[there it is - like watching dominos fall and neatly slot into place on top of one another. ironic that the last time he'd really worked to achieve such a thing was to drive a massive wedge and orchestrate an authentic schism between the avengers. no one can say he's hasn't come far since prison, even if he's not a changed man by any means. his goal hasn't altered - tomorrow they will find nagel, they will discover the source of the foul supersoldier juice, and zemo will put a bullet in his head for daring to defy the laws of nature by playing god and bend the will of susceptible, vulnerable individuals looking for their next idealized figure of power. this is a simple detour along the way - to make things more bearable. maybe to grant them some small realization in a misplaced sense of altruism. no more, no less.
if he were feeling cruel, he'd cut through the air with a slow round of applause at them having made the first step - the one they can't take back, crossing a line of no return that's sure to play catalyst to the rest of their desperate actions in one another's arms.
james initiates it, leaves zemo wondering what the gunmetal at sam's cheek feels like - the underplating of gold flashing in his direction with every minute shift of their bodies in tandem. is it cold? can sam feel every single divot of the vibranium plates where they gap and flex together? the mixture of pure want and the designer concoction he'd provided them will surely help them carry out the rest of it together, and it's not long before sam finally earns his spot of participation. the hand curling in james' borrowed shirt, fingers pressing against his hip with a minute squeeze that zemo can analyze from the comfort of his vantage point.
his head tilts here and there, a soft inhale of breath as they get impossibly closer. good, but it could be better. he's still silent, not wanting to break the trance they're in without guarantee it will continue as planned, that the break won't spook either of them. but when they look sufficiently busy, zemo casually calls out:]
Good - very good.
[it's genuine praise, not condescending despite the person whose mouth it's falling out of, and there's a husky drag in his rough accent that's betraying his own unaffectedness. so is the considerable strain against the inseam of his finely tailored slacks, but that's neither here nor there at the moment.]
But it would be even better if James was in your lap, Sam. Wouldn't you like to feel the weight of one another?
[who will take the suggestion first, he wonders? james will either climb up or sam will drag him in, but he's confident it will unfold without interruption. and - he suspects they will have a greater need for friction shortly if his own effects are anything to go by.]
( bucky thinks that maybe the biggest joke the world ever told him, is that peace and destruction are opposing forces.
one time, he watched a nature documentary, because his therapist had jokingly said the humming of birds and soothing whooshes of wind through sequoia trees might help him find some measure of serenity in the otherwise uneven cobblestone of his brain, mosaic titles all glued together with little bits of russian cement. cheek pressed flat on the cold of his wooden floors, he turned his phone on and allowed himself the peace of mind to be sat and told something about the world that didn't really matter, and was kind of boring. trees sound like they're talking when you're delirious enough on lack of sleep. they make sounds even if no one is there to listen. so does bucky.
sometimes people with degrees burns portions of talking trees down to destroy decay, like dead trees are cancer to an ecosystem and have to be erased. killing it enables new growth, healthier things. a controlled destruction for the necessity of peace.
somewhere in the back of his mind, bucky feels a kinship with the burning of trees. raved, he tastes the ashes of his own demise on the tip of his tongue, but he's happy to be destroyed, happy to kiss sam and feel calm in the face of such an obviously bad move. pens in company ink, or something. the fact that bucky can hardly uphold a conversation with anyone else. the notion that this is sam who very nearly deserves the world. that zemo is watching this all take place. all reasons, all trees, all burned to a crisp. kill the cancer, all the doubt, and learn to thrive.
he moans something like an assent at zemo's words, but refuses to pull his mouth away from sam's even for the lightheadedness of air. he just helps himself, indulgent on the touch now that he's exposed himself to it, sharply draping his thigh across sam's lap until he can take a seat, palming two hands on either of his cheeks. at least, until he decides that the heat really is a bother, and he has to sloppily shuck the jacket off his shoulders, quickly returning his hands to sam once it's gone and out of the way.
more like tugs sam to him. with a little twist in his spine, as if to offer zemo a better view at the way he pushes his tongue into sam's mouth, groaning at the sloppiness of heat. )
[ sam is overwhelmed by just about every second that passes, and he doesn't say that lightly. after the life he's led and the rooms he's found himself in, sam works well under pressure. works well in difficult, overwhelming situations. and if he wanted this to be easier, if he wanted a one and done answer, it would be an easy thing to say the drugs have messed with his head. why it feels like there is pressure, in his chest. why he's so needy, desperate, hungry. why there is something that feels like it slots into place, in the very second that bucky leans forward, sam's hand tightens at his side.
bucky leans over and kisses sam, he pauses for just long enough to look at both of sam's eyes, and that's the moment he finds himself falling back on. that brief second where it felt like he looked. checking if it was...what? okay? consenting? a part of sam almost hurts, thinkng there could be any kind of doubt there, even when he knows that all of this has to be a bad idea. even when he's so terribly sure that this is...he can't even bring himself to say bad. he can't even bring himself to say this could be the wrong idea, when he feels the press of bucky's hands on his cheeks, the movement of his body under sam's hands.
