( stop, sam says, and while bucky can't be sure what he's referring to, the part of him (all of him) that responds well to direct command feels some measure of peace with it. he holds his breath. more than that, the buck stays sticky and pleasant on his brain, some slow dripping honey across all the parts of him that miss steve, that selfishly feel abandoned by his decision for a different life. sam says buck and bucky can't bring himself to muster up the energy required to pretend he hates it. maybe it's fine. maybe he could say at much. that the nickname was for steve, but it's for sam now too, another person far too good for whatever bucky's done in his lifetime.
he's still in the process of stopping though, so he doesn't say anything. he sits, staring at sam's hand on his knee, counting the lines of his knuckles, the spaces between his breaths.
it's still weird to be touched, even casually. in his right mind, he would've shoved sam off ages ago, in something that would read as disgust or irritation, but would in fact be — desperation. wanting stuff terrifies bucky. for all he's done, he doesn't deserve air in his lungs, let alone half of the good that've come his way — asking for a bed feels like too much, asking for food or water feels equally invasive. he certainly can't request comfort, or a hand to hold. he wouldn't even know what to do with it if it was given to him.
except it is given now, and bucky doesn't push it off, and he feels — at peace, like watching the rising sun lift up the mountains of wakanda, goats bleating in demand of their breakfast. maybe drugs do this, take you to some happy place where it's okay to want the things that you want, like your partner. sam's touching him, whole and handsome and arguing with zemo because he still gives a fuck what happens to him. and he should. everything matters surprisingly less than sam's well being.
but they're all together, so he's not too concerned.
what is concerning, or maybe just confusing, is zemo's question. no ever asked him how he felt after hours of torture — or how he felt after every kill he'd seen to, every life stolen. being asked how he feels now makes his eyebrows knit, eyes still stuck fast to the tight grip sam has on him, the heat of his hand almost acting like a balm to the heat of the room. sam is medicine. sam takes sick things and makes them feel normal. )
Hm.
( maybe it's because he played his part as the winter soldier earlier tonight and has fallen into a mentality, but it doesn't cross his mind for a moment that he could just not answer. instead, )
It feels — ( his flesh hand moves, rough fingertips lifting to brush along sam's knuckles, the cut of his wrist, as if hypnotized by the movement. ) good.
[ zemo admits that yes, he is the one behind whatever is currently going on with their bodies, and sam should feel a spike of anger. should feel something closer to furious, pissed, angered. objectively he knows that is the reaction he should be having given the admission that baron helmut zemo just drugged them and that they are not staying in a hotel with a drugged supersoldier (which...that is a whole other thing. the concept that bucky can be drugged. that zemo knew that) and a man that sam knows better than to let his guard down around. ever. a ringing is happening somewhere in the quieter parts of his brain, that this is bad and this is wrong and -
god, it's warm. god, he can feel bucky breathing. or more specifically, can feel bucky's breath stop, for a few short moments. without really thinking, sam starts to run this thumb across the material of bucky's pants, up and down in a thoughtless, close sort of gesture. he feels a bit like he's being driven mad with the need to touch him, to touch him more, but there are lines here. lines he knows he shouldn't cross. lines that zemo has gone out of his way to blur for them, and that for each passing moment, sam is finding it harder and harder to detect. bucky should be uncomfortable with this, should pull away in the same way he's pulled away from every single one of sam's attempts to bridge this wall.
zemo speaks and each word drips with his same sort of easy confidence, but rather than sam's usual annoyance, he feels himself turn towards the noise. he has to focus on the task at hand, the questions he's been asking. if he knows what he used to drug them, then maybe sam could find some measure to counter...what, exactly? the warmth emanating from under the collar of his turtleneck? the magnetic pull he feels towards the body along his side? he shakes his head, again trying clear the slowly thickening fog. ]
This is something else, though. Not just regular ecstasy. This is- [ think, sam. think. there's something right on the edge of his mind that feels like it's just close enough to brush his fingertips against. something important about how his throat is starting to itch. not uncomfortably, just with a need to act. again, with his free hand, he massages the bridge of his nose, trying to put this together. and when he looks up again, it's to zemo leaning back against the couch. arms outstretched. comfortable. sam wants to lunge across the table and punch him, but also maybe something else. maybe something explicitly else. sam frowns at the explanation, his eyes finally turning to bucky with zemo's question.
it hits sam, then, why he was avoiding turning to bucky. why some part of him knew this was dangerous. he looks towards him now, and something as simple as hm, a rumble that goes directly to sam's gut. his own eyes scan across bucky's profile, down the line of his jaw, the crease of his brow as he stares at sam's hand.
stop this that quiet voice says. stop this before you do something you can't take back.
but then bucky brushes his own fingers over sam's knuckles. over his wrist. it's like pumping electricity directly into his veins. sam is suddenly uncomfortable, suddenly needs to move and that moving screams at him to get closer. to reach out with his free hand and set it on bucky's jaw. just like zemo had earlier, back when bucky had to pretend, just to know what it felt like. just to trace his fingers over bucky's skin. ]
Bucky. [ it's said as a warning, but without any of the harsh lines. without any of the edge. in fact, it probably doesn't sound like a warning at all, but a question.
you good?
he should know better - there's no way they can be good, this under the influence. with whatever drug zemo has them high on now. which- immediately- the thought lands, sam's fingers curling around the words, and he turns back to zemo. pointing at him, angrily but without - again - that edge. ]
These are aphrodisiacs, aren't they? You want us to fuck?
