[ Steve could weep for how much he has missed this, missed this man and as his own shirt and jacket come off he huffs something of a laugh, caught in his throat. It might be a downright sob, were Zemo's lips not playfully pressing against his own in feather-light brushes. The fingers that slide up his arms, his shoulders, make him shiver in line with the bite of the cool air on his damp skin. He doesn't meet the man's eyes, knowing too well that his body is not that of the spry, college athlete he loved eight years ago. That war and training and days spent beaten by the sun haven't always been kind to him. The hum reassures him, but it doesn't change the flush of heat in his cheeks, the soft huff of something incredulous. He should pull away, put a stop to all this.
Instead, he dips his head again to press a kiss against Zemo's shoulder, hands sliding down along the planes of his chest, his sides, to the dip of his low back, then up again, mapping out the man who used to be a boy he could draw to perfection from memory alone. His fingers know the way, know the dips and valleys, pleasantly surprised to find he's firmer in some places, softer in others, in ways that makes him want to dip and taste the differences on his tongue.
That thought alone makes him chuckle, low and arm against Zemo's neck. Once upon a time, he might have pushed him back against the door and had his way, but they're here, slick and cold from rainwater, trying to kindle warmth with the press of fingers and lips. It's not enough, but it's stirred something to life in him all over again, and he gives a needy hum. ]
The shower's always warmer, you know. You'll catch your death.
[ An invitation, not a demand, even as he slides his lips back up along the fair slope of his neck, worrying at a spot just where his jaw meets, a spot he found himself pressing little bruises into when they were younger and swept up in the romance of futures. It's difficult, though, to stop kissing him, to stop touching him, even with the promise of warmer, more intimate places. Letting him go now feels like letting him go forever all over again and his body resists.
His hands slide round that slender waist and fingers trip over the buckle of what is surely a bespoke, designer belt, catching the fine leather and pulling, both to relieve the hook and to drag Zemo in for another hot, needy, almost desperate kiss before he applies pressure, gently walking the man a step, then another, backwards toward the bathroom, without drawing his lips away for anything other than the quick catch of air. ]
[it's been years, but he's still so attuned to everything in steve rogers that he catches the way the other man seems to avoid his gaze when he fully pulls off his sopping shirt and jacket and starts to catalogue the new divots and raised skin along his arms and his chest. like maybe he's worried it'll be disappointing somehow, when in fact it just stokes that molten, fiery heat in his chest flooding all the way through his stomach in a way that has him forgetting his ice-cold skin for a few more moments. he's not really looking right now so much as feeling along with his hands and mouth, because he's hoping there will be time for that when they aren't barely past the threshold in a shivering mess. but zemo does take a moment to lift a hand to steve's chin before he can dip his mouth down to fixate on his neck, a soft whisper of look at me. there's a reassuring nod before he steals one last kiss from steve's lips and lets him press his lips to damp skin and trace along his body in kind.
it's not as if his body hasn't changed too - still lithe, maybe a little less full than before from running ragged trying to plan the wedding he won't let himself think about right now lest it break the magic of this moment. but there are parts of him that have gotten softer - the line of his jaw, his lower abdomen. none of which makes him insecure in the slightest, because that was never something steve ever made him feel worried about. the way they fit together was simply too perfect and too adored by his ex-lover, and frankly by his own confidence to ever feel like he wasn't enough. and the fact that they're still standing year eight years later, unable to control themselves or their wandering, desperate hands is testament enough that yeah, there's still a lot of that to go around, apparently. zemo never fell out of love, and maybe he can dare to think that steve never did either. maybe.
zemo tips his head back with a low groan, both hands dragging along steve's arms to fist into his hair and hold him where he's pressed against his neck. he's always been extra sensitive there, and steve always knew exactly how much teeth to use to get him to be marked, to lay claim to zemo's body in a more physical acknowledgment.]
You don't have to tell me twice.
[there's a lazy grin that can be heard in his tone, the murmur of it vibrating against his throat where steve's lips are still so close. he's trying not to shiver - both from the cold and the sensation of those hands he's dreamed of all over his skin yet again. they're more calloused, he can tell, and the texture of it makes his knees weak and his own fingers tighten against steve's scalp before they rake down his back with another low noise hot in his ear. steve's chest is somehow both warm and chilled when pressed against his own, and he can feel the oversensitive drag of skin and muscle against his pink, peaked nipples. he lets steve guide him back, toeing out of his sloshing oxfords and accidentally nudging at steve's knee as he kicks one to the side. he doesn't bother to apologize, instead stilling him for a moment and lunging forward for to kiss him in protest for any small separation - even if it's to breathe.
his other shoe takes some wiggling to make loose, and he busies himself with unbuckling steve's belt enough to unbutton and unzip his pants and loosen them around the enticing dip of his waist and hips. his tongue swipes along the inside of steve's mouth, lips dragging back to offer him another enamored look.]
You're still impossibly handsome, you know? How did you get even hotter, Steve Rogers?
[another quick nip, and he lets his thumbs stroke at the hard-won jut of his sculpted hipbones with a delighted hum.]
The words alone crack open something warm and surprised and vulnerable. He meets the other man's eyes and feels the creep of an old flush in his neck, his cheeks. Like he's some bright-eyed school boy dreaming about futures all over again. He doesn't feel like the war-scarred soldier, the tired captain, the quiet friend. He feels like Steve Rogers for the first time in a very, very long time. No, he hasn't fallen out of love with this man. He never did. He just locked that love away with the boy who kindled it.