zemo isn't far off, in thinking about the feel of bucky's vibranium hand. sam - somewhere in the chaos of his mind - thinks about how different it feels. takes note that bucky's hand against his skin feels a bit different than he expected. something unique, something special, something sam immediately associates with bucky barnes and therefore feels a bit like fire and a bit like ice, all in one.
sam actually finds that he forgets that zemo is there, if only because bucky takes all of sam's attention. the press of his lips, the taste of his tongue. whether it be the drugs or just <>sam, the more bucky kisses him, the more sam wants to kiss him back. so when zemo speaks, when he calls out the praise as he does, it catches sam in the midst of the kiss. pushes out a bit of air from his lungs. though, maybe, sam could attribute that to the sound bucky makes into his mouth, drinking in the noise. bucky moans, and sam surges towards him at the noise, needing more of him and more of whatever that sound he made was meant to be. because with the moan, there is the drag of zemo's accent through the room, the huskiness of it that feels as if it crawls down the back of sam's neck.
it's too hot. he's too hot. still in his jacket and turtleneck, sam almost feels as though he's suffocating - from the demand of bucky's mouth to the now unforgettable realization that zemo is watching them. and not just watching, but commenting. and while sam isn't as affected by the praise, he's noticed the distinct reaction in bucky's body. or maybe noticed isn't the word, but feels him react, the quickness in his body as bucky sharply moves to set his thighs over sam's lap. he realizes, half a second later, that it had been in reaction to zemo's suggestions, to the way his mouth formed around weight of one another and holy fuck, he hates the sound of that. hates how much he doesn't, actually, hate it.
bucky's hands leave him to shuck off his jacket, and sam - enthusiastically - reaches forward to help him. to push the fabric off of bucky and free him as much of the fabric as possible. his hands slide down bucky's back, following the line of his spine, to his ass. sam grabs bucky, bodily, and jerks him more firmly in his lap - the kiss turning a bit clumsy as he pulls bucky closer. as his hands slide up under the hem of bucky's shirt, needing to feel more of his skin. and if bucky twists his spine to give zemo a better view, sam follows him blindly, unable to think about zemo beyond the echo of his voice, the low-grade curl of heat in his gut at the idea of being watched. but beyond that, sam can't bring himself to focus on anything other than bucky, bucky, bucky.
he's feeling lightheaded, but it's beyond him to put the pieces together if it's lack of air, or just the drugs. he doesn't know if he cares, either, at least for right now. ]
[zemo is completely still from his little island across the way - watching hungrily but cautiously - as if the slightest movement might startle them away from one another. and considering how far they've finally come tonight, that simply isn't an option now. his own clothes feel too constricting, every breath brushing expensive fabric against his skin in a way that he's just so keenly aware of, brought to the surface of his realization where it's too engrossing to think what it was like only seconds before. there's an ache between his legs that he's mostly been able to ignore for much longer than this duration, but between being a grieving widower hellbent on orchestrating the fall of the avengers and, well, prison, his sex life hasn't exactly gotten a good stretch these days. but it's a testament to his own patience that he doesn't even think to reach down and give himself a good squeeze or even just the firm rub of a palm to stamp down his own interest.
besides - he'd much rather focus on the way james takes the lead in this race, or rather...takes the orders and obediently pulls himself up into sam's lap. he even goes the extra mile and completes the task set aside by zemo earlier of removing his jacket entirely finally, and while he'd normally be a stickler for not allowed a blazer of that caliber left to crease on the floor, this time he can make an exception. it's the way he hears that melodic little moan directly after his suggestion, sees him rise and fall into the movement as if zemo is the one pulling his strings. and most surprisingly, he can see the way sam follows along with it too, no objection visible in the way he eagerly kisses back and licks into james' mouth.
it's not until he sees sam's fingers press into the meat of his ass and press him forward, and zemo thinks this would be better without so many layers in between them all. at least he's working on james - that sliver of skin peeking under his shirt when sam's hand caresses up against his back like the appetizer to a six course michelin-starred meal laid out before him. but it's nowhere near enough - too much blocked off between them as the take their time indulging in one another, acclimating themselves to the taste, touch, and feeling of the other in their arms.
it's beautiful - a flesh and blood masterpiece to rival the originals sharon carter spends her evenings peddling out. but the thought strikes him that unlike an original van gogh or more aptly the distinct composition of a renoir from afar...they are both focal points in an artful arrangement he can touch.
he's nimble on his feet considering the strain at the front of his slacks, still composed and graceful as he pushes himself up in one fluid movement. he picks a moment where sam's eyes are shut (which isn't exactly playing fair), but much in the same way james convinced him this was a fine idea to bring zemo along after the fact, he'll play that hand again now.
now, when he carefully makes his way behind the couch they both occupy and settles warm hands along sam's shoulders. he leans down, lips brushing the shell of his ear - a deliberate, almost offensively filthy purr in his voice as he insinuates himself near but not between either of them.]
You look as if you could use a hand - and James is busy, no?
Allow me.
[both of his hands slip down, pulling at the collar of the supple leather jacket sharon had lent him, peeling it off and maybe letting his fingers drag along the immaculate curve of muscle along the way. all the while he lets his eyes seek out james' - pupils blown wide, the rich honey brown nearly black with blatant lust and demanding wordlessly that he watch.]
