresh glass of wine, and a fork. A very large fork, just in case Bucky wants to use it. He has no doubt it'll devolve into eating with his fingers by the end, a habit Zemo has tried to break him out of with middling results.
Kissing the top of Bucky's head as he runs a hand down his spine, he turns back to the kitchen to finish tending to the lamb. He snips the twine on the lamb and discards it, before arranging the now soft and well cooked vegetables onto a large plate artfully, starches alongside greens, and then glances back over at Bucky, already eating like a starving man. If he'd skipped dinner at his request, he's willing to bet he'd also skipped lunch and probably breakfast for that matter, too anxious and overeager to see his baron again.
"Is that good?" he asks, knowing full well Bucky's mouth is full.
Bucky nods eagerly before he can talk, at least minding his manners enough to know to swallow. That had also been a chore, especially in the beginning, but Bucky was better at eating now. Most of the time. Swallowing around a mouthful of greens, Bucky washes the food down with what he hopes is an elegant amount of wine, but knowing him probably is not; He never manages to look graceful in Zemo's presence anyway, the contrast between them too stark to anyone who sees.
"For a salad," he says, but to Zemo's credit, his were the only salads Bucky ever successfully managed to stomach in their entirety. And he was using the fork to stab at the leaves and pieces of cheese, but he supplemented with his fingers, already half-finished with the bowl before Zemo even had time to plate his second dish. He had forgotten to eat, or partially had intentionally forgone it; eating at such a weird hour had messed up the rest of his timing, and when there was so much other stuff already going on, it was no wonder eating got put to the side.
But not now, not with Zemo to make sure he eats, and Bucky finishes off his wine before his polishing off his salad, one after another, licking his fingers clean of the vinaigrette while he watches Zemo from across the room, panting like a lion at a feast.
"For a salad," Zemo repeats with a scoff, but he's smiling to himself as he cuts the lamb, now fully rested. He'd cooked it to his own specifications, quite rare in the middle, enough that it bleeds ever so slightly when he slices it and arranges it over the bed of vegetables and wild rice. The whole thing is arranged like an art piece, despite knowing that Bucky will just set into it like a vulture to a carcass, and he sets it down in front of him, clearing away his empty salad bowl.
"The price of lamb in this city has gone up again," Zemo complains as he sets the bowl in the sink to be washed in the morning by his staff. As if he couldn't afford to buy a whole flock of sheep on a whim. "It used to be you could buy a pound of lamb like that for half that price. So don't waste a drop, it's expensive. Put it to good use."
He tips the bottle of wine up to top off Bucky's glass again, and then turns away to pull the cake out of the oven and let it cool for a few minutes before it's served warm.
For the first time all night, Bucky's rapt attention is taken from watching Zemo, instead staring at the food placed in front of him. Typically Bucky holds on dearly to his humanity, whatever small scraps of it are left, but there are still times where he allows himself to sink into that thing made of instincts and emotions bubbling just under the surface. This is one of those times, the scent of the lamb wafting off of it in thick, curling plumes of steam. He swallows heavily, breathing the air in front of him as he drags the meat toward him with a hand.
He has just enough presence of mind to nod at Zemo his thanks for the drink, for the food, and as soon as he turns his back Bucky is on the food like an animal, eagerly bringing carrots and meat to his lips and moaning his appreciation when he does.
Even though he lacks anything that could be called table manners, or even just basic ettiquette for a meal as fine as the one Zemo had prepared for him, the kind that gets served at michelin star restaurants, Zemo loves to watch Bucky eat the food he makes for him. There's something very cathartic about taking the time to prepare the kind of food that people titter on about for hours, Zemo included, and then watching Bucky hunch over it and scarf it like a wild dog. It's a charming aspect of his nature, and only a testament to the flavor of Zemo's cooking.
Opting to finally put an apron around his body, he ties it in the back so that he can attend to the cake without getting any mess on his all black ensemble. He pops the cake out of the ring mold and sets it on a plate, drizzling it with a bit of honey first before arranging the chopped wine poached pears on top like little red jewels, and then finally piping the spiced cream cheese frosting on top in a thick swirl, and ending with a dusting of powdered sugar. It's an elegant desert that will no doubt be torn to shreds by the ravenous wolf-- but Zemo wouldn't love Bucky if he didn't love that animal hunger, too.
Bucky tries to be good, he really does. He wipes his mouth when he feels it getting too messy and makes sure to take breaks to lick his fingers clean and take drinks. He doesn't spill a single drop of gristle in the cloth across the table, and for the most part, the napkin comes back as clean from his mouth, too. But he is absolutely ravenous, and the more he eats the more his hunger seems to swell to match it, until Bucky is cracking open the plate-like shoulder bone still attached and sucking the marrow from its center.
There's very little conversation that happens, unsurprisingly, and as he begins to set on the vegetables dedicatedly it begins to grow more difficult. Carrots and potatoes are fine but heavy, the starches and sweets sopping up the remaining drippings from the lamb into an almost decadent, tender stew-like consistency. He ignores the first signs of his body being sated by the meal, unwilling to late a single drop go wasted. By the time Zemo is ready to serve the next course, Bucky is still working, dragging his fingers through the last bit of jus after having finished every single last thing on the plate. He was eyeing the bones still on the plate like he was considering it, but they were brutal to digest, and he wanted to enjoy his week without having to nap too much.
This time when Zemo brings the next course to the table, he takes a moment to wipe Bucky's mouth and chin himself with a napkin, and then bends down to give him a hard kiss on the mouth. He can taste lamb on his tongue, and his fangs pierce and knick Bucky's tongue and lips as he sets into him with the same hunger Bucky had tended to his meal with so far. He's feeling that hunger himself, and it takes a monumental level of self control not to sink his fangs directly into Bucky's tender throat where he stands.
