Chapter Text
Safehouse, 2:17 a.m.
The mission had stalled somewhere between extraction and intel drop. Not failed, just— cooling.
Bucky smoked alone on the balcony, the orange tip of his cigarette a slow pulse in the dark. The city murmured faintly below him, the expensive silence and decadent restraint of Zemo’s safe house his only companions.
The air was cold against his skin up here, but that part he liked. It kept the edges sharp.
He heard the door slide open behind him, then, the whisper of glass sliding smoothly in its frame like a blade sheathing itself.
He didn’t turn his head.
And Zemo didn’t speak as he stepped up beside him. Not close, but close enough to register in the air—body heat, scent, the faint shift of pressure.
Bucky flicked ash over the railing. “I thought you didn’t smoke.”
“I don’t,” Zemo said. “Not unless it’s shared.”
Fingers brushed his, then— elegant, deliberate. Zemo plucked the cigarette from Bucky’s mouth like it had been offered. Took a drag. Not deep, but slow, lips closing over the filter in a way that felt—
Intrusive.
Intimate.
Bucky turned, finally. Let the silence stretch.
“So is this the part where you proposition me?” His voice was flat. But not dismissive.
Zemo exhaled, slow and steady, smoke curling past his lips. He looked at Bucky, and there was no smugness in it, just a kind of focused patience.
“Would you be surprised if I did?”
“No.” Bucky’s gaze stayed locked on the city below him. “But I think you’d be surprised if I said yes.”
A beat passed. Zemo returned the cigarette—held it out, pinched between two fingers. Not offering so much as returning possession.
Bucky finally looked at him as he took it back. He dragged slow—considering, almost—then exhaled without breaking eye contact.
The air between them thickened. It wasn’t seduction. It wasn’t threat. It was intent, unspoken, but not invisible.
“You think I haven’t noticed,” Bucky said, voice quieter now. “The way you look.”
“I assumed you had. You are, after all, quite observant.”
“Mm.” Bucky’s lips curled around the cigarette. Smoke hissed between his teeth. “And you’re not subtle.”
Zemo stepped closer, just a fraction. “You’ve never asked me to be.”
“No.” Bucky’s throat worked around the burn. “I haven’t.”
Another breath. Another step. Zemo’s voice dipped. “Then perhaps the question is not what I want, but what you’ll allow.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He took one final drag, then crushed the cigarette in the ashtray beside him. His hand lingered—flesh, not metal. Exposed.
When he turned back, Zemo was already watching his mouth.
Bucky saw it now—the possibility. Not just of want, but of consequence. And for the first time, he didn’t step back.
He stayed. Held the weight of it. Let Zemo feel it, too.
Zemo didn’t touch him. Not yet. But the distance between them collapsed anyway, enough for Bucky to feel the pull. Like gravity, but heavier.
Like choice.
“You think I’m waiting for permission,” Bucky said, voice low. A fact, not a question.
Zemo smiled, slow and unreadable. “You aren’t?”
“No,” Bucky murmured. “But you are.”
And there it was. The tilt. The shift. Zemo’s mouth parted slightly—surprise or pleasure or both.
Bucky stepped into him then, barely—enough to close the last inch, to let their arms brush.
Zemo didn’t retreat. He never would. But his breath caught.
“I know what you want,” Bucky said, voice roughened now. The kind of sound that lived low in his chest, the kind that tasted of ash and restraint. “But do you know what it costs?”
Zemo’s gaze tracked him. Not like a predator. Like a scholar. Or a man watching an avalanche from the inside.
“I know what it requires,” he said, quiet. “And I know the shape of it.”
Bucky’s head tipped. His eyes narrowed. “You think it’s shaped like control.”
Zemo’s expression didn’t shift. But something in him stilled. Compressed.
Bucky reached out—not far, enough to brush the lapel of Zemo’s coat, to test the weave of the wool between thumb and forefinger.
“That’s not what I carry,” he said.
Zemo’s voice was a whisper now, barely shaped. “What do you carry, then?”
Bucky looked at him. Really looked. Smoke and silence still clinging to him, jaw shadowed, breath steady. “You already know.”
Zemo didn’t respond. Not with words.
And Bucky could feel it—the way the air between them bent inward, pressure folding into silence. Not empty, but full of everything unspoken.
He held the line. Didn’t move his hand, didn’t blink. He let his fingers rest there, along the line of Zemo’s jaw, the heat of his skin radiating up into his palm. And somehow it felt dangerous.
Because Zemo was always a step ahead. Always composed, calculating, refined.