( the last time bucky felt intimate with another person, sock hops were still in fashion. in his heyday there was something of a casanova-esque charm to the easy way he could bed someone, simple chivalry and nice, loose girls, happy to spend their nights with a nameless soldier for their own brand of civic duty. patriotism, and the uniform stays on. there's some distance between that bucky and the one crawling in sam's lap, now — that was two personalities ago, two different lifetimes of experience laid between now and then. sometimes bucky feels every second the hundred year old dinosaur he is, too old for a world that moved on without him, that forgot about him, that never learned what cold, russian winters felt like.
but kissing sam now tastes like malt shakes and buttered popcorn, that early month in summer before he got drafted, when he'd snuck steve into a yankee's game and made him chug a beer he only half got down before spitting the whole thing up. young again, for at least as long as a kiss can last — something familiar in it, like if new york in the forties was a place, it'd be in the plush foundation of sam's mouth that bucky tirelessly tongues at, hungry for more than just intimacy. comfort, the way his breaths feel on the rough of his skin, cracked from age and bruised from exhaustion, these embedded pains all far and further away the longer they pull together. like home might be a three letter word. like the past seventy years might've all been just a really cruel dream.
it's easy to get lost in memories, for a guy who's lived as many lives as bucky barnes. the soldier and the criminal — the man, the monster, the myth, the memory.
he knows it won't be new york when he pulls away, which in and of itself ruins the illusion of it being displaced in time. reality isn't bad, though. because the reality is sam — who knows the last seventy years were real, who knows bucky's inexcusable acts of brainwashed violence, but kisses him anyway, because maybe hoping for his own death for so long is reason enough to keep alive. or maybe the drugs are just strong enough to overlook the obvious red flags in having an unhinged, highly deadly partner.
( not that it stopped steve from defending him. idiot. idiots. )
either way.
he grunts against sam's mouth, breathy and sure at the feeling of his hand against his sweaty back, curving in towards sam to roll his hips down in his lap. bucky doesn't care for the layers that still divide them, and leaning away he means to deal with it — but instead his eyes move up to where zemo has poised himself, heavy voice graveled and worn where it sits between them. is that alright? for him to be here, weaving some tapestry he knows the pattern to in his mind, using something like a strategic working brain in order to get the falcon and the winter soldier to fuck?
his mind reasons, yes. anything he wants is fine.
when he was a young solider, he liked to imagine himself a leader. he's since learned his place — a few paces behind someone else. sometimes with a leash. )
Zemo.
( sitting back on sam's knees, bucky quickly rids himself of his own shirt, leaving him in the dog tags that dangle somewhere at the center of his chest. he leaves himself there, palms flat on his thighs obediently while he watches zemo with some intensity, telling himself it's to make sure that — what? zemo doesn't touch something bucky wants to put his mouth on first?
snapping out of it, a hand lifts up with a sudden speed, reaching out to zemo once the jacket is nearly off of sam, his right hand easily wrapping around his windpipe. with enough effort, he could probably crush it, even with his weaker arm, even under the influence of drugs.
instead, he just feels his pulse racing under his fingertips, pondering the untapped line of pleasure and pain. it is precariously thin, where bucky is involved — but still there. )
I don't feel in control.
( to be fair, for a man as severely fucked as bucky, the differences between arousal and subjugation are not so easily explained. shaking his head, he drops the hold on zemo. despite the flash of violence, he turns to address sam instead. )
Stop me if I hurt you. ( a metal hand cups his face, oddly tender for the moment. ) Or him. Promise, Sam. I don't want to do ... bad.
[ sam wishes, in that deep, dark, buried part of him that is just far enough out of reach so as he's not entirely aware of, that he had better words for the way that bucky tastes. that there was a better way to describe the feeling of him, right in this moment, straddled across sam's hips. a better set of words to give for how it feels that sam has his hands on him, on the slick fabric of his trousers, how warm it feels to finally get his hands under bucky's shirt. there's a neediness eating away inside sam's gut, but it's something else. something that feels so satisfied and so right and so here, in this moment, in this kiss. it takes over every part of sam that can focus, every inch of him that has a thought - and all of them are bucky. bucky, over him. bucky, kissing him. bucky, whose hands are so gentle but so intent on sam's cheeks and the arch of his spine, that feels so, so perfect under sam's fingertips.
though, it's possible sam doesn't have words for this because he's not sure he's ever come this close. because of course there were girls in high school, stolen kisses and hands under skirts under bleachers. there were loud parties and late nights and the rush of getting caught when sam was still learning who he was. interwoven with that, too, are the soft brush of fingertips after drills. desperate moments after missions where they'd been sure it would be their last all caught up in the weight of what the world was supposed to be around them. followed, before he really knew it, by the one mission that was.