Ah, apologies. It slipped my mind to ask them to write down the ingredients in the middle of the dark.
[alright, maybe that was a little rude - but the point is, he's told sam just as much as he himself knows what's contained in these pills. all he was promised was a good time, and if the effects he's starting to feel in his own overheated, hypersensitive body...it's working. some combination that has him feeling like he's floating just around the edges of where he's currently sitting on the couch, an ocean apart from the shared intimacy sam is trying so hard not to give in to on the opposite couch with james.
but zemo also recognizes there's no real bite to sam's words - instead ringing hollow compared to the vitriol he'd been greeted with at the garage in berlin. he's not entirely surprised to see that james is the one as docile as a lamb, no apparent objections, just fascination at the anomaly of his condition. he can only be grateful that's one less problem to contend with, ironically the one he'd anticipated ready to leap up and strangle him at the first sign of foul play if the flare of his temper was anything to go by on the jet. yet another reason zemo knows his days as the soldier aren't so far off after all, if this is the way he takes even mild suggestion when control is removed from the situation.
the heat is starting to get to him in a more stifling fashion, and he hunches over only to roll up his sleeves to his forearms. one thing he's certain they'll appreciate is the apparent lack of interest in joining them on this side of events - it isn't as if he'd be opposed, but the main goal is simply to observe and do what he does best - slot the intricate pieces together and wait for them to fall into place, a flawless execution of his agenda every time.]
Tell me, Sam...
[his voice is a low drag, all silk and suggestiveness wrapped up into his accent. he presses his bare elbows into his knees, perching his chin atop both hands. his gaze flicks towards the way Sam's line of sight drops to his lips and the contours of James' face, and he can see the way Sam keeps swallowing thickly. zemo lets it linger only for a moment before a sly curve of his mouth pulls upward and he locks eyes with James.]
When do you think he was last truly appreciated for the specimen he is? Touched, cherished - worshipped?
[his fingers flex lightly, almost as if the idea of it appeals to him (it does) - but he's restraining it.]
I would think...not any time so recently.
[decades, at least, seeing as he doubts james has had any meaningful connections since losing steve rogers. he tilts his head as if scanning for any subtle motion, hitch in breath, or change in the atmosphere.]
Perhaps Sam could change that for you, yes, James?
( eyes stay glued on where his fingers brush against sam's skin, pointedly avoiding every gaze in his direction, every silent question he can't be bothered to answer. there isn't an answer, really. layers on layers of long earned trauma stay bundled up around him like a flower than refuses to let go, every petal clung tight in as armor to an unforgiving world. not that — forgiveness is that last thing he needs. he's james bucky barnes. the world used to call him a folklore, and now they just call him damaged. his ambitions used to begin and end at a list of trigger words pulling him under.
now? he feels a vague sense not to let sam's hand go anywhere. or — not nowhere, but nowhere that isn't on him.
it's curious how different wars build callouses in similar places. bucky could've imagined there was some difference in military tech from the forties, but the shapes are usually the same — sam's rough trigger finger, the patch of skin just peeking on the other side of his hand, where the grip of a handgun rubbed him raw and thickened the flesh. with some amount of pleasure, bucky thinks he could figure out his exact model of gun if given enough time to poke and prod around his hands and body — he could lay their bodies side by side and see exactly where all their scars and rough places match up like pieces to a long forgotten, tired puzzle.
but sam says fuck and it stands out again, drawing bucky from his reverent touches, perking up just to stare at zemo. there, across the way, miles and inches apart, staring at them with an interest that feels somehow familiar — like the man has seen this before, two people tiptoeing around a dance they refuse to name. he did have a wife, didn't he?
( he wonders, maybe zemo has a book of names himself. maybe this is how he scratches bucky's off the list. ) )
I don't deserve any of that.
( worship, and least of all sam, his attention or his care or his hand on his knee, making bucky's blood race the more and more he thinks about it. a word he'd beaten out of his vocabulary over the years stirs up in his throat, and bucky nearly forms it, please on trembling lips. please, touch me. please, cherish me. if you think i'm worthy of worship, i'll believe you, sam, i will. )
Don't make him do something he doesn't want to do.
( still staring at zemo, he swallows dryly, leaning back so he can sink further into the couch, forcing sam's hand up higher on his thigh as he moves.
intentional, maybe. obsessive, yes.)
That's what you have me for.
( silver platter offering: leave sam out of it. bucky has an off switch called the winter soldier. sam doesn't have that capability. )
[ sam is going to kill him. he knows he will. that feeling of wanting to lunge out across the table is still there, but also. not. it's hard to wrap his head around the feeling, annoyance and frustration and anger but without the bite. without the heat behind it. that image of reaching across the table and wrapping his hand around zemo's throat suddenly has a different undercurrent to it, and sam shakes his head, suddenly, pushing the thought away. ]
Don't be smart with me, Zemo. You knew exactly what these were.