He sets the cake on the table instead, a heavy finish to an already large meal. It'll get the job done where Bucky's metabolism is concerned, and it'll put a little richness in his blood for when it's his turn to be feasted upon. Zemo pours a new, different kind of wine into Bucky's glass this time, an orange-clove and cinnamon spiced mulled dessert wine that will pair perfectly with the decadent cake when he sets into them both with all the manners of a chainsaw.
Finally complete, Zemo sits down across from Bucky just to watch him, and sip at his own wine.
It's almost sweet, the little ways in which Bucky tries to mind himself under Zemo's direct supervision. Before he'd eaten hunched, with his fingers and mouth working more like a vacuum than as extensions of himself, and any utensils mostly forgotten; With him here, Bucky's back remains as straight as it'd gotten when he'd been whimpering into Zemo's mouth just a second ago. His overfilled stomach still manages to turn hotly as his body pulses with that kiss, humming with something else entirely than the cake in front of him, and he swallows, licking his lips. He takes a second to take a drink, the new wine sticky and sweet. It makes him lick his lips, eyes ahead on his baron.
But he can't bear looking at him for long, the scrutiny of his own expression making Bucky squirm in his seat as he leans forward to take an appreciative sniff of the cake, then take a bite, still using his fingers. At this point, really, why not?
And like the rest of the meal, Bucky moans at the spiced sweetness blooming across his tongue, appetite spurred anew as he plucks off a pear to eat, licking his fingers clean of cream and glancing up at Zemo when he does. He gives an enthusiastic nod, but doesn't say anything. He's mouth was too full.
"Don't pace yourself on my account," Zemo says, giving Bucky the permission he needs to dig in. Better he gets it over with quickly anyway, so they still have time to clean Bucky off before Zemo sups, himself. He's already anticipating the rush of blood on his tongue, the wine he's sipping just a pale starter for what's to come. He's always been a fan of human food, never the sort to stick to a strict blood diet-- but he can't deny the allure of it. There's a primal pleasure that comes from drinking directly from the tap that even a high society vampire like himself can't pretend doesn't exist.
The permission is all Bucky needs. The rest of the cake is devoured in four hungry bites, Bucky licking his fingers clean and washing each massive bite down with a generous swig of the wine that was so sweet it might as well have been juice. The ginger makes his lips tingle, the spices working well with the overwhelming sweetness to finish off the rich meal on a decadent high. This plate he does lick clean, chasing the remnants of the frosting off of the ridge of the plate until it was nearly sparkling, like it hadn't been eaten from at all.
Setting the plate down with an unnecessarily loud clatter, Bucky looks up to meet Zemo's eye, his breathing heavily, eye contact intense and entirely unbroken.
Zemo stands up then, stalking slowly around the table with Bucky's eyes tracking him. He takes Bucky by the chin and tips his head back, and then presents him with the rim of his own wine glass, still half full, and tips it up so it flows into his mouth. He doesn't need to finish it himself, after all, he has something better to partake in, just minutes from now.
Bucky diligently swallows every drop, still looking up at Zemo adoringly. His hands clench on the table, the wood making a painful groaning noise at the weight he bears into the poor, elegant planks; more pockmarks to add to Zemo's rapidly-growing collection. Once he finishes and the glass is pulled from his lips, Bucky takes another, shuddering breath, dragging his tongue across his lower lip and swallowing heavily. His Adams Apple bobs temptingly across his stubbled throat. Bucky doesn't dare break the silence stretching between them, primed, waiting.
"Wash your hands," Zemo says, and steps out of the way as Bucky predictably scrambles out of his seat so quickly that his chair legs squeak on the terracotta. He unwinds his apron from his body and hangs it on the wall as Bucky waits for the water to heat up so he can give his sticky hands a good scalding.
It's Zemo's turn to slide up behind Bucky, his fangs finding the side of his neck, only enough to scrape and make him bleed a couple drops. Bucky's hands falter in the sink as Zemo reaches around in front of him with one hand while the other grips the edge of the counter, his palm sliding flat over Bucky's full stomach and down to the groin of his jeans, where he grabs Bucky's entire package in one hand and squeezes, tugging him back with one gesture to meet Bucky's ass and grind into it, exhaling hotly over the side of his neck. He's so close to biting, his self control fizzling out by the second, like a long wick attached to a bomb.
Bucky's entire body twinges with heat, feeling Zemo behind him. He wants nothing more than to fold right now, to bend himself delicately over the sink and let Zemo have his way; But that would still be jumping the gun. He hadn't even eaten yet, after all, and how rude would Bucky be to only think of himself?
So he basks in the cool pillar of Zemo's chest against his own back, his body putting off waves of heat in response to his meal and Zemo's attention. It almost makes him pant. He still doesn't say anything, finally managing to get his hands under the water to wash, even if the motion does bend him over just a few inches. It was enough of an excuse to grind his ass hungrily into the baron's bulge, though he does still try to make quick work of scrubbing himself down before shutting the sink off as quickly as he'd turned it on, turning in Zemo's grasp to face him head-on.
It was a mistake. Eye contact with Zemo was always a mistake. Bucky has to fight the urge not to immediately fall to his knees in reverence.
Zemo pulls away from Bucky in order to lead him down the hall by the hand. He wants to be comfortable, but also doesn't want to get blood on his sheets, to he takes Bucky into one of the guest rooms on the lower level so he doesn't have to climb the stairs while he's feeling this fed and lazy and stupid.