this is different than all of that, because this kiss, this adrenaline plus more fueled moment is more complicated than it has any right to be. part of sam tries to peek through it, to remind him what he's doing and with who. that these same hands holding him like this have nearly crushed his windpipe, among so many other things. that the spine his hungrily runs his hands up has held lifetimes worth of weght, of trauma, of abuse. same knows what bucky has done, has read the reports and looked into the files, and still when he kisses him, it doesn't matter. not that it goes away, because it is a part of bucky still, but it's not this part. it's not the larger part. it's not the part who he feels like bucky can become. plus- whatever it was that zemo gave them makes it much easier to slip out of his head, and into the present. into bucky's body, bucky's hands, bucky's mouth. there are red flags everywhere, and there always will be, but sam's always kind of liked the color red. ( and it always did find a way into his costume. )
bucky grunts, and god it's a good sound. the kind of sound that sam wants to hear again, and again. the kind of sound that sam does whatever it was he was just doing, again, just to hear it. he's thinking god, fuck, yes- and then, as if on cue, there are warm hands on his shoulders. sam's brain doesn't really catch up with where they've come through, too quick to simply recognize the feeling as a good one, and then he hears his voice. the low rasp, a brush of lips against his ear. sam shudders at the sound of it, his entire body reacting to the purr of zemo's accent, and how it feels like it runs down the length of sam's body. zemo. whose hands are finally pulling away at sam's jacket, and bucky is leaning away too, and through that shudder sam's head falls back against the couch and he lets the reaction course through him, not quite convinced he didn't just come from that. ]
Fuck. [ it comes out more like a groan, because he's somehow, already, hyper sensitive. because zemo pulls off his coat and sam moves to help the jacket slide off his arms and bucky is stripping where he sits in his lap, dog tags with his and steve rogers' name bouncing against his chest, and god damn. god fucking damn this is a bad idea.
and, as if reacting to sam's very thoughts, bucky's hand shoots out. sam tenses, out of reflex more than anything, before he realizes that bucky had gone for zemo. zemo, who was still leaning behind him. still there. who had orchestrated all of this from the beginning. sam closes his eyes for a moment, wills his heartbeat to settle. breathes, once, to get a handle on himself and how he's so turned on it's starting to physically hurt. his eyes open when bucky speaks, his attention entirely on him. on the hollow way he says i don't feel in control. ]
Hey- [ sam sits up from where he'd been leaning back on the couch, his eyes on bucky despite bucky's attention - those dark, direct eyes - being on zemo. he needs them on him, sam decides. and again, as if reading that very thought, bucky drops his hand. turns to address sam, and sam holds his gaze, too. not backing down from it. not scared, about that or about this, suddenly.
he's not sure when he got there - when all of this became okay - but bucky says stop me if i hurt you. or him. promise. and sam's hand lifts to wrap around the metal wrist. to hold bucky's hand, right where it is, his grip just as gentle as the press of bucky's hand. ] You're not going to hurt anyone. Him, or me. [ and maybe sam says it with too much conviction. maybe it darkens the mood a little. but sincerity and earnestness drips from his words. his free hand reaches across to settle on bucky's face, this time, a mirror image now. his thumb traces over the stubble on bucky's cheek, holding his attention. making sure that it's here. ] Hey- baby. I promise. You won't do anything bad.
Edited 2021-05-06 05:01 (UTC)
i look at the timestamp and i pretend i do not see it
[maybe he should have guessed at the delightful implication of - what, jealousy that zemo lay hands on him? that james would bristle at him for that slow, sensual slide down the stunning sculpture of sam's biceps. he'd have trailed his hands right back up and along the sliver of skin exposed along his neck if given the opportunity - and based on that full-body shiver that he knows he's sent straight down sam's spine and twisting hot in his gut - sam would have enjoyed it. maybe too much, too quick - but the beauty of this little concoction he's drummed up for them is that it's meant to enhance not only experience, but longevity. repetition. not a problem for someone like james with his unfair advantage of supersoldier enhancement and endurance mixed with years of strenuous activity. more than one round should be a walk in the park for him (idly it strikes him - how many rounds could james manage, if left to his own devices with the right incentive? and what feral, inhuman amount would it look like with drugs that actually have an effect on him now?)
still, he cannot help but note that despite all of sam's reservations, objections, and trying so resolutely to remain the voice of reason amongst the chaos zemo has hand-crafted for his own amusement and the overall good of their merry little band - even he is not so iron-willed that he can resist both the temptation of the beautiful creature that is james barnes in his lap. or, apparently, the novelty of a low sokovian accent whispering in his ear in time with clever, deft hands on his person. it's good, because as patient and poised a man as he is - they are wasting precious time he has no scale of measure for.
his attention is drawn back to james in a split second with every inch of skin that is suddenly put on display - and it strikes him as a terrible oversight that he has hardly taken the time to appreciate just how lean and hungry he looks since the last time they were together in berlin. it wasn't just the hair he shed - it was the bulk of muscle he would imagine came with the confusion of being on his own without a sure-fed diet of essential nutrients for peak performance. he cannot say he minds, though that flash of silver against his chest makes his eyes narrow into something half-lidded for two distinct and warring reasons. first: he wonders if they are james' - or perhaps steve rogers. a specter looming over them who wasn't invited to this party. secondly: it makes him briefly wistful for his own, long blown to hell in the ruins of sokovia and now one with the earth as ash and dust. those thoughts have no place here, but it's that split second that distracts him from the too-quick movement of practiced reflex.