[ there is a slow feeling of floating, the warmth easing out across every inch of his skin, through his muscles. he feels it pooling right along the points of him that are touching bucky, in his hand where he's still gripping him, but also along his side. where their thighs are touching. he feels a bit suffocated, now, in his jacket and turtleneck. in the material of his clothes. he wants to reach around and pull the jacket off, but that part of him holding onto what he should be thinking says don't, don't encourage this. don't add fuel to whatever fire zemo is building.
except that there is that point, once again, that comes back to sam. the fact that bucky is feeling this, has been drugged, but that he doesn't seem...what? upset? worried? affected? maybe it's just the way the heat is getting under sam's skin, how desperate and needy and hungry it's making him feel. zemo doesn't even try to deny the claims that sam makes, barely so much as reacts to the suggestion that he has drugged himself, let down his own guard, but then again - bucky barely so much as blinks.
sam lets his hand fall to his lap, fighting the urge to reach it over. to find another place on bucky to touch. he wants out of his jacket and out of this room and out, out, out, but stronger than all of that is the urge- no, the need, to get his hands on the sharp lines of bucky barnes. sam tenses his jaw when zemo says his name, at the low silk that is his voice, and the shiver it sends down his spine. sam adjusts, where he's sitting, choosing not to focus on the fact that adjustment pushes him that much closer to the man at his side.
god, this is bad. really, really bad, but in that same breath, the words are back again. the question sam can't find it in himself to fight. would it be so bad? to let it play out? just for tonight? once glance at bucky and sam sees a kind of reverence in his eyes, in the way almost soft sort of way he watches sam's hand on his knee, and the sudden desire that courses through him feels almost like a punch to the gut. he opens his mouth at first to argue, to tell zemo that he's not some kind of specimen, you sick fuck, he's a person but it's bucky's words that cut him off.
i don't deserve any of that. don't make him do something he doesn't want to do.
the second punch to the gut feels stronger, something a little different than desire, but that runs just as deep. the furrow in sam's brow adjusts as his eyes move to bucky's face, this time. back to the line of his jaw, the curve of the muscles on his neck. sam's eyes hover, there, where he thinks his pulse might be, and without realizing what he's doing, swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. ]
Hey. [ the word jolts him out of his own stare, then, his eyes quickly moving to bucky's face. he's not sure if it's to stop zemo from talking, or if it's just to draw bucky's attention away from the other man in the room, and back on him.
it's ridiculous, really. absurd. what this conversation is, what zemo has pushed them into. but maybe that's just part of his plan. all of this is probably part of his plan. but sam finds he doesn't really care. ] Don't say shit like that, for one, and don't act like you know what I want.
[ it's suddenly very, very important to sam that his words are understood. so important that it actually pushes him to move, adjusting again but this time creating space between himself and bucky. his hand is still on bucky's thigh, too high too high, and he squeezes it. his hand. holds his grip on bucky even as he pulls just far enough away to turn his body more towards him. turning so that he's facing bucky directly, his jaw still tight, sweat starting to bead at the back of his neck.
but none of that matters - not the pounding of his own heart in his chest, or how difficult it feels to swallow. not the echo of zemo's voice sliding over his back, or the way sam can still feel zemo's gaze across the room. it doesn't matter how much he is itching to get out of his clothes, or how desperate he is to close the distance he just created between himself and bucky - because what does matter, instead, is what he says next. what he hopes can be read in the direct, dark look he's giving bucky. ]
And you're not doing anything you don't want to do, understood? [ distantly, sam recalls the empty look in bucky's face from the bar.
something protective, but also complicated, curls in sam's gut while he waits for bucky to look at him. to confirm with him. to understand. and whether or not he gets that confirmation, a few seconds later his free hand gestures towards zemo, then back to where he and bucky sit only a few inches apart. ] Whatever happens tonight- [ did he just acknowledge something would? god, he's going to regret this. he knows he will. but it doesn't stop him. ] -will not be any of that shit. Got it? [ his dark eyes go from bucky, then across the room to zemo. he feels a bit unhinged, like he's losing control of the words coming out of his mouth, but it's not all bad. there's a rushing and momentum and sam lets himself get carried away by it. a bit like flying, really. letting the wind take him. ] Got it?
[ there will be no 'leaving sam out of this'. not tonight. ]
[something dark twists in his stomach at the rare vulnerability james affords them both - zemo doubts this would be something he'd admit out loud, even if he knows the man believes it to be true. and bizarrely enough, james doesn't even seem to realize the effect he has (has had the whole time, really) on sam of all people. if he'd simply stop and observe what was happening right this very moment...he'd see what zemo has been tolerating right under his nose from the moment they both set foot in his private garage in berlin. the notion that sam of anyone doesn't want to do this is so laughable he almost lets one bubble up out of his mouth.
his gaze flicks upwards from where sam's hand has shifted upwards on his thigh, intentional or accidental from the way james has moved back. the sudden flatness in his voice and the implication that he'd give himself up as some sort of sacrificial lamb for zemo and zemo alone is mildly insulting, enough that it seeps into a mild sneer across his lips briefly. it isn't that he'd be happy to play with james at his leisure some other time - to dive deep into the layers of his psyche and see precisely how well he can follow orders under a separate context - but it requires a surrender of control that is explicit in its desire. the idea that james thinks so little of him is something to confront at a separate time, lest they waste this opportunity that he's practically had gift-wrapped from the likes of ЦУМ.
watching sam leap into action is an admirable act of melodrama, at least. zemo finds himself loosely crossing his legs again, ankle resting atop his knee and foot jiggling slightly as he observes it all play out. it's touching, painfully blatant just how much sam adores james and would do just about anything he asked - outright or not. the problem is james simply won't accept it, whether out of guilt or some misguided sense of pride. or perhaps it runs deeper - that little bit of fear he gets glimpses of, like a diamond sparkling somewhere in the rough under the beating rays of sun. the last man that can surmise james gave every part of himself to was steve rogers - and where did that get him? both of them, really. he doesn't believe for a second the man simply "retired" away, nor does he give any credence to the moronic chatter that the supersoldier took a jaunt to the moon.
but the reality is: both of them are still here, and zemo suspects if he were to press them together within his hands, they'd mesh with the precise shape of steve rogers hollowed out somewhere in the middle. and if they'd simply allow it...perhaps pieces of one another would begin to fill the gap. not entirely, but into something much more bearable. pleasurable.
which is the entire point, if they'll ever fucking get to it. he's too much of a patient man in sobriety to let that change now in intoxication, but they are on a timetable, unfortunately.]