But here, now—he was waiting. Not moving. Not even breathing the same way. Like Bucky had become the variable he hadn’t accounted for.
Bucky felt it hit. Not the power—he didn’t want that. It was the awareness. The weight of being wanted, not for leverage, or strategy—but for himself. Or whatever fractured, fire-tempered version of himself still held shape.
It landed different than he thought it would. Not heavy, just— real.
His thumb ghosted along Zemo’s cheekbone, barely there, only enough for the contact to register. For Bucky to feel the stubble, the tension beneath it.
“You’ve been circling,” Bucky said, voice quieter now. “All that polished charm. The sideways compliments. The waiting.”
He let his hand drop then. Didn’t step back.
“I don’t need you to ask.”
Zemo’s eyes didn’t move. He didn’t smile. Didn’t soften. But his restraint cracked. Just slightly.
And Bucky felt it in his gut. A ripple. Something deeper than anticipation. Because this wasn’t about consent. That was already present. This was about timing. About whether Bucky would let this happen.
He inhaled slow, steady, then turned his back on Zemo and walked to the edge of the balcony again, resting his palms on the cool railing.
Not dismissal, but pressure—redirected. He didn’t look over his shoulder when he spoke next. “If you’re gonna do it,” Bucky murmured, “don’t ask.”
The pause behind him was thick enough to stretch time.
Then footsteps. Deliberate. Zemo’s presence curling into his space again, closer this time, but still not touching. Not yet.
Just the heat of him, trailing up Bucky’s spine like a breath waiting to land.
Because Zemo had always been deliberate. Patient to the point of cruelty. And now—he was stillness shaped like anticipation.
Bucky could feel him the way a storm sits on the edge of the sky, pressure thick enough to make the air taste different. He didn’t turn. Didn’t speak again.
Let it keep stretching.
The metal of the railing pressed cool into his palms. He let the contact ground him—bone, nerve, metal. Let it hold him while the space behind him curved in tighter.
Zemo’s breath touched first. Barely. Like he was exhaling through a ghost. It hit the back of Bucky’s neck, just above the collar—soft, warm, enough to raise a tremor under his skin. He didn’t flinch. Just went— still. A fraction more than he already was.
He closed his eyes for half a second. Then he turned—slow. Deliberate.
Face to face now. Gravity between them, not inches.
Zemo’s expression didn’t flicker. But his eyes were bright with focus. The kind that sharpens the air around it.
Bucky studied him. Took in the set of his jaw. The stillness in his hands. The way he wasn’t reaching.
Because he didn’t need to. Because Bucky was right there. And the question was no longer if. It was when.
Bucky could feel the beat of his own pulse in his throat. Could see Zemo’s eyes trace it, tracking the pressure.
And still, Zemo didn’t move.
It was that—more than any touch— that made Bucky’s breath catch.
Because Zemo could. He had the precision. The instinct. The hunger, honed and held like a knife in his palm.
But he didn’t reach for him. Didn’t take. He waited.
And Bucky wasn’t used to that. Not anymore. Not with this kind of tension between them—coiled, charged, inevitable.
People took when they wanted. Or they asked, if they thought he might say yes. But waiting—
Waiting like this— That was worse. Or maybe it was better.
Bucky didn’t move at first. Let the silence layer between them again, let the moment stretch into something unbearable.
Then, slowly, he lifted his own hand, the backs of his fingers grazing Zemo’s chest. A single point of confirmation that made the tension in Zemo’s body sharpen so slight Bucky might have missed it if he hadn’t been looking for it.
Zemo didn’t speak. Didn’t shift forward. But his breath faltered. A fraction. A fracture. And that was enough.
Every nerve in Bucky’s own body felt on. Like he’d stepped into some kind of field and everything was humming just under the surface. “You’re not gonna move first, are you.”
Zemo’s eyes didn’t leave his. “No.”
The honesty in it landed harder than seduction would’ve. Because it was seduction. But sharper. More dangerous.
It put the moment in Bucky’s hands. And maybe that was what made it real.
He let the silence sit for one more breath. Then another. Then he said, “Good,” and closed the space. Tilted his head, felt Zemo’s breath hit his cheek. Close enough that he could feel the shift in him—tension and restraint warring like static under the skin.
“Still not gonna ask?” Bucky murmured.
Zemo’s voice was a whisper. “Not when you have already answered.”
And then—then Bucky let his hand slide. Up. Over Zemo’s collar. Under his jaw. His fingers curved there, anchoring.