he shouldn't be disappointed that it isn't the kiss of metal around his throat for the second time today, but is instead a warm palm and flesh and blood fingers flexing around his throat. there's something thrilling about it that sends a hot rush pooling into his gut, cock throbbing behind the noticeably strained inseam of fine wool and tailoring. besides the initial flinch, he looks perhaps much too at ease with james quite literally holding his breath for him - and there's an even sicker twist that he could squeeze just hard enough to make him see black, then white, then nothing at all -
but it's gone as quickly as it came, and his lips twitch around a soft exhale as he watches the attention drop just like his hand to something more meaningful. ironically he doesn't want to hurt zemo, which is just as well for the purpose of this excursion. watching the tender moment unfold is more of what he was seeking between them, and sam does not disappoint in a touching display of understanding. protection. he mirrors james' affectionate stroke, and it's as stark a contrast as the glittering lights of hightown against the seething midnight of madripoor's dark skies from their bickering earlier in the day to this right here.
hey - baby, sam says, and zemo lets out a small hum of pleased acknowledgment at the easy petname, as if it were directed at him instead.)
he gives them both a moment, letting it sink in without intention of ruining it further. and only when the silence settles comfortably and it has fully passed does he chime in once more.]
It's just as Sam said. No one will be hurt.
[he could make a crude joke about nothing hurting unless it's desired, but this has developed into something far more sweet than even he anticipated. he won't ruin it, not when it's as delicious as any delicacy under his tongue. it's brazen of him, but he rests his elbow comfortably against the top of the couch behind sam's head, leaning to perch his other elbow against sam's shoulder and press his chin to a curled fist. better view of the action, closer to pick up his strings as the puppet master. his free hand slides down sam's front, slow and non-threatening, but only to gather at the fabric and pinch it between two fingers.]
James - help him with this.
It's so much more preferable to be skin to skin - to feel that warmth, the intimacy of it.
[his head tips lightly, gaze fixed on the man he's just instructed even as his lips brush the shell of sam's ear once more with the intention of sending another shudder through him from head to toe, prompting the physicality to take the forefront once again. it drops to a sultry whisper:]
Don't you want that?
[and then he's pulling back - hands-off once more to give them both the space to carry out his suggestion.]
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no subject
if he were feeling cruel, he'd cut through the air with a slow round of applause at them having made the first step - the one they can't take back, crossing a line of no return that's sure to play catalyst to the rest of their desperate actions in one another's arms.
james initiates it, leaves zemo wondering what the gunmetal at sam's cheek feels like - the underplating of gold flashing in his direction with every minute shift of their bodies in tandem. is it cold? can sam feel every single divot of the vibranium plates where they gap and flex together? the mixture of pure want and the designer concoction he'd provided them will surely help them carry out the rest of it together, and it's not long before sam finally earns his spot of participation. the hand curling in james' borrowed shirt, fingers pressing against his hip with a minute squeeze that zemo can analyze from the comfort of his vantage point.
his head tilts here and there, a soft inhale of breath as they get impossibly closer. good, but it could be better. he's still silent, not wanting to break the trance they're in without guarantee it will continue as planned, that the break won't spook either of them. but when they look sufficiently busy, zemo casually calls out:]
Good - very good.
[it's genuine praise, not condescending despite the person whose mouth it's falling out of, and there's a husky drag in his rough accent that's betraying his own unaffectedness. so is the considerable strain against the inseam of his finely tailored slacks, but that's neither here nor there at the moment.]
But it would be even better if James was in your lap, Sam. Wouldn't you like to feel the weight of one another?
[who will take the suggestion first, he wonders? james will either climb up or sam will drag him in, but he's confident it will unfold without interruption. and - he suspects they will have a greater need for friction shortly if his own effects are anything to go by.]
no subject
one time, he watched a nature documentary, because his therapist had jokingly said the humming of birds and soothing whooshes of wind through sequoia trees might help him find some measure of serenity in the otherwise uneven cobblestone of his brain, mosaic titles all glued together with little bits of russian cement. cheek pressed flat on the cold of his wooden floors, he turned his phone on and allowed himself the peace of mind to be sat and told something about the world that didn't really matter, and was kind of boring. trees sound like they're talking when you're delirious enough on lack of sleep. they make sounds even if no one is there to listen. so does bucky.
sometimes people with degrees burns portions of talking trees down to destroy decay, like dead trees are cancer to an ecosystem and have to be erased. killing it enables new growth, healthier things. a controlled destruction for the necessity of peace.
somewhere in the back of his mind, bucky feels a kinship with the burning of trees. raved, he tastes the ashes of his own demise on the tip of his tongue, but he's happy to be destroyed, happy to kiss sam and feel calm in the face of such an obviously bad move. pens in company ink, or something. the fact that bucky can hardly uphold a conversation with anyone else. the notion that this is sam who very nearly deserves the world. that zemo is watching this all take place. all reasons, all trees, all burned to a crisp. kill the cancer, all the doubt, and learn to thrive.
he moans something like an assent at zemo's words, but refuses to pull his mouth away from sam's even for the lightheadedness of air. he just helps himself, indulgent on the touch now that he's exposed himself to it, sharply draping his thigh across sam's lap until he can take a seat, palming two hands on either of his cheeks. at least, until he decides that the heat really is a bother, and he has to sloppily shuck the jacket off his shoulders, quickly returning his hands to sam once it's gone and out of the way.