You're not giving yourself nearly enough credit, James. Did you hear an objection from Sam just now? No? Then you have one answer out of the way.
As for me - nothing is off the table with a genuine offer, but a tryst between just you and I was, sadly, not on the agenda.
[he sighs, as though put out, before waving vaguely between the two of them after sam indicates there is something that will transpire.]
There you have it. Now that we've established a - what shall we call it? - a baseline of express interest, why don't you both kiss and make up?
[his brows lift mildly, like a director who's had to wait for an extensively long cut.]
( sam demands his attention and so, at length, bucky lifts his head to meet his gaze. plainly written on his expression, somewhere between three day old stubble and a frown that is for all intents and purposes complicated but not expressly sad, is the reason why he hadn't met his eyes for so long.
there is something bleeding there, a festering wound left unchecked for too long so the damage got worse, tearing and pulling. he could've stitched it. he could've told sam not to text him, he could've drawn that line in the sand where professionalism ends before any and all friendships, but he never had. the thought occurred to him — send the message, tell him to leave you alone — but he never had the nerve to actually do it. because —
because he didn't want it to stop. sam's focus on him, this care he didn't deserve but couldn't risk ending. it's what's in his gaze now, what he knew would give him away — wanton and wanting, desire meeting the backend of what schoolyard boys and girls would call a crush. the same way he used to look at steve when he faced towards cameras and the american people at large, serving his duty to a country that never really knew him, not like bucky had. some clash of idealism and the reality of a person behind the icon, loving the meat that makes up the martyr. it's blatant on his face as much as a scribbled note that says do you like me? y/n.
except bucky had pre-circled the n — at least until zemo nosed his way into the picture. pathetic, that he noticed what bucky tried to hide, what he'd believed he was successful in hiding thus far, although the situation at hand paints an opposing picture. he could slide his gaze out and glare sideways at zemo, but that would mean looking away from sam, the sweat on his forehead, the angry set of his jaw. a part of him is irritated this is all coming out in front of a watchful audience, but another part of him is accepting — he's always felt like most of his life had been examined through a test tube, a lab rat for a scientist's gain.
not that zemo has much to gain, in this. getting off, maybe. maybe bucky will care more about the reason behind the madness when he doesn't feel the need to crawl into sam's lap like he might just die if he doesn't put hands to skin, actions to words. )
I'm not. ( doing something i don't want to do. ) Hey, Sam? I'm not.
( he licks his lips, swallowing down something that tastes like fear in the distant recesses of his mind — that sam's lips will taste like regret or mourning, or be lifeless and cold. bucky could never trust himself with this, something as precious as sam.
but maybe he can trust zemo, reigns in his hands. bucky pushes forward at his behest, reaching his metal arm up to cup the side of sam's cheek. eyes flickering between each of his, he firmly presses his mouth to sam's, gasping at the sensation enough that his lips part, pulling him into something deeper, hungrier. it's a strange bit of relief, having the decision already made up for him — that today is the day that bucky doesn't look his desires in the eye and say no. that today, if only for a little while, he gets exactly what he wants, because zemo made it so. )
[ there is a moment somewhere along this line where sam is, once again, struck by the horrifying realization that zemo is, again, right. this realization is made worse by the fact that he and zemo seem to be on the same page, and that while zemo has already danced directly over the line he wasn't supposed to cross in the first place, sam doesn't find any more sirens going off. doesn't find any more tension building in his shoulders. he should be more on guard, for this, and that voice in the back of his head reminds him of that with some echo, but also he just doesn't feel as though he wants to.
it is too warm and only getting warmer. everything is starting to feel a bit too sharp and a bit too much. the warmth of bucky under his hand, the feeling of zemo's eyes from across the room. there's a part of him that feels the need to turn his attention back on zemo, to let him know this isn't over and they're not done talking about this and he's going back to jail, but for now sam feels some ease. that zemo seems to agree with him. that bucky is now looking at him.
and maybe that's something for sam to think about, at a later date. the way it makes him feel when bucky's eyes are turned to him in the room. there's no avoiding eye contact, no forced distance. the only thing sam sees, now, is a kind of look in bucky's eyes that excites him and a frown that sam is trying to decide if he wants to reach up and press his thumbs into or simply kiss away.
kiss away. kiss away. good god they're really doing this, aren't they?
zemo says something about a baseline of express interest and sam feels a dual sense of wanting to reach across the coffee table and shove something into zemo's mouth to get him to shut up, and a kind of excited thrill in having it. out there. of having it said. sam will never admit to being thankful that they have zemo to say these things and to push this moment, and when this is all over and they wake up tomorrow, it's going to turn into zemo's fault rather than something to thank him for, but for right now bucky is looking at him with that look. something behind those eyes. sam swallows, thickly, wishing to all hell that he wasn't wearing a turtleneck or really anything at all, because this feeling? this sense of chasing and chasing and chasing and wondering what to do now that he has it, is near overwhelming.