He leaned in. Not for a kiss. But to feel it. Zemo’s restraint. His hunger. And underneath that—his goddamn reverence.
Bucky breathed in through his nose, let it sit there. And finally whispered, “Then take it.”
Zemo— didn’t move. Not right away. Bucky could feel it, his split-second hesitation, the crack in Zemo’s control. Because Zemo wasn’t just reacting. He was registering the moment. Letting it bend around him, even as his mouth angled in for a kiss, uncharacteristic hesitation slowing the motion of it like he was still waiting for Bucky to flinch.
Bucky didn’t. And their lips met in a contact that didn’t shatter. It sealed.
And when Zemo’s hand rose to Bucky’s jaw, cradling him there, like the moment might break if he held too tight— Bucky let him.
Because it had been a long damn time since he’d let anyone do that.
When they pulled apart, it was only by an inch. Just enough to breathe.
The air between them stayed warm. Zemo didn’t speak. Didn’t have to.
Bucky looked at him. Really looked. Then he said, quiet but steady, “you don’t get to fuck this up.”
Zemo’s voice dropped, very serious. “I won’t.”
The words hung between them for a moment. The way Zemo said it—low, certain, like it wasn’t a promise but a fact already written—sat heavy in the air.
Bucky let it.
His hand was still at Zemo’s collar. He could feel the heat through the fabric, could feel the shape of the man beneath it—still, composed, waiting.
Not for permission.
For the moment to keep holding.
Bucky pulled in a slow breath. The kind that stayed high in the chest, didn’t reach the ribs. He let it out just as slow.
Then he stepped back—half an inch, maybe less. Enough to change the feel of the space, not the contact.
“You always talk like that,” he muttered, “Like wanting something is enough to make it true.”
Zemo didn’t smile. But something close to it flickered at the corner of his mouth. “Because for me— it is.”
Bucky snorted—quiet. He let his hand fall. The chill of the night was starting to sink into his knuckles.
“Come inside,” Zemo said, voice softer now. “You’ll freeze out here.”
Bucky didn’t move. “That concern or a tactic?”
“Does it matter?”
And Bucky—Bucky actually laughed. Not loud. Not bright. But it was a laugh, real and scraped raw from the part of him that remembered what it meant to feel something without bracing for the backlash.
“No,” he said. “Guess it doesn’t.”
Zemo tracked him—sharp, unblinking, eyes nearly liquid in the light steeping through the open door.
“Ah. You should laugh more often,” he said, meeting Bucky’s gaze. Half challenge, half— something else that Bucky wouldn’t let himself name.
And when he stepped back— through the threshold and into the penthouse, Bucky followed.
The air inside didn’t greet him. It adjusted around them, the pressure easing. Not completely. But enough that Bucky could breathe deeper.
He let his shoulders drop half an inch. Let his fingers unclench.
He let himself breathe—easier, because Zemo didn’t crowd him.
He moved, instead, to the sideboard and poured two fingers of something amber into a glass. Lifted it. Threw it back in one clean motion, throat working around the swallow. Then he poured another—this time, two glasses. He didn’t hand the second to Bucky. Just left it there. Like an invitation.
Bucky crossed the room slowly and took the glass. Didn’t drink it yet.
Their eyes met again. No heat now. Not in the obvious way. But something heavier and more serious than either of them were quite ready to deal with.
“You do not owe me anything,” Zemo finally said, voice pitching low.
Bucky tipped the glass in his hand. Watched the light catch the liquid. “No. But I might give it anyway.”
Zemo’s breath hitched.
And Bucky—finally—took a sip. It burned clean, although he barely registered the taste—just the heat, the way it spread down his throat and settled low behind his sternum. Grounding him. Giving the moment somewhere to live in his body besides his spine.
He set the glass down again. Didn’t look away from Zemo. Didn’t speak. He reached for him, though, fingertips grazing the edge of Zemo’s collarbone where shirt met skin. His thumb brushed higher, tracing the line of Zemo’s throat, pulse strong under his fingers. Too fast to be calm.
Bucky leaned in, then. Their mouths met again, but this time it was more. Tongue against tongue. Open, hot, deliberate. Zemo tasted like scotch, and patience, and something buried beneath both.
Something that tasted like want, and obsession, and—
He groaned low in his throat and pressed in harder, Zemo letting him take the lead for now.
But Bucky felt it—the shift under Zemo’s skin. That readiness. That held the line between reverence and claim.
He pulled back far enough to speak. “Don’t hold back.”
Zemo’s fingers tightened at his hips. “Say that again.”