But instead of pushing him onto the bed, Zemo sits Bucky down on the silk couch by the wall. He falls onto the cushions dutifully, and for a moment Zemo just appreciates the view. Bucky with his legs spread, his hair hanging around his ears down to his shoulders, a flush coloring his cheeks and chest, his lips stained blood red from the generous amounts of wine he'd drank, his stomach swollen and bulging almost as far as his cock. He looks downright decadent, and after a moment heated observation, Zemo stakes his claim.
He pulls his turtleneck up and off his head, so that he can feel Bucky's bare chest against his own, the cross necklace dropping to sit against his bare skin before he straddles Bucky's thighs, seating himself in his lap. He takes both sides of Bucky's face in his hands and tips his head back, dragging his tongue up the side of his neck just for a sampling of his flavor. His skin is salty and musky, and he still smells like lamb brisket and wine as Zemo groans into his throat.
Adoringly, Bucky's hands raise to support Zemo's weight by cradling his thighs. It's not a task he takes the lead on, but rather a duty he serves happily, fingers kneading into the firm muscle of his thigh, still obscured by the stiff material of his slacks. How cruel it was for Zemo to still be so clothed when Bucky just wanted to feel him everywhere. But the exposure of his chest is good enough, and the touch is immediately overwhelming. He makes a hungry noise in his throat, a rumbling growl starting deep in his chest.
Tilting his head, Bucky pillows himself into the back cushion as his chest heaves. He wants it, he's begging for Zemo to bite him, his posture relaxed, his throat bared like a prey animal waiting for their final breath. He was, in this instance, and he was grateful.
It's a tease for them both, lapping at his throat like this, priming the spot to bite. The tension increases with every consecutive pass of Zemo's lips and tongues across his throat, like a dog pacing circles before laying down, looking for the perfect spot. He runs his nose across bucky's pulse, where his carotid artery pounds against his lips.
"Hold my hips," Zemo breathes against his neck, and when he feels both metal and organic hands clamp down around his hips, he parts his lips, positions them right at the pulse, and bites.
The flood of warmth that fills his mouth makes him groan immediately before it's choked out and drowned into silence by the rich blood that flows across his tongue and to the back of his throat. His fangs hook into place, holding the holes open so they can bleed freely into Zemo's mouth, as he injects his venom through the veins that run the length of his teeth and directly into Bucky's bloodstream. It's harder for it to hit sometimes when he bites him somewhere in the muscle, the venom has to take more time to soak through the muscle tissue and find a vein and make it to his heart so it can be pumped through his whole body, but when Zemo bites directly into a major artery in either his neck or thigh, the process takes just seconds.
Bucky wonders if he should have tried to make more conversation while he could, impressed Zemo with his humor, or mentioned something about the meeting he'd had earlier. But it's nearly impossible to think with the energy crackling between them as it had been all night, and actually impossible now that they were here, crowded in one another's space and filling the room with steam.
Doesn't matter as soon as he's bitten anyway, because Bucky has just enough time to make a low, keening yowl in response to the bite before his pupils dilate and his jaw drops in a soundless gasp. Zemo's venom hits him like a fog, the first stage absolute stupor as the first hit of endorphins hits, better than every drug. Bucky melts into the couch, fingers grasping and squeezing Zemo's hips, claws nicking at him without thought. He kneads like a cat just to feel the weight of him in his lap, the touch intoxicating and indulgent. The longer the baron drinks, the more Bucky's bliss begins to boil, churning into an insatiable hunger that has him gasping and arching off of the couch, a loud groan tearing from his lips.
Hit with the force of his own venom, Zemo can only pant through his nose between swallows, dragging pull after pull from Bucky's throat. The few other times he's indulged in blood directly from the source by other people, at least in recent memory, he'd never been able to drink as much from them as he would like. Humans are fragile things that break down so quickly without their blood, but Bucky... Bucky is like a bottomless fountain. His body compensates so quickly for bloodloss, hurrying to replenish it to keep him alive. Zemo has no doubt that bleeding Bucky dry would take days, if it ever came down to it.
He can drink his fill from Bucky, pumping them both full of his venom as a few more ounces pulse out of his fangs with every deep pull from Bucky's veins. He never tires of the way his blonde tastes, rich and salty and layered, or the way it makes him feel. His whole body feels electric, like he could leap up off the couch and take a lap around the yard like Bucky does at four in the morning. He feels full of energy, like he could buzz right out of his skin, Bucky's blood carrying so many properties on top of properties that make him feel unstoppable.
His jaw aches from holding it open, his stomach cramps from overindulging, but he still doesn't want to pull away. He grinds his hips down, taunting Bucky's cock with the friction of his ass, and grinding his own against the wolf's stomach. He can't think, every inch of his brain has been taken over by the howling, bucking wolf beneath him.
The grind is too much, delicious and overstimulating, enough to make Bucky snarl and huff for air, "Nnn-- Z-- ahh--" He bites back his noises with absolutely no success, head tipping back further into the couch and held in place by Zemo's mouth and teeth and insatiable appetite. He's torn between wanting to return the gesture, to give Zemo half the fire that was filling every inch of him with every deep draw of blood into the vampire before him. But he can't, he's good. His hands remain locked on his hips, although his claws have long since begun to draw steady pinpricks of blood from the punctures he makes with the effort it takes him to stay in place.
Jaw working, Bucky tries and fails to find words to say, his entire brain forgetting how to speak or communicate like a person. Instead he settles into his role as a monster of want for the time being, left to buck hopelessly up at the porcelain king primed above him. When he feels Zemo's mouth clamp around him for another hard draw, he feels a now-familiar spike of heat poured into his veins afresh, driving him dizzying mad as he bucks his hips up. His feet scrabble for purchase on the floor.
"Yes!" He finally manages, voice a ragged groan of what it usually is, "Baron, Baron--" He just had to say something, had to speak; It would be a fucking miracle to try and get him to form whole, coherent pleas in this state, but begging for Zemo's affections by saying his name so pretty had to be a start.