bucky says i'm not and sam swallows again, his hand tightening on the muscle of bucky's thigh. because sam feels like he likes the tone of bucky's voice, then. and he feels protective and jealous and needy and desperate all in the same breath. he thinks that if given enough time, if given enough space to breathe, he could maybe wrap his hands around this. he could maybe figure out the shape and size, the weight of what he is looking to carry. maybe, even with whatever is running through their veins, sam can do this.
and that is when bucky licks his lips, and sam's eyes jerk to the movement of them. to bucky's mouth. there is a sharp kind of wanting that happens, then. and sam has just enough of himself in check to start speaking. to say- ]
Buck, I-
[ the cool press of bucky's metal arm on sam's cheek brings him out of whatever it was he was supposed to say. brings his eyes up to bucky's just in time to catch his gaze. then, suddenly, bucky is kissing him, and sam's stomach jumps. like that first catch of air out of the side of a plane, or the drop of the freefall. bucky kisses sam, and sam meets him in it, his free hand finding bucky's chest to fist into the fabric of his shirt. the hand on bucky's thigh slides up, moving to rest on bucky's hip, both for sam's own grounding purposes, and to give him better leverage. leverage to pull bucky towards him, which is what he immediately finds himself wanting to do.
closer, closer, closer.
zemo is there, still, and sam hasn't forgotten that. feels those eyes on them both, and wonders - in the same way bucky had - what zemo's grander plan is. but then bucky shifts slightly, then bucky's body moves, and his attention snaps immediately back to the press of his mouth. the taste of him - alcohol and whatever is left of the drugs. sam leans closer, presses closer, wanting more. ]
[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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he's still in the process of stopping though, so he doesn't say anything. he sits, staring at sam's hand on his knee, counting the lines of his knuckles, the spaces between his breaths.
it's still weird to be touched, even casually. in his right mind, he would've shoved sam off ages ago, in something that would read as disgust or irritation, but would in fact be — desperation. wanting stuff terrifies bucky. for all he's done, he doesn't deserve air in his lungs, let alone half of the good that've come his way — asking for a bed feels like too much, asking for food or water feels equally invasive. he certainly can't request comfort, or a hand to hold. he wouldn't even know what to do with it if it was given to him.
except it is given now, and bucky doesn't push it off, and he feels — at peace, like watching the rising sun lift up the mountains of wakanda, goats bleating in demand of their breakfast. maybe drugs do this, take you to some happy place where it's okay to want the things that you want, like your partner. sam's touching him, whole and handsome and arguing with zemo because he still gives a fuck what happens to him. and he should. everything matters surprisingly less than sam's well being.
but they're all together, so he's not too concerned.
what is concerning, or maybe just confusing, is zemo's question. no ever asked him how he felt after hours of torture — or how he felt after every kill he'd seen to, every life stolen. being asked how he feels now makes his eyebrows knit, eyes still stuck fast to the tight grip sam has on him, the heat of his hand almost acting like a balm to the heat of the room. sam is medicine. sam takes sick things and makes them feel normal. )
Hm.
( maybe it's because he played his part as the winter soldier earlier tonight and has fallen into a mentality, but it doesn't cross his mind for a moment that he could just not answer. instead, )
It feels — ( his flesh hand moves, rough fingertips lifting to brush along sam's knuckles, the cut of his wrist, as if hypnotized by the movement. ) good.
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god, it's warm. god, he can feel bucky breathing. or more specifically, can feel bucky's breath stop, for a few short moments. without really thinking, sam starts to run this thumb across the material of bucky's pants, up and down in a thoughtless, close sort of gesture. he feels a bit like he's being driven mad with the need to touch him, to touch him more, but there are lines here. lines he knows he shouldn't cross. lines that zemo has gone out of his way to blur for them, and that for each passing moment, sam is finding it harder and harder to detect. bucky should be uncomfortable with this, should pull away in the same way he's pulled away from every single one of sam's attempts to bridge this wall.
zemo speaks and each word drips with his same sort of easy confidence, but rather than sam's usual annoyance, he feels himself turn towards the noise. he has to focus on the task at hand, the questions he's been asking. if he knows what he used to drug them, then maybe sam could find some measure to counter...what, exactly? the warmth emanating from under the collar of his turtleneck? the magnetic pull he feels towards the body along his side? he shakes his head, again trying clear the slowly thickening fog. ]
This is something else, though. Not just regular ecstasy. This is- [ think, sam. think. there's something right on the edge of his mind that feels like it's just close enough to brush his fingertips against. something important about how his throat is starting to itch. not uncomfortably, just with a need to act. again, with his free hand, he massages the bridge of his nose, trying to put this together. and when he looks up again, it's to zemo leaning back against the couch. arms outstretched. comfortable. sam wants to lunge across the table and punch him, but also maybe something else. maybe something explicitly else. sam frowns at the explanation, his eyes finally turning to bucky with zemo's question.
it hits sam, then, why he was avoiding turning to bucky. why some part of him knew this was dangerous. he looks towards him now, and something as simple as hm, a rumble that goes directly to sam's gut. his own eyes scan across bucky's profile, down the line of his jaw, the crease of his brow as he stares at sam's hand.
stop this that quiet voice says. stop this before you do something you can't take back.
but then bucky brushes his own fingers over sam's knuckles. over his wrist. it's like pumping electricity directly into his veins. sam is suddenly uncomfortable, suddenly needs to move and that moving screams at him to get closer. to reach out with his free hand and set it on bucky's jaw. just like zemo had earlier, back when bucky had to pretend, just to know what it felt like. just to trace his fingers over bucky's skin. ]
Bucky. [ it's said as a warning, but without any of the harsh lines. without any of the edge. in fact, it probably doesn't sound like a warning at all, but a question.