Bucky’s jaw flexed. He leaned in close—cheek to cheek now, mouth at Zemo’s ear. “Don’t hold back.”
Zemo surged forward like all he’d ever needed was permission, walking Bucky back without warning.
Each step drove pressure into him. Until Bucky’s shoulders hit the wall behind him, Zemo’s mouth landing hard—jaw, neck, collarbone.
Bucky’s head hit the wall with a soft thud. His arms locked around Zemo’s shoulders, pulling him closer.
One of Zemo’s hands slid under Bucky’s shirt, palm flat against the plane of his abdomen. The other found his waistline, thumb dragging beneath it.
“You’re sure,” Zemo breathed.
Bucky’s answer wasn’t verbal. He grabbed Zemo’s wrist—the one poised at his waist—and pushed it lower. Not guiding, confirming.
Zemo’s groan was low and wrecked and real. His hand moved, palm against Bucky’s cock through his pants, pressure hard, deliberate.
Bucky gasped. The contact, hot and sudden and fully wanted, lit something up in him he hadn’t felt in years.
He pressed into it, his breath stuttering. His metal hand curled at Zemo’s back like he could anchor himself through that contact alone.
Zemo’s breath stuttered where it hit Bucky’s mouth, and his body pressed in tighter, flush now. Chest to chest, thigh to thigh.
Bucky let the tension curl around them, let it knot behind his ribs. He could feel Zemo hard against his thigh, the heat of it through too many layers.
And he wanted—not just contact. He wanted the unmaking.
His fingers curled harder into Zemo’s shirt, and when he pushed, Zemo moved.
They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
Bucky let himself be walked back again—this time toward the bedroom. Zemo’s hand stayed tight on his hip, fingers digging in like he needed the anchor.
They crossed the threshold, the quiet of the room swallowing them whole.
Zemo turned him—not rough, exactly, but deliberate—and Bucky went. Took the step, let his knees hit the bed behind him.
He sat. Legs parted. Breath shallow.
Zemo stood over him, breathing hard now. His hands hovered, then dropped to the hem of Bucky’s shirt, before pausing.
Bucky lifted his arms. Silent permission.
The shirt came off—slow, peeled away like something reverent. Zemo’s hands didn’t rush the contact. He traced scars with fingertips and eyes, learning the shape of him like a map written in a language he already knew.
And when Zemo leaned in this time, it wasn’t for a kiss. It was to press his mouth against the hollow at the base of Bucky’s throat.
Bucky’s hands moved then—down, fast, tugging Zemo’s shirt loose from his waistband, pushing it up.
Zemo let him. The fabric came off quick. Too quick. And then they were bare skin to bare skin, the contact making Bucky’s breath catch again.
Zemo’s chest was warm, solid. His hands landed on Bucky’s knees and pushed them wider—slowly. Not forcing, but making space to drop to his own knees in the hollow he’d carved for himself.
The dull thud of Zemo’s knees hitting carpet made something twist deep in Bucky’s spins. But he didn’t touch. Just looked. Watching as Zemo slid a hand up Bucky’s thigh.
And then—finally—Zemo leaned in, his mouth pressing to denim in an open mouthed kiss that landed right where Bucky was hard and leaking under the fabric.
Bucky’s hands snapped into motion—one fisting the mattress, the other sliding into Zemo’s hair. “Fuck,” he breathed.
Zemo’s own hands found the waistband of Bucky’s jeans, then, and he opened them with unhurried skill.
“Up,” he said, guiding Bucky to lift his hips. He peeled away clothing like it was an obstacle to get through, entirely goal oriented in his efficiency until Bucky’s cock stood flushed, untouched, already twitching, between them.
Zemo looked up at him just once, eyes black with restraint.
And then— He opened his mouth and took him. One slow inch at a time.
Bucky’s head fell back, the line of his throat stretched, exposed to the ceiling. His mouth opened, but no sound came—not yet. Just breath, hard and fast, dragging through him like it needed space to land.
Zemo worked him with brutal patience, every inch of his mouth calibrated to undo.
He was deep now—lips sealed tight, tongue dragging along the underside on every pull back, before pressing low on the next descent.
Bucky’s hand clenched in Zemo’s hair. His thighs trembled. The muscles in his stomach pulled taut, breath stuttering every time Zemo’s mouth sank down and held.
And Fuck. It had been— Too long. And never like this.
Zemo’s hand braced against his thigh. The other gripped the base of his cock, anchoring the motion, keeping the pressure tight where it counted. Bucky could feel himself leaking, the heat of his arousal spreading fast, sharp.