Zemo pulls away only once he's sure he'd start to suffer from a stomach ache if he continued, and laps at the pair of wounds to help convince them to seal. The pricks in his throat are so small that Bucky's body begins healing them almost instantly, and when Zemo leans back his mouth and lips are dyed bright red, both on display as he pants through parted lips to try and regain his breath. He's in a similar state to Bucky, flushed out to his ears and down his chest, as the blood immediately begins working to warm up his system, spreading heat through his body like a tea kettle of boiling water poured into a cool bath-- and his stomach is similarly curved with a hearty meal. One for Bucky, one for him.
And then, just to be a tease, he reaches up to catch a drip of blood as it tries to make a track down his chin and licks it off the pad of his thumb before hissing, "кончить" summoning just the first of many orgasms for Bucky, who can go and go and go at the best of times, even without a powerful aphrodisiac swirling in his veins.
Bucky scrabbles, pinned to the couch as he orgasms while still trapped in his jeans. An immediate, large wet stain blooms across his crotch and down the inner thigh of his jeans, the mess he'd made obvious-- and not only physically.
He's rutting up off the couch in waves, hips thrusting shallowly into the air at nothing, leaving him stupid and panting, gasping at nothing, desperate for contact that just isn't coming. Still his hands don't move from Zemo's hips, staying in the general area, although they do paw and drag down the line of them. Without so much as a pause, Bucky's hands dip a little too low. Later he would blame the venom making him intolerable and selfish; in truth, maybe he was just a little insatiable. His hands have the audacity to grab Zemo by the ass and pull him into Bucky's chest. For a long minute he drags his teeth hungrily against the leather of Zemo's belt, nose burying into the waistband of his slacks.
Those hands are hungry, Bucky's mouth moreso. He grazes his lips and tongue and teeth across the taut skin across Zemo's hips and stomach, the delicate swell making Bucky whine and press his nose into it, smelling himself on him, in him. It's the most indescribable feeling, and it actually makes Bucky salivate to feel Zemo above him, humming much like he was, strung out much like he was.
"Get on the bed," Zemo commands, swinging his leg off of Bucky's lap to let the wolf scramble for the bed in haste. He grabs Bucky by the ankle before he can make it very far up the bed and yanks him back down to the edge, his full stomach pressed uncomfortably into the mattress but as usual, he would tolerate anything for Zemo. He lifts his legs and hips obediently so the vampire can strip his jeans off, soaked on the inside both from the climax Bucky had just unloaded into it, and from where he had indeed been leaking Zemo's seed all through dinner.
He spreads Bucky's cheeks, enchanted by the sight of his hole, still red from being abused just an hour ago, and shiny from the slick running down his perineum. Zemo collects the dribble with his finger and chases it back up the path, stuffing it back into Bucky along with two of his fingers to the knuckle just to see how wet and soft he is. He squelches, more leftover cum and lube seeping out between Zemo's fingers, and it makes him a little crazy to see it.
"Shtenya..." he's still panting as he tugs open his belt, the sound of the buckle clinking like music to Bucky's ears as he still roughly twists those fingers into him, just to prove a point. He doesn't need the prep, he's soft as melted butter, but Zemo gives it to him nevertheless. "Raise your hips for me."
Bucky's body feels like rubber, like glass. He's shaking all the way into his bones as he's pinned down across the bed, and when ordered to raise his hips he does without question. Getting his feet under him wasn't very difficult, but keeping them there was, especially with how pliant and hungry he is to be fucked, ass rutting back hungrily into those fingers and distracting him in the process when they curve higher into him and stuff him until he's gagging. With some effort, Bucky raises his knee onto the bed, allowing his hips and ass to raise that last few inches so he can curve his ass into a pretty dip and line up perfectly with the buckle of Zemo's fly.
"Please, please," Bucky groans as he arches his back and buries his face in his arms, writhing and moaning like a common whore, strung out and hot for the man holding him open, even as his sad hole flutters and clenches around nothing. "Pleeeeease, Baron--" He sounds so pretty begging, his voice breaking and low, like saying the words pained him even as he sighs in bliss with four fingers stuffed inside of him.
When confident he'd gathered enough slick from Bucky's hole to coat himself, Zemo lines up and pushes into the wolf in one smooth motion. He's so slick inside that it's almost unfair how easy it is to hilt into him, and he immediately grabs him by the hair, his fingers tangling between the long strands to twist and pull his head up off the bed so he's on all fours when the vampire starts to rut into him.
Immediately set ablaze, the venom in his own system is pushing him towards the other man, desperate to find pleasure even though he knows, too, it will only be the first of many. Zemo is usually a reserved lover, but when under the effects of his own venom he pants, he moans, he grunts nearly as animal as Bucky does. He bends down over the length of Bucky's body and bites his shoulder again, injecting him with more venom just for fun, just to combat his metabolism. He doesn't drink, pulling away just when Bucky starts to yowl, and he smears a streak of blood down the wolf's back like the stroke of a paintbrush with a growl of pleasure.
Bucky snarls like an animal and rolls his back, hungrily pushing himself to meet Zemo's thrusts with his own. Manners would dictate his complacency, his serenity in being fucked without contribution; but manners had gone out the window a very long time ago, and been replaced carnal hunger. He's beyond words, the searing, white-hot pleasure-pain across his scalp radiating from those fingers fisted into the root. Bucky moans as liquid fire starts in his shoulder and radiates right into his belly, which gurgles hungrily despite how bloated he still was.
There's the telltale sound of ripping as Bucky's claws sink into the nice linen and tear it in his effort to hold himself together., and he doesn't even have it in him to care enough to apologize. He's beholden to Zemo's cock filling him so perfectly with every possessive rut and strike into his guts.