you good?
he should know better - there's no way they can be good, this under the influence. with whatever drug zemo has them high on now. which- immediately- the thought lands, sam's fingers curling around the words, and he turns back to zemo. pointing at him, angrily but without - again - that edge. ]
These are aphrodisiacs, aren't they? You want us to fuck?
no subject
[alright, maybe that was a little rude - but the point is, he's told sam just as much as he himself knows what's contained in these pills. all he was promised was a good time, and if the effects he's starting to feel in his own overheated, hypersensitive body...it's working. some combination that has him feeling like he's floating just around the edges of where he's currently sitting on the couch, an ocean apart from the shared intimacy sam is trying so hard not to give in to on the opposite couch with james.
but zemo also recognizes there's no real bite to sam's words - instead ringing hollow compared to the vitriol he'd been greeted with at the garage in berlin. he's not entirely surprised to see that james is the one as docile as a lamb, no apparent objections, just fascination at the anomaly of his condition. he can only be grateful that's one less problem to contend with, ironically the one he'd anticipated ready to leap up and strangle him at the first sign of foul play if the flare of his temper was anything to go by on the jet. yet another reason zemo knows his days as the soldier aren't so far off after all, if this is the way he takes even mild suggestion when control is removed from the situation.
the heat is starting to get to him in a more stifling fashion, and he hunches over only to roll up his sleeves to his forearms. one thing he's certain they'll appreciate is the apparent lack of interest in joining them on this side of events - it isn't as if he'd be opposed, but the main goal is simply to observe and do what he does best - slot the intricate pieces together and wait for them to fall into place, a flawless execution of his agenda every time.]
Tell me, Sam...
[his voice is a low drag, all silk and suggestiveness wrapped up into his accent. he presses his bare elbows into his knees, perching his chin atop both hands. his gaze flicks towards the way Sam's line of sight drops to his lips and the contours of James' face, and he can see the way Sam keeps swallowing thickly. zemo lets it linger only for a moment before a sly curve of his mouth pulls upward and he locks eyes with James.]
When do you think he was last truly appreciated for the specimen he is? Touched, cherished - worshipped?
[his fingers flex lightly, almost as if the idea of it appeals to him (it does) - but he's restraining it.]
I would think...not any time so recently.
[decades, at least, seeing as he doubts james has had any meaningful connections since losing steve rogers. he tilts his head as if scanning for any subtle motion, hitch in breath, or change in the atmosphere.]
Perhaps Sam could change that for you, yes, James?
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now? he feels a vague sense not to let sam's hand go anywhere. or — not nowhere, but nowhere that isn't on him.
it's curious how different wars build callouses in similar places. bucky could've imagined there was some difference in military tech from the forties, but the shapes are usually the same — sam's rough trigger finger, the patch of skin just peeking on the other side of his hand, where the grip of a handgun rubbed him raw and thickened the flesh. with some amount of pleasure, bucky thinks he could figure out his exact model of gun if given enough time to poke and prod around his hands and body — he could lay their bodies side by side and see exactly where all their scars and rough places match up like pieces to a long forgotten, tired puzzle.
but sam says fuck and it stands out again, drawing bucky from his reverent touches, perking up just to stare at zemo. there, across the way, miles and inches apart, staring at them with an interest that feels somehow familiar — like the man has seen this before, two people tiptoeing around a dance they refuse to name. he did have a wife, didn't he?
( he wonders, maybe zemo has a book of names himself. maybe this is how he scratches bucky's off the list. ) )
I don't deserve any of that.
( worship, and least of all sam, his attention or his care or his hand on his knee, making bucky's blood race the more and more he thinks about it. a word he'd beaten out of his vocabulary over the years stirs up in his throat, and bucky nearly forms it, please on trembling lips. please, touch me. please, cherish me. if you think i'm worthy of worship, i'll believe you, sam, i will. )
Don't make him do something he doesn't want to do.
( still staring at zemo, he swallows dryly, leaning back so he can sink further into the couch, forcing sam's hand up higher on his thigh as he moves.
intentional, maybe. obsessive, yes.)
That's what you have me for.
( silver platter offering: leave sam out of it. bucky has an off switch called the winter soldier. sam doesn't have that capability. )
no subject
Don't be smart with me, Zemo. You knew exactly what these were.
[ there is a slow feeling of floating, the warmth easing out across every inch of his skin, through his muscles. he feels it pooling right along the points of him that are touching bucky, in his hand where he's still gripping him, but also along his side. where their thighs are touching. he feels a bit suffocated, now, in his jacket and turtleneck. in the material of his clothes. he wants to reach around and pull the jacket off, but that part of him holding onto what he should be thinking says don't, don't encourage this. don't add fuel to whatever fire zemo is building.
except that there is that point, once again, that comes back to sam. the fact that bucky is feeling this, has been drugged, but that he doesn't seem...what? upset? worried? affected? maybe it's just the way the heat is getting under sam's skin, how desperate and needy and hungry it's making him feel. zemo doesn't even try to deny the claims that sam makes, barely so much as reacts to the suggestion that he has drugged himself, let down his own guard, but then again - bucky barely so much as blinks.