He let a sound slip then— a ragged, low noise torn from deep in his chest.
Zemo hummed in response, the vibration hitting like lightning, pulsing through his cock, his ribs, his teeth.
Bucky gasped. “Fuck—Zee—” The name cracked out of him like a warning, but Zemo didn’t stop. He adjusted his angle, took him deeper, slowed down—not to ease—but to prolong.
It should have helped. It didn’t. It wrecked.
Bucky’s breath broke apart. He felt the orgasm coiling hard in his gut—fast, violent, inevitable.
He grabbed Zemo’s wrist with his left hand, metal and unyielding.
“I’m—” His jaw locked. He couldn’t say it.
But Zemo already knew.
Bucky came with a full-body shudder, hips jolting forward before he caught himself, thighs braced wide, his cock pulsing hard against Zemo’s tongue.
Zemo held. Swallowed. Didn’t falter.
Bucky groaned, his head dropping forward, spine bowed, one hand still locked in Zemo’s hair like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
He barely breathed through it—too much. Too raw. Too deep.
When Zemo finally pulled off, his mouth was red, chin wet. He stayed there a moment—hands at Bucky’s thighs, breath coming fast.
He looked up at Bucky through the dark slash of his lashes. Not asking. But—wanting.
Bucky reached out. Pulled him up to his knees on the bed, and into the space between his thighs.
Zemo’s clothes were still on below the waist. His arousal was obvious—pressed hard against his slacks, heat radiating through the fabric. He rocked forward, eyes flicking to Bucky’s mouth, then lower.
Bucky didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, his hands sliding around Zemo’s waist, anchoring him in place.
Zemo’s forehead pressed against Bucky’s shoulder, cock trapped between them. He ground down, groaning low and involuntary, as the friction caught.
The rhythm wasn’t clean. It wasn’t gentle. It was friction and heat and fucking need. Zemo thrusting slow, deliberate, each grind dragging the fabric of his slacks against Bucky’s oversensitive skin in a way that made his breath stutter, made his arms tighten around Zemo’s back.
“Fuck—James—” Zemo’s voice broke.
Bucky didn’t speak, he held him. Let him use the pressure as he thrust harder, breath going ragged, rhythm fracturing.
Bucky tilted his head, pressed his mouth to Zemo’s neck—not a kiss so much as a point of contact. A place to land. Connection.
And then Zemo shuddered—hips jerking once, twice, as he came with a low, broken sound against Bucky’s throat.
They stayed like that—frozen in the aftershock, chests heaving, sweat slick between them.
Bucky’s hands didn’t move. Neither did Zemo’s.
They stayed close, bodies pressed, breath syncing by degrees. The sharp edges of want slowly dulling. And it was the first time all night the silence didn’t feel like tension.
Zemo was the one who pulled back first. Enough to see him. To check.
Bucky met his gaze without flinching. “Was that what you wanted?”
Zemo’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. But softer.
“I wanted you,” he murmured, voice wrecked, his accent thicker in the quiet settling around them.
Bucky nodded once. “Yeah. I know,” he said, leaning back, easing them both down onto the mattress without ceremony. Zemo followed without resistance, half on top of him, legs tangled. He didn’t try to shift away.
The room had gone quiet. No more noise from the city. Just the hush that came after pressure finally breaking.
Bucky let his eyes drift closed for a second. Felt Zemo’s breath against his shoulder. The warm weight of him, still dressed from the waist down, grounding the moment.
He could’ve spoken. Could’ve deflected. Could’ve turned this into a joke, an out.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he said—soft, but not uncertain, “You’ve wanted it for a while.”
Zemo’s breath caught. But his reply was immediate. “You know I have.”
Bucky opened his eyes again. Looked at the ceiling. “And now?”
Zemo didn’t pretend. Didn’t evade. “I want more.”
It should’ve made Bucky tense. But it didn’t.
Because it wasn’t possession. It was presence. Because Zemo was right— He did know.
He nodded, slow. “Then don’t fuck it up.”
“I won’t.” The same words. But softer now. Carried forward instead of repeated.
Zemo shifted beside him, his hand sliding into the space between them. Not searching. Just fitting.
Their fingers touched. Stayed.
Bucky let out a slow breath. The kind that settled deeper.
They lay there. Not in aftermath. In continuation.
And outside, the first edge of dawn pressed pale light through the windows. It didn’t interrupt. It just confirmed what was already true—
They were still here.
And this time, Bucky wasn’t alone.