more like tugs sam to him. with a little twist in his spine, as if to offer zemo a better view at the way he pushes his tongue into sam's mouth, groaning at the sloppiness of heat. )
no subject
bucky leans over and kisses sam, he pauses for just long enough to look at both of sam's eyes, and that's the moment he finds himself falling back on. that brief second where it felt like he looked. checking if it was...what? okay? consenting? a part of sam almost hurts, thinkng there could be any kind of doubt there, even when he knows that all of this has to be a bad idea. even when he's so terribly sure that this is...he can't even bring himself to say bad. he can't even bring himself to say this could be the wrong idea, when he feels the press of bucky's hands on his cheeks, the movement of his body under sam's hands.
zemo isn't far off, in thinking about the feel of bucky's vibranium hand. sam - somewhere in the chaos of his mind - thinks about how different it feels. takes note that bucky's hand against his skin feels a bit different than he expected. something unique, something special, something sam immediately associates with bucky barnes and therefore feels a bit like fire and a bit like ice, all in one.
sam actually finds that he forgets that zemo is there, if only because bucky takes all of sam's attention. the press of his lips, the taste of his tongue. whether it be the drugs or just <>sam, the more bucky kisses him, the more sam wants to kiss him back. so when zemo speaks, when he calls out the praise as he does, it catches sam in the midst of the kiss. pushes out a bit of air from his lungs. though, maybe, sam could attribute that to the sound bucky makes into his mouth, drinking in the noise. bucky moans, and sam surges towards him at the noise, needing more of him and more of whatever that sound he made was meant to be. because with the moan, there is the drag of zemo's accent through the room, the huskiness of it that feels as if it crawls down the back of sam's neck.
it's too hot. he's too hot. still in his jacket and turtleneck, sam almost feels as though he's suffocating - from the demand of bucky's mouth to the now unforgettable realization that zemo is watching them. and not just watching, but commenting. and while sam isn't as affected by the praise, he's noticed the distinct reaction in bucky's body. or maybe noticed isn't the word, but feels him react, the quickness in his body as bucky sharply moves to set his thighs over sam's lap. he realizes, half a second later, that it had been in reaction to zemo's suggestions, to the way his mouth formed around weight of one another and holy fuck, he hates the sound of that. hates how much he doesn't, actually, hate it.
bucky's hands leave him to shuck off his jacket, and sam - enthusiastically - reaches forward to help him. to push the fabric off of bucky and free him as much of the fabric as possible. his hands slide down bucky's back, following the line of his spine, to his ass. sam grabs bucky, bodily, and jerks him more firmly in his lap - the kiss turning a bit clumsy as he pulls bucky closer. as his hands slide up under the hem of bucky's shirt, needing to feel more of his skin. and if bucky twists his spine to give zemo a better view, sam follows him blindly, unable to think about zemo beyond the echo of his voice, the low-grade curl of heat in his gut at the idea of being watched. but beyond that, sam can't bring himself to focus on anything other than bucky, bucky, bucky.
he's feeling lightheaded, but it's beyond him to put the pieces together if it's lack of air, or just the drugs. he doesn't know if he cares, either, at least for right now. ]
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besides - he'd much rather focus on the way james takes the lead in this race, or rather...takes the orders and obediently pulls himself up into sam's lap. he even goes the extra mile and completes the task set aside by zemo earlier of removing his jacket entirely finally, and while he'd normally be a stickler for not allowed a blazer of that caliber left to crease on the floor, this time he can make an exception. it's the way he hears that melodic little moan directly after his suggestion, sees him rise and fall into the movement as if zemo is the one pulling his strings. and most surprisingly, he can see the way sam follows along with it too, no objection visible in the way he eagerly kisses back and licks into james' mouth.
it's not until he sees sam's fingers press into the meat of his ass and press him forward, and zemo thinks this would be better without so many layers in between them all. at least he's working on james - that sliver of skin peeking under his shirt when sam's hand caresses up against his back like the appetizer to a six course michelin-starred meal laid out before him. but it's nowhere near enough - too much blocked off between them as the take their time indulging in one another, acclimating themselves to the taste, touch, and feeling of the other in their arms.
it's beautiful - a flesh and blood masterpiece to rival the originals sharon carter spends her evenings peddling out. but the thought strikes him that unlike an original van gogh or more aptly the distinct composition of a renoir from afar...they are both focal points in an artful arrangement he can touch.
he's nimble on his feet considering the strain at the front of his slacks, still composed and graceful as he pushes himself up in one fluid movement. he picks a moment where sam's eyes are shut (which isn't exactly playing fair), but much in the same way james convinced him this was a fine idea to bring zemo along after the fact, he'll play that hand again now.
now, when he carefully makes his way behind the couch they both occupy and settles warm hands along sam's shoulders. he leans down, lips brushing the shell of his ear - a deliberate, almost offensively filthy purr in his voice as he insinuates himself near but not between either of them.]
You look as if you could use a hand - and James is busy, no?
Allow me.
[both of his hands slip down, pulling at the collar of the supple leather jacket sharon had lent him, peeling it off and maybe letting his fingers drag along the immaculate curve of muscle along the way. all the while he lets his eyes seek out james' - pupils blown wide, the rich honey brown nearly black with blatant lust and demanding wordlessly that he watch.]