Zemo folds himself on top of Bucky, releasing his hair to instead wrap his arm around his chest, and he pulls him flush with his own body, his full stomach slotting perfectly into the downward curve of Bucky's back. It becomes Bucky's burden to bear Zemo's weight entirely as he also wraps his second hand under Bucky, but it's a task he takes to with a willing hunger when the baron's hand wraps around his cock and pulls at it roughly. He can feel Bucky's thighs shaking, his whole body shaking, and he hisses that word again right as he feels his own climax building.
"кончить--" he snarls the word like he has contempt for it, pulling Bucky's cock through it, and when he feels the wolf's insides all clamp up with pleasure, it's enough to push him over the edge too.s
With Zemo's hand stroking him Bucky cums even harder than he had the first time, shouting his pleasure until his voice goes hoarse, turning his head to face his baron like he couldn't stand to look away from from him for only a second. His lips graze his jaw, his neck, never lingering for very long as Zemo continues to move and work over him, pumping him full with another round of cum, more pressure to add to the pile in his guts, enough to make his cock already begin to throb and jerk up, without ever being released from his grasp.
Bucky's hole tightens and releases, milking Zemo's cock until there's nothing left for him to take; and yet Bucky doesn't make a single attempt to pull away or withdraw. In fact he raises up and rolls his hips down, hungrily encouraging another round without even asking if Zemo needed a break from the first one, insatiable and bereft of manners.
Zemo pulls out with a sticky squelch, and unsurprisingly he's still hard as nails. Bucky's keen ears pick up the sound of more belt shuffling, followed by the metallic sheen of metal scraping against metal, as Zemo unlatches his hidden belt buckle knife. With a rough scoop and toss, Bucky is flipped over onto his back by his thigh, bouncing slightly on the mattress. Zemo doesn't cut him, just holds the knife flat against Bucky's thigh as he positions himself back between his legs and enters him a second time, the venom still working its course in them both, insatiable need ruling them still.
The knife's edge bites against his thigh, threatening to cut him just held stationary as it is, when Zemo starts to thrust into him again. With one orgasm under his belt (two for Bucky) he's not quite as frantic as he was before, so his thrusts this time are more measured and deep, his bangs hanging in front of his face again as he looms over the wolf.
"I want to eat you," Zemo groans, their hips slapping together noisily. "Devour you..."
Like he hadn't just taken his sweet time doing just that.
Bucky moans, loudly and filthily at Zemo's shift in position, punctuated with such heavy thrusts of his hips, "Yes--" Bucky keens, and it sounds like he's actually agreeing with Zemo's plan. His breathing is still desperate, with pulls taken through his teeth and huffed out with soft, warbling whimpers. He's flushed from his jaw to his stomach, entire body red from the toxin, from the meal, from the exertion of his lover and fuck, just the exertion of himself. Like a challenge, Bucky all out ignores the knife at his thigh, and as Zemo pulls out, his feet curl around his waist and draw him in, his heels in the baron's lower back pulling him to sheath inside, the iron of his thighs absolutely giving him no space at all to yield. The knife at his thigh drawing a slice of blood that stains his pretty skin a shocking red, as blood pebbles from the blade's edge.
Zemo gathers that blood on his hand like paint to a canvas, and when his palm is sufficiently covered, he reaches up to leave a handprint right over Bucky's heart, groping his chest and leaving a bright red stamp of his hand across his skin. He groans at the sight of it and lifts his hand to lick off the rest of the blood, his thrusts slowly to a deep, rolling grind, just to torture. It's torture for them both.
He fits the knife under his palm, tucking it into place with his thumb so the blade sticks out between his middle and ring finger like a sixth digit, and he drags his nails roughly down Bucky's chest opposite the handprint, leaving four perfect raised welts with his nails, and one shockingly crimson line that spills down across his shoulder and bicep. It makes Zemo's cock throb as the smell of Bucky's blood fills the room, and he leans down to lick the length of that cut with a snarl, hungry despite the fact that he's still bearing the evidence of his own gorge on Bucky's flesh and blood.
Bucky shouts like a wounded beast, loudly filling the room with voice as much as his blood. His metal arm raises to clamp onto the baron's shoulder, holding him in place, encouraging him down. The grinding was driving him insane, Zemo's swollen cock making his hole sore as he's forced to accomodate the churning of his hips. With direct pressure to his prostate, it turns Bucky into a quivering bundle of a man, his thighs shaking, trembling all the way into his overfull belly.
"Baron--" He howls the word like it pains him to say it at all, arching his back as he writhes against the bed. He doesn't have anything to say or contribute, nothing he can bring to the table but his voice. He wants to tell Zemo he could devour him, destroy him. Every slice of the blade sets his body on fire and makes his brain backslide just a little more into insanity, human hand twitching and clenching, until it, too, raises to settle on Zemo's shoulders-- and those claws set to him now in turn, digging into the meat of his shoulder and joining the perfume of Bucky's blood with a plume of Zemo's own. It didn't matter, at this point his blood was as much Bucky's as it was his own, and the smog of copper that tinges the room makes him salivate.
With one yank of his arm he pulls Zemo in by the shoulder to lay flat across his torso, demanding, blinded by his own hunger. A slave to it, he can only be blamed so much for when his mouth opens and he mouths hungrily at Zemo's shoulder-- but he doesn't break skin. He would never break skin, a true testament to Zemo's training and Bucky's respect for it. But he wants to, it's right there, and his wicked-sharp canines threaten to with every hot growl of breath spread across his skin.