sam lets his hand fall to his lap, fighting the urge to reach it over. to find another place on bucky to touch. he wants out of his jacket and out of this room and out, out, out, but stronger than all of that is the urge- no, the need, to get his hands on the sharp lines of bucky barnes. sam tenses his jaw when zemo says his name, at the low silk that is his voice, and the shiver it sends down his spine. sam adjusts, where he's sitting, choosing not to focus on the fact that adjustment pushes him that much closer to the man at his side.
god, this is bad. really, really bad, but in that same breath, the words are back again. the question sam can't find it in himself to fight. would it be so bad? to let it play out? just for tonight? once glance at bucky and sam sees a kind of reverence in his eyes, in the way almost soft sort of way he watches sam's hand on his knee, and the sudden desire that courses through him feels almost like a punch to the gut. he opens his mouth at first to argue, to tell zemo that he's not some kind of specimen, you sick fuck, he's a person but it's bucky's words that cut him off.
i don't deserve any of that. don't make him do something he doesn't want to do.
the second punch to the gut feels stronger, something a little different than desire, but that runs just as deep. the furrow in sam's brow adjusts as his eyes move to bucky's face, this time. back to the line of his jaw, the curve of the muscles on his neck. sam's eyes hover, there, where he thinks his pulse might be, and without realizing what he's doing, swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. ]
Hey. [ the word jolts him out of his own stare, then, his eyes quickly moving to bucky's face. he's not sure if it's to stop zemo from talking, or if it's just to draw bucky's attention away from the other man in the room, and back on him.
it's ridiculous, really. absurd. what this conversation is, what zemo has pushed them into. but maybe that's just part of his plan. all of this is probably part of his plan. but sam finds he doesn't really care. ] Don't say shit like that, for one, and don't act like you know what I want.
[ it's suddenly very, very important to sam that his words are understood. so important that it actually pushes him to move, adjusting again but this time creating space between himself and bucky. his hand is still on bucky's thigh, too high too high, and he squeezes it. his hand. holds his grip on bucky even as he pulls just far enough away to turn his body more towards him. turning so that he's facing bucky directly, his jaw still tight, sweat starting to bead at the back of his neck.
but none of that matters - not the pounding of his own heart in his chest, or how difficult it feels to swallow. not the echo of zemo's voice sliding over his back, or the way sam can still feel zemo's gaze across the room. it doesn't matter how much he is itching to get out of his clothes, or how desperate he is to close the distance he just created between himself and bucky - because what does matter, instead, is what he says next. what he hopes can be read in the direct, dark look he's giving bucky. ]
And you're not doing anything you don't want to do, understood? [ distantly, sam recalls the empty look in bucky's face from the bar.
something protective, but also complicated, curls in sam's gut while he waits for bucky to look at him. to confirm with him. to understand. and whether or not he gets that confirmation, a few seconds later his free hand gestures towards zemo, then back to where he and bucky sit only a few inches apart. ] Whatever happens tonight- [ did he just acknowledge something would? god, he's going to regret this. he knows he will. but it doesn't stop him. ] -will not be any of that shit. Got it? [ his dark eyes go from bucky, then across the room to zemo. he feels a bit unhinged, like he's losing control of the words coming out of his mouth, but it's not all bad. there's a rushing and momentum and sam lets himself get carried away by it. a bit like flying, really. letting the wind take him. ] Got it?
[ there will be no 'leaving sam out of this'. not tonight. ]
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his gaze flicks upwards from where sam's hand has shifted upwards on his thigh, intentional or accidental from the way james has moved back. the sudden flatness in his voice and the implication that he'd give himself up as some sort of sacrificial lamb for zemo and zemo alone is mildly insulting, enough that it seeps into a mild sneer across his lips briefly. it isn't that he'd be happy to play with james at his leisure some other time - to dive deep into the layers of his psyche and see precisely how well he can follow orders under a separate context - but it requires a surrender of control that is explicit in its desire. the idea that james thinks so little of him is something to confront at a separate time, lest they waste this opportunity that he's practically had gift-wrapped from the likes of ЦУМ.
watching sam leap into action is an admirable act of melodrama, at least. zemo finds himself loosely crossing his legs again, ankle resting atop his knee and foot jiggling slightly as he observes it all play out. it's touching, painfully blatant just how much sam adores james and would do just about anything he asked - outright or not. the problem is james simply won't accept it, whether out of guilt or some misguided sense of pride. or perhaps it runs deeper - that little bit of fear he gets glimpses of, like a diamond sparkling somewhere in the rough under the beating rays of sun. the last man that can surmise james gave every part of himself to was steve rogers - and where did that get him? both of them, really. he doesn't believe for a second the man simply "retired" away, nor does he give any credence to the moronic chatter that the supersoldier took a jaunt to the moon.
but the reality is: both of them are still here, and zemo suspects if he were to press them together within his hands, they'd mesh with the precise shape of steve rogers hollowed out somewhere in the middle. and if they'd simply allow it...perhaps pieces of one another would begin to fill the gap. not entirely, but into something much more bearable. pleasurable.
which is the entire point, if they'll ever fucking get to it. he's too much of a patient man in sobriety to let that change now in intoxication, but they are on a timetable, unfortunately.]
You're not giving yourself nearly enough credit, James. Did you hear an objection from Sam just now? No? Then you have one answer out of the way.
As for me - nothing is off the table with a genuine offer, but a tryst between just you and I was, sadly, not on the agenda.
[he sighs, as though put out, before waving vaguely between the two of them after sam indicates there is something that will transpire.]
There you have it. Now that we've established a - what shall we call it? - a baseline of express interest, why don't you both kiss and make up?