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but kissing sam now tastes like malt shakes and buttered popcorn, that early month in summer before he got drafted, when he'd snuck steve into a yankee's game and made him chug a beer he only half got down before spitting the whole thing up. young again, for at least as long as a kiss can last — something familiar in it, like if new york in the forties was a place, it'd be in the plush foundation of sam's mouth that bucky tirelessly tongues at, hungry for more than just intimacy. comfort, the way his breaths feel on the rough of his skin, cracked from age and bruised from exhaustion, these embedded pains all far and further away the longer they pull together. like home might be a three letter word. like the past seventy years might've all been just a really cruel dream.
it's easy to get lost in memories, for a guy who's lived as many lives as bucky barnes. the soldier and the criminal — the man, the monster, the myth, the memory.
he knows it won't be new york when he pulls away, which in and of itself ruins the illusion of it being displaced in time. reality isn't bad, though. because the reality is sam — who knows the last seventy years were real, who knows bucky's inexcusable acts of brainwashed violence, but kisses him anyway, because maybe hoping for his own death for so long is reason enough to keep alive. or maybe the drugs are just strong enough to overlook the obvious red flags in having an unhinged, highly deadly partner.
( not that it stopped steve from defending him. idiot. idiots. )
either way.
he grunts against sam's mouth, breathy and sure at the feeling of his hand against his sweaty back, curving in towards sam to roll his hips down in his lap. bucky doesn't care for the layers that still divide them, and leaning away he means to deal with it — but instead his eyes move up to where zemo has poised himself, heavy voice graveled and worn where it sits between them. is that alright? for him to be here, weaving some tapestry he knows the pattern to in his mind, using something like a strategic working brain in order to get the falcon and the winter soldier to fuck?
his mind reasons, yes. anything he wants is fine.
when he was a young solider, he liked to imagine himself a leader. he's since learned his place — a few paces behind someone else. sometimes with a leash. )
Zemo.
( sitting back on sam's knees, bucky quickly rids himself of his own shirt, leaving him in the dog tags that dangle somewhere at the center of his chest. he leaves himself there, palms flat on his thighs obediently while he watches zemo with some intensity, telling himself it's to make sure that — what? zemo doesn't touch something bucky wants to put his mouth on first?
snapping out of it, a hand lifts up with a sudden speed, reaching out to zemo once the jacket is nearly off of sam, his right hand easily wrapping around his windpipe. with enough effort, he could probably crush it, even with his weaker arm, even under the influence of drugs.
instead, he just feels his pulse racing under his fingertips, pondering the untapped line of pleasure and pain. it is precariously thin, where bucky is involved — but still there. )
I don't feel in control.
( to be fair, for a man as severely fucked as bucky, the differences between arousal and subjugation are not so easily explained. shaking his head, he drops the hold on zemo. despite the flash of violence, he turns to address sam instead. )
Stop me if I hurt you. ( a metal hand cups his face, oddly tender for the moment. ) Or him. Promise, Sam. I don't want to do ... bad.
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though, it's possible sam doesn't have words for this because he's not sure he's ever come this close. because of course there were girls in high school, stolen kisses and hands under skirts under bleachers. there were loud parties and late nights and the rush of getting caught when sam was still learning who he was. interwoven with that, too, are the soft brush of fingertips after drills. desperate moments after missions where they'd been sure it would be their last all caught up in the weight of what the world was supposed to be around them. followed, before he really knew it, by the one mission that was.
this is different than all of that, because this kiss, this adrenaline plus more fueled moment is more complicated than it has any right to be. part of sam tries to peek through it, to remind him what he's doing and with who. that these same hands holding him like this have nearly crushed his windpipe, among so many other things. that the spine his hungrily runs his hands up has held lifetimes worth of weght, of trauma, of abuse. same knows what bucky has done, has read the reports and looked into the files, and still when he kisses him, it doesn't matter. not that it goes away, because it is a part of bucky still, but it's not this part. it's not the larger part. it's not the part who he feels like bucky can become. plus- whatever it was that zemo gave them makes it much easier to slip out of his head, and into the present. into bucky's body, bucky's hands, bucky's mouth. there are red flags everywhere, and there always will be, but sam's always kind of liked the color red. ( and it always did find a way into his costume. )
bucky grunts, and god it's a good sound. the kind of sound that sam wants to hear again, and again. the kind of sound that sam does whatever it was he was just doing, again, just to hear it. he's thinking god, fuck, yes- and then, as if on cue, there are warm hands on his shoulders. sam's brain doesn't really catch up with where they've come through, too quick to simply recognize the feeling as a good one, and then he hears his voice. the low rasp, a brush of lips against his ear. sam shudders at the sound of it, his entire body reacting to the purr of zemo's accent, and how it feels like it runs down the length of sam's body. zemo. whose hands are finally pulling away at sam's jacket, and bucky is leaning away too, and through that shudder sam's head falls back against the couch and he lets the reaction course through him, not quite convinced he didn't just come from that. ]
Fuck. [ it comes out more like a groan, because he's somehow, already, hyper sensitive. because zemo pulls off his coat and sam moves to help the jacket slide off his arms and bucky is stripping where he sits in his lap, dog tags with his and steve rogers' name bouncing against his chest, and god damn. god fucking damn this is a bad idea.