In moments like these, Zemo is reminded how much incredible, corded strength is hidden in Bucky's body. As if it could be possible to forget, one look at him tells anyone everything they need to know about the formidable weapon his body is. But still, to have that strength actually exerted on him reminds him exactly of what he's dealing with-- and more importantly, the fact that Bucky has never once hurt him despite how easy it would be for him to do so. Even a vampire like him who has advanced strength and durability would barely be a match against a super soldier werewolf. It makes affection bloom in his chest all over again.
"James," he pants, allowing the wolf the room to bite and teethe at his shoulder as their bodies slide together, pressed up against one another intimately. He can't thrust as quick or deep from this angle, but they're nevertheless strong enough to bounce Bucky under him. He sighs and groans into his shoulder, the venom making his body burn demanding more action, more satisfaction-- but denying it what it craves only makes the friction sweeter, burning nearly to the point of pain as it tries to coax him into submitting to its greed.
When he can't take it for another second longer, he breaks out of Bucky's tight hold and leans up to hook his hands behind his knees, lifting and spreading his legs into an obscene frame around his swollen stomach, and he braces both feet into the bed so he can snap down into the wolf with all the strength they both require to satisfy the venom's searing heat.
A bark of pleasure leaves Bucky that's stifled by his own lungs crushing in front of him. Zemo's hands burn into the back of his knees with a grip like a vice and muscles supercharged with Bucky's special blend of serum and augmented strength. Unable to hold it in that position, Bucky's hands release Zemo's shoulders, his feet falling from his back and spreading toward his ears as Zemo's change in position strikes the air from his body with every relentless thrust.
There's a part of him that wants to look, and as large a part of him that can't; Bucky struggles to strike the balance between the two, panting and peering at Zemo through heavy curls of hair that manage to fall in front of his face. It would have been romantic if he wasn't smeared with his own blood and thirsty for more, hips unable to even rut back at this position, and instead leaving Bucky just to take whatever Zemo wants to claim. His hands fall back to the bed, claws fisting back into the duvet. It was a fine blanket, it surely deserved better-- but with a hitch of his hips, Bucky angles himself higher, and the tearing of cloth punctuates Zemo rising to the change in posture, railing Bucky so hard into the mattress the bed groans under their weight.
"You're ripping-- my nice-- bed--" Zemo hisses through clenched teeth, punctuating each word with a rough thrust. He can see Bucky's cock bouncing between them, slapping against his own stomach with every thrust, and he can see how close Bucky is to a third climax-- nearly as close as he is to his second. The venom demands more, more sweat, more friction, more blood-- and so he indulges it completely. "Look me in the eyes," he commands, letting go of one of Bucky's legs to grab him by the jaw instead, shaking his head from side to side to clear his bangs out of his face so Bucky can look up at him with those wild blue eyes.
Their eyes meet and lock, and he snarls out a possessive, "Tell me who you belong to." He knows, and Bucky knows, and he knows Bucky knows. He just wants to hear him say it. It's just nice to hear it out loud, once in a while.
Bucky sucks in a heavy breath through his teeth, and Zemo can see his pupils contracting the longer he's looking at Zemo, like he's staring at a bright light. In reality it's just the effect the vampire has on him, Bucky's fullblooded adoration and devotion offering single-minded, laser-like focus to the object of his affection. His chest rises and falls like a felled ox, the lines of his ribcage visible every time he gulps for breath, despite the awkward angle he was held in.
"You, yours--" Zemo's nails bite into his jaw. Bucky thrives on the pain, like pinpricks of fire across his chin. With another ruthless strikes of his hips, Bucky lets out a pained wail, desperately breathing through his nose to regain some semblance of control, and failing miserably. He's struggling, it's obvious he's struggling, until a tightening of those fingers and another jerk of his hips make Bucky shout again, "I belong to you, I belong to you--" Bucky snarls, raising his hands out for a moment just out of reach of Zemo, and instead clamping around his own thighs, holding himself up in place, taking the weight of his own position onto himself, so Zemo has nothing to distract from appropriately tearing into the mutt currently spreading himself open for him like a hooker on display.
"кончить!" Zemo shouts, pushing Bucky's chin back so his head is tipped as far back as it'll go, bearing his throat to his baron-- the ultimate display of subservience to a vampire. Bucky's orgasm wrings the life out of Zemo, clenching and spasming around his cock and milking every drop of pleasure out of him possible so that within moments, he's spilling another load into Bucky.
At this point he's absolutely filthy on the inside, wet and leaking and squelching, but Zemo just adds more to it, piling on top of his already overfilled guts and he fucks him right through his own pleasure. Cum is leaking back out of him with every thrust onto the bed, which is exactly why Zemo wanted to use this bed instead of theirs. His hips snap into Bucky until he's fully spent-- not that his cock has gone soft, he can still feel it aching inside him, twinging with oversensitivity. It's a good ache.
Bucky's body stretches into a lithe line as he bows his back into a graceful arc. Stretched tight like a wire, any noise Bucky made is resolutely cut off as he opens his mouth in a silent shout, making a mess of himself for what had to be the tenth time that night-- or it certainly feels like it. As impossible as it was for a man his age, Bucky somehow manages to cum a third time that night, thick streams of seed again painting his belly, but the angle allowing him to get a little better range-- he hits all the way up to his clavicle, now, smearing cum across his skin like a fine glaze.
He pants like he just ran a marathon, breath coming out ragged and painfully, almost like a wheeze. And still he can feel Zemo moving inside of him, still he can feel himself being split open. He's so soft, even Bucky could feel how soft he was at this point, his rim only barely clutching at the cock still pounding away at him, sure he would crackle back to life before too long.