[his brows lift mildly, like a director who's had to wait for an extensively long cut.]
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there is something bleeding there, a festering wound left unchecked for too long so the damage got worse, tearing and pulling. he could've stitched it. he could've told sam not to text him, he could've drawn that line in the sand where professionalism ends before any and all friendships, but he never had. the thought occurred to him — send the message, tell him to leave you alone — but he never had the nerve to actually do it. because —
because he didn't want it to stop. sam's focus on him, this care he didn't deserve but couldn't risk ending. it's what's in his gaze now, what he knew would give him away — wanton and wanting, desire meeting the backend of what schoolyard boys and girls would call a crush. the same way he used to look at steve when he faced towards cameras and the american people at large, serving his duty to a country that never really knew him, not like bucky had. some clash of idealism and the reality of a person behind the icon, loving the meat that makes up the martyr. it's blatant on his face as much as a scribbled note that says do you like me? y/n.
except bucky had pre-circled the n — at least until zemo nosed his way into the picture. pathetic, that he noticed what bucky tried to hide, what he'd believed he was successful in hiding thus far, although the situation at hand paints an opposing picture. he could slide his gaze out and glare sideways at zemo, but that would mean looking away from sam, the sweat on his forehead, the angry set of his jaw. a part of him is irritated this is all coming out in front of a watchful audience, but another part of him is accepting — he's always felt like most of his life had been examined through a test tube, a lab rat for a scientist's gain.
not that zemo has much to gain, in this. getting off, maybe. maybe bucky will care more about the reason behind the madness when he doesn't feel the need to crawl into sam's lap like he might just die if he doesn't put hands to skin, actions to words. )
I'm not. ( doing something i don't want to do. ) Hey, Sam? I'm not.
( he licks his lips, swallowing down something that tastes like fear in the distant recesses of his mind — that sam's lips will taste like regret or mourning, or be lifeless and cold. bucky could never trust himself with this, something as precious as sam.
but maybe he can trust zemo, reigns in his hands. bucky pushes forward at his behest, reaching his metal arm up to cup the side of sam's cheek. eyes flickering between each of his, he firmly presses his mouth to sam's, gasping at the sensation enough that his lips part, pulling him into something deeper, hungrier. it's a strange bit of relief, having the decision already made up for him — that today is the day that bucky doesn't look his desires in the eye and say no. that today, if only for a little while, he gets exactly what he wants, because zemo made it so. )
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it is too warm and only getting warmer. everything is starting to feel a bit too sharp and a bit too much. the warmth of bucky under his hand, the feeling of zemo's eyes from across the room. there's a part of him that feels the need to turn his attention back on zemo, to let him know this isn't over and they're not done talking about this and he's going back to jail, but for now sam feels some ease. that zemo seems to agree with him. that bucky is now looking at him.
and maybe that's something for sam to think about, at a later date. the way it makes him feel when bucky's eyes are turned to him in the room. there's no avoiding eye contact, no forced distance. the only thing sam sees, now, is a kind of look in bucky's eyes that excites him and a frown that sam is trying to decide if he wants to reach up and press his thumbs into or simply kiss away.
kiss away. kiss away. good god they're really doing this, aren't they?
zemo says something about a baseline of express interest and sam feels a dual sense of wanting to reach across the coffee table and shove something into zemo's mouth to get him to shut up, and a kind of excited thrill in having it. out there. of having it said. sam will never admit to being thankful that they have zemo to say these things and to push this moment, and when this is all over and they wake up tomorrow, it's going to turn into zemo's fault rather than something to thank him for, but for right now bucky is looking at him with that look. something behind those eyes. sam swallows, thickly, wishing to all hell that he wasn't wearing a turtleneck or really anything at all, because this feeling? this sense of chasing and chasing and chasing and wondering what to do now that he has it, is near overwhelming.
bucky says i'm not and sam swallows again, his hand tightening on the muscle of bucky's thigh. because sam feels like he likes the tone of bucky's voice, then. and he feels protective and jealous and needy and desperate all in the same breath. he thinks that if given enough time, if given enough space to breathe, he could maybe wrap his hands around this. he could maybe figure out the shape and size, the weight of what he is looking to carry. maybe, even with whatever is running through their veins, sam can do this.
and that is when bucky licks his lips, and sam's eyes jerk to the movement of them. to bucky's mouth. there is a sharp kind of wanting that happens, then. and sam has just enough of himself in check to start speaking. to say- ]
Buck, I-
[ the cool press of bucky's metal arm on sam's cheek brings him out of whatever it was he was supposed to say. brings his eyes up to bucky's just in time to catch his gaze. then, suddenly, bucky is kissing him, and sam's stomach jumps. like that first catch of air out of the side of a plane, or the drop of the freefall. bucky kisses sam, and sam meets him in it, his free hand finding bucky's chest to fist into the fabric of his shirt. the hand on bucky's thigh slides up, moving to rest on bucky's hip, both for sam's own grounding purposes, and to give him better leverage. leverage to pull bucky towards him, which is what he immediately finds himself wanting to do.
closer, closer, closer.
zemo is there, still, and sam hasn't forgotten that. feels those eyes on them both, and wonders - in the same way bucky had - what zemo's grander plan is. but then bucky shifts slightly, then bucky's body moves, and his attention snaps immediately back to the press of his mouth. the taste of him - alcohol and whatever is left of the drugs. sam leans closer, presses closer, wanting more. ]
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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.]
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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. )
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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.]