and, as if reacting to sam's very thoughts, bucky's hand shoots out. sam tenses, out of reflex more than anything, before he realizes that bucky had gone for zemo. zemo, who was still leaning behind him. still there. who had orchestrated all of this from the beginning. sam closes his eyes for a moment, wills his heartbeat to settle. breathes, once, to get a handle on himself and how he's so turned on it's starting to physically hurt. his eyes open when bucky speaks, his attention entirely on him. on the hollow way he says i don't feel in control. ]
Hey- [ sam sits up from where he'd been leaning back on the couch, his eyes on bucky despite bucky's attention - those dark, direct eyes - being on zemo. he needs them on him, sam decides. and again, as if reading that very thought, bucky drops his hand. turns to address sam, and sam holds his gaze, too. not backing down from it. not scared, about that or about this, suddenly.
he's not sure when he got there - when all of this became okay - but bucky says stop me if i hurt you. or him. promise. and sam's hand lifts to wrap around the metal wrist. to hold bucky's hand, right where it is, his grip just as gentle as the press of bucky's hand. ] You're not going to hurt anyone. Him, or me. [ and maybe sam says it with too much conviction. maybe it darkens the mood a little. but sincerity and earnestness drips from his words. his free hand reaches across to settle on bucky's face, this time, a mirror image now. his thumb traces over the stubble on bucky's cheek, holding his attention. making sure that it's here. ] Hey- baby. I promise. You won't do anything bad.
i look at the timestamp and i pretend i do not see it
still, he cannot help but note that despite all of sam's reservations, objections, and trying so resolutely to remain the voice of reason amongst the chaos zemo has hand-crafted for his own amusement and the overall good of their merry little band - even he is not so iron-willed that he can resist both the temptation of the beautiful creature that is james barnes in his lap. or, apparently, the novelty of a low sokovian accent whispering in his ear in time with clever, deft hands on his person. it's good, because as patient and poised a man as he is - they are wasting precious time he has no scale of measure for.
his attention is drawn back to james in a split second with every inch of skin that is suddenly put on display - and it strikes him as a terrible oversight that he has hardly taken the time to appreciate just how lean and hungry he looks since the last time they were together in berlin. it wasn't just the hair he shed - it was the bulk of muscle he would imagine came with the confusion of being on his own without a sure-fed diet of essential nutrients for peak performance. he cannot say he minds, though that flash of silver against his chest makes his eyes narrow into something half-lidded for two distinct and warring reasons. first: he wonders if they are james' - or perhaps steve rogers. a specter looming over them who wasn't invited to this party. secondly: it makes him briefly wistful for his own, long blown to hell in the ruins of sokovia and now one with the earth as ash and dust. those thoughts have no place here, but it's that split second that distracts him from the too-quick movement of practiced reflex.
he shouldn't be disappointed that it isn't the kiss of metal around his throat for the second time today, but is instead a warm palm and flesh and blood fingers flexing around his throat. there's something thrilling about it that sends a hot rush pooling into his gut, cock throbbing behind the noticeably strained inseam of fine wool and tailoring. besides the initial flinch, he looks perhaps much too at ease with james quite literally holding his breath for him - and there's an even sicker twist that he could squeeze just hard enough to make him see black, then white, then nothing at all -
but it's gone as quickly as it came, and his lips twitch around a soft exhale as he watches the attention drop just like his hand to something more meaningful. ironically he doesn't want to hurt zemo, which is just as well for the purpose of this excursion. watching the tender moment unfold is more of what he was seeking between them, and sam does not disappoint in a touching display of understanding. protection. he mirrors james' affectionate stroke, and it's as stark a contrast as the glittering lights of hightown against the seething midnight of madripoor's dark skies from their bickering earlier in the day to this right here.
hey - baby, sam says, and zemo lets out a small hum of pleased acknowledgment at the easy petname, as if it were directed at him instead.)
he gives them both a moment, letting it sink in without intention of ruining it further. and only when the silence settles comfortably and it has fully passed does he chime in once more.]
It's just as Sam said. No one will be hurt.
[he could make a crude joke about nothing hurting unless it's desired, but this has developed into something far more sweet than even he anticipated. he won't ruin it, not when it's as delicious as any delicacy under his tongue. it's brazen of him, but he rests his elbow comfortably against the top of the couch behind sam's head, leaning to perch his other elbow against sam's shoulder and press his chin to a curled fist. better view of the action, closer to pick up his strings as the puppet master. his free hand slides down sam's front, slow and non-threatening, but only to gather at the fabric and pinch it between two fingers.]
James - help him with this.
It's so much more preferable to be skin to skin - to feel that warmth, the intimacy of it.
[his head tips lightly, gaze fixed on the man he's just instructed even as his lips brush the shell of sam's ear once more with the intention of sending another shudder through him from head to toe, prompting the physicality to take the forefront once again. it drops to a sultry whisper:]
Don't you want that?
[and then he's pulling back - hands-off once more to give them both the space to carry out his suggestion.]