Zemo's hips again still into a slow grind, and then he pulls out entirely, just to watch Bucky sag boneless on the bed. He's glistening with sweat and seed, leaking out of him like a faucet and speckled over his chest and stomach. He's absolutely filthy, and for what Zemo wants next, he needs him to be a little less. So he crawls higher on the bed to grab the tissue box from the night stand and carries it back to wipe Bucky down, across his torso and between his legs so he's not quite so sticky and wet, and after discarding the tissues in a nearby trash can, Zemo rolls over to brace his back and shoulders against the generous pile of pillows at the head of the bed.
He pats his thighs, beckoning Bucky up, his cock still standing like a flagpole off of his hips. The venom is still working its course, but Zemo can feel it beginning to fade, so he knows it'll be fading for Bucky soon, too. He wants to watch him work for it, this time.
Not once does Bucky dare take his eyes off of Zemo. He tracks him one way across the room, to the tissues, then back to himself. He spreads himself willingly when Zemo goes to clean him up, and drops himself when Zemo pulls away, shifting to give him space. He watches Zemo arrange himself on the bed, chest immediately beginning to rise and fall as his cock twitches heavily and jerks, obviously beginning to feel the crackling fire of the venom reigniting his veins. He rolls onto his side, then his stomach, leaning on the bed heavily and watching Zemo with sharp eyes, waiting, breath held in anticipation. He licks his lips, a dog looking at his favorite treat.
With one single pat, Bucky has climbed onto the bed. He crawls over Zemo's legs like a predator, ducking his head and sinking down to drag his tongue hungrily over Zemo's cock. His hole twitches and clenches, the ache of being empty a yawning chasm in his gut. He ignores it in favor of tucking Zemo's cock into his mouth until he can feel the weight of it heavy in the back of his throat. His eyes flutter as he sucks and licks Zemo clean, intensely devoted and incessant for about two minutes, before abruptly pulling away, just as Zemo's cock gives a twitch and another small jet of pre, which Bucky leans down to lick clean again, before he looks up at Zemo, swallowing heavily.
Ducking his head, Bucky crawls atop of Zemo's freshly-cleaned cock, positioning his filthy hole over the red, swollen head. One hand spread over Zemo's hip for support, the other goes between his legs so he can hold the baron's cock upright and sit right down on it, his ass spreading again to the entirely new angle, high and tight again. Bucky settles to the root, looking down at Zemo like he might eat him.
Zemo lets Bucky mount him and then take a couple strokes before he reaches up to give him a firm slap across the face. It's not an aggressive move, he's never struck Bucky out of anger before, only to prove a point. And this one was well earned, after how much he'd torn up Zemo's bed, and then had the gall to deviate from Zemo's clear instruction to climb into his lap.
Bucky doesn't suffer much for it, though, because Zemo grabs him by the jaw and hauls him down for a rough kiss that tastes like blood and cum, quite intentionally splitting Bucky's lip open on his fang in the process as he bucks up into the feverishly warm body on top of him. He licks across his bloodied lip, holding Bucky still by the jaw with one hand, and grinding the thumb of his other across the still-bleeding cut Zemo put across the right side of his chest until he gives an animal whine of pain in his nose.
"Devilish," Zemo accuses as he breaks the kiss, and then shoves Bucky back up to his full height by a hand on his throat, then slaps him on the thigh like a rider spurring a horse into a gallop.
In truth he'd barely felt the slap to his cheek. He would take any manner of abuse from his baron at this point, any sleight or greivance he wished to take out on any part of Bucky's body, he was free to it at any time. A little slap on the cheek? Really, for Bucky in the state he was in right now? Not much of a punishment, and he certainly doesn't act cowed. His body thrums like he's on fire. He can taste Zemo on his tongue, heavy in his throat still, the taste of himself there, too, muskier, darker, comparatively Zemo was practically floral.
Leaning back on his metal arm for support, Bucky spreads his knees to give Zemo a view, his hole spread open and wide around his cock and still leaking despite all the cleaning. Without an enema he'd be a mess for a day. He doesn't care, the pace he sets methodical and quick, hips rising and falling as he looks down the line of his body at Zemo beneath him, where their hips meet, where his own blood has smeared down his chest and across his legs, looking more like war paint than his own lifeforce. Maybe he does look devilish. Maybe he is devilish.
Bucky snarls as he intentionally slows down so he can really grind into his prostate, languishing in the agony of pleasure that he gives himself, enough to make his mouth pop open in a silent cry and eyes flutter shut. Maybe not enough for Zemo, though.
Zemo raises his knees to give Bucky a frame to hold onto and use as a fulcrum. His core is tensed up tight, every abdominal muscle on display as he rolls himself down over his baron's cock. The deep grind has him aching inside the wolf, throbbing hard enough that he's certain Bucky can feel every pulse against his walls. He lingers just a little too long on his own pleasure, and so Zemo reaches out to grab his discarded belt knife and raises it in one hand to press the blade's sharp edge right beneath the line of Bucky's jaw, against the pulse just an inch shy of where Zemo bit him, the marks healed over by now but still purple with agitation.
"Faster," he commands, as if it's a threat. Even if he did cut Bucky's major artery, it wouldn't be enough to kill him-- but god, the shower of blood it would spray them both with... it's tempting to do it for that alone, even if that would dilute the venom in Bucky's blood, and the whole reason they fed him as much as they did was just make sure it would hit him effectively in the first place.
He doesn't need the motivation, but the knife helps Bucky's posture, at least. Jaw raising to accommodate the blade, Bucky doesn't lean into this particular edge, knowing the consequences for that particular action could end their night early-- and he's not ready for that yet, not when his body still feels too big for his skin and his heart keeps beating out of his chest. He needs to burn off this energy, he needs to feel Zemo's cock inside him, just one more time, one more, one more--
Their skin slaps together at a steady clip, Bucky's thighs don't so much as tremble at the exertion. He leans back on his arm that holds his weight and he rides Zemo like he was built to do it, powerful core churning and moving with every expert roll of his hips. His cock strikes deep, deep in his gut, and while the bulge had already gone down a considerable amount thanks to the way his body uses energy, he can still feel it like he's fucking on top of having 4 meals. He definitely is fucking on top of having four meals. It makes his head foggy and chest tight in a breathtaking way.