The way Zemo's fingers twist in his hair make him moan, shamefully and low against the slope of his neck. The feeling of fingertips and the blunt of nails along the bare planes of his back, sends wild hot fire down his spine. His fingers work feverishly at the belt, the button of pants, loosening the wet fabric clinging to the slender dip of Zemo's hips. Stepping out of his own soggy dress shoes, letting his own pants slide once they're loose, he can't help but hum in appreciation as those fingers trace the jut of his hips. His palms know these planes and valleys as well as he knows his own name and he takes advantage of that, one pausing the journey toward the bathroom long enough to slide his hands up Zemo's chest, fingers tripping over the pretty, pink raise of a nipple, swiping a thumb over it in cautious acknowledgement, his free hand wrapped still round his hips now, letting those tricksy fingers slide beneath the waistband of wet pants and the band of some surely expensive underwear, to palm his ass, warm and soft beneath his touch. He groans, pleased. ]
I could say the same for you, you know.
[ Another nudge back (and the careful side step to avoid tripping over his own wet pants as he manages to step out of them) and they're met with the bathroom door, shut, and he lets out a low laugh. ]
I'd say you should have brought your robe, but I don't think I want anything between you and me right now.
[ Another searing kiss, his tongue sliding hot and needy along Zemo's, the hand from his chest sliding down his side to fumble with the bathroom door handle, opening it behind them and blindly pawing at the light switch, if only so he can keep kissing the other man as though Helmut Zemo is the very air that Steve needs to exist, to survive. But the shiver of cold (and want) takes over instead and he breaks the kiss, pressing their foreheads together as his hands instead reach to pull at the waistband of the man's underwear once more. ]
Out of these wet clothes. I'll get the shower.
[ Though he's having a very difficult time pulling his hands and lips away from the smoldering man across from him. ]
[it's hard not to feel like he's that young, naively hopeful boy back in the dorms - like all that mattered was planning their next excursion off-campus where they didn't have to hide stolen kisses and brief brushes of their hands behind closed doors. and maybe even more than that, it feels like eight years and simultaneously no time has passed at all despite the obvious physical and emotional toll it's taken on them. but no matter how brief this shared moment of passion and love persevering is between them, zemo can't let himself linger on that. his list of regrets when it comes to walking away from steve is already so long, he won't add another one at the bottom of it. particularly not when it feels so resolutely like the two of them just need this - the comfort of something familiar and warm and easy to slip back into, old lovers who will never forget the press of familiar flesh between fingertips.
christ, he's so giddy with it he hardly feels cold right now, even as his body is shivering lightly and his fingers are like ice. steve feels so warm and inviting despite it, the hot press of his mouth and thumb pressing across one sensitive nipple earning a gasp he couldn't stifle if he tried. it grows even firmer under his touch, and zemo pauses just before his back hits the door to drag him down more forcefully into another hungry kiss, tugging him by the neck without regard for the impact once they're there. he grins into it when steve breaks to let out a laugh and tease him about a robe, even as his hand seeks out the chilled skin of his ass underneath the waistband of his underwear. zemo moves to mimic the motion, snapping his waistband lightly with an amused hum and thumbs dipping ever so slightly down, down, downward and just barely grazing above the nestle of steve's thick cock.]
Not a chance. This - [he snaps it again, this time hooking his thumbs under and slowly starting to drag the fabric down his hips and along the strong muscle of his thighs] - is already pesky enough, hmm?
[he presses up on his toes, pecking kisses at him and lifting his legs as needed until they're both fully naked and stepping inside the bathroom. only now does the cold seem to settle in with another full body shiver, and zemo pulls away long enough for steve to fumble with the water. only when his attention is fully focused again while waiting for the water to warm up does he lean in, licking against his lips with a content sigh and arms draping along his shoulders to press their bodies flush. even with the clamminess of wet skin he can feel the heat radiating underneath, nuzzling in close and whispering against his lips.]
I missed the way you feel, Steve. Everywhere.
[he shouldn't say what inevitably follows. but the door's been opened, and he just can't stop it now. he needs steve to hear his words and know the actions that follow mean something.]
I think about it - every day. About you, us.
[and god, he hopes the ardent confession won't bring sorrow right now in lieu of something heated and so desperately needy.]
[ Steve will remember the slide of those thumbs for days and days and days to come, if only for the way it churns molten heat deep in his belly, his cock already half-hardened in light of the affections. He's missed those hands, and the snap of the waist band only draws a low, rumbling groan deep from his throat.
The awkward steps into the bathroom, carefully tripping over the sticky-wet fabric - it's a trail not unlike breadcrumbs: wet clothes leading them back to the lives they live outside of these four walls, to the lives they chose in favor of the warm, familiar fire set on the air around them. The sound of water fills his ears, the hiss of showers taking him back to hazy, dorm room days where they fumbled awkward and unknowing, trying to discover what language their bodies spoke together.
He knows it now, knows it in the press of Zemo's body up against his own and he all but purrs at the contact, shivering skin against skin, but he can feel the beating of his heart against his chest. It hurts, strangely, and he dismisses the thought with another hungry kiss, slower and deeper, tongue playfully twining with its tricksy partner. The bathroom slowly begins to warm