Zemo's other hand coils around Bucky's hip, just following the swift clip of his bouncing. He doesn't rise to meet him or command the tempo, he lets Bucky take the reins in a rare display of trust and affection-- even if he does still have a knife to his throat. That just adds spice.
"James... James--" Zemo's head arches back into the pillows, his fangs bared with pleasure, a knot of bliss coiling tighter in his stomach with every slap of Bucky's ass against his thighs. This one isn't going to take long, he can feel his pleasure mounting, partially due to the relentless pace Bucky has adopted, partially because of the way he looks smeared with blood from his shoulders to his thighs. He looks pretty as a picture, and deranged to his core.
Just to torture him, Zemo releases Bucky's hip and grabs his cock instead, stroking it in time with his thrusts. He hears Bucky shout as the pleasure gutpunches him, but without the word it doesn't matter how much Zemo jerks his cock, he could be at it for days and Bucky would sooner go crazy than be able to cum. That's entirely the point.
Bucky has never cared for being called James. It sounds so formal, so smart, and Bucky's never been that person, even before the serum. Bucky is much more his speed-- snappy and clucky and to the point; but he could live and die by the way Zemo croons his name, James. It fills the room, it fills him with such pleasure, enough to make his entire body tingle like he'd just touched a light socket. Emphasized only by the cold hand now twisting around his dick, Bucky's entire core begins to tremble before he finally collapses.
The strength in his gut gives way as soon as that hand begins to torment him. Completely ignoring the knife at his throat, Bucky tips forward to drape himself across Zemo's torso, unable to hold himself up any longer. He's lucky his throat is soft and Zemo's intention isn't set, or they'd have that mess on their hands they were worried about, but as it is there's only a thin slice that glides across his skin, shallow and inconsequential.
He ruts between grinding his cock forward into the new, warm space between their bellies and fucking himself hungrily down onto Zemo's cock. Maybe it's unfortunate he has weak willpower, Bucky was beyond caring. Leaning up, Bucky captures Zemo's lips in a hungry kiss, "Zemo--" Bucky whimpers down his throat, sounding like he was ready to cry every second as his next orgasm already builds to a frenzy, driving him insane with hypersensitivity and pleasure.
Zemo indulges in a lick across the new cut at Bucky's pulse, and with the salt and tang of his blood on his tongue, his strength is renewed. He casts the knife aside and rolls Bucky over onto his back, and without even pulling out of him, resumes his quick, snapping pace that Bucky lost the thread of when his willpower waned. Taking his position on top, Zemo braces his elbows on either side of Bucky's head and fucks him like he means it.
Bucky's cock is trapped between their stomachs now, both of which are already verging on flat again, their bodies have so handily devoured what was given to them in order to maintain this level of energy. The space is slick with sweat, hot as an oven and the friction of the hair on their bellies tickles and torments him with every thrust. Part of him wants to bite Bucky again, just to keep it going, but he knows at this rate he'd only be buying them a few more minutes at best, they're coming up to the end of what Bucky's metabolism will allow, even with as hearty of a meal as he'd eaten.
So this time Zemo pours the words into his mouth like a shot of liquor as he kisses him, grunting out a final, "кончить--" as he, too, finds his climax and spills inside of Bucky for the fourth time that night.
Surprisingly, the space between them does not fill with the sounds of Bucky's bliss, but that seems to be more because he's been completely fucked out of a voice. Eyes squeezed shut (like seeing would be too much stimulation on top of all of this) Bucky's teeth are bared in a silent snarl. His mouth works, opening and closing as his body jerks and twitches, raising up to meet Zemo then stuttering away with the stimulation is too much. His body is overcome with a complex layer of feeling, too much and not enough, his hunger unable to match what his body can take.
Bucky's entire body jerks as Zemo fills him to the brim again, like he was suddenly aware of the heavy pressure it was digging into his gut. A low groan finally leaves him, curled tight around himself so he could stay close, he couldn't imagine untangling himself from Zemo now. He wanted to stay bound to him, landlocked to him, as he feels his cock twitch and jerk, still buried so deep inside he can feel Zemo in his chest.
Until finally Zemo collapses onto his back beside Bucky after what feels like an eternity, and might've only actually been five minutes. Bucky sags in the sheets that are now a puddle of blood, cum and sweat-- and he doesn't give a single shit, eyes fluttering back open to focus blearing on Zemo, dutifully.
He just follows Zemo with his eyes lovingly as the vampire slowly comes to and rolls up onto his side to meet the wolf's eyes. He smiles after a moment and closes the distance between them for one more loving kiss, before finally rolling off the bed entirely. He circles around to Bucky's side and gestures for him to lift his arms so Zemo can bend down and pick him up, cradling him against his chest with the deceptive strength he holds in his body.
Carrying Bucky upstairs to the ensuite bathroom, he sits the sleepy wolf on the counter and takes to him with a hot wash cloth, wiping away the blood and sweat and cum from his body. The poor cleaning staff are going to have one hell of a time with the bed downstairs tomorrow, but it is what they're paid for. He steals lazy little kisses as he cleans Bucky off, and then gathers up all his sweaty hair into a top knot for him to sleep in, so they can wash it when they shower together in the morning.
Then he carries him chest to chest with Bucky's legs wrapped around his hips, back to their actual bed and lays him out on his side so he can curl up behind his wolf, pulling the covers up over them both.
He's really looking forward to the rest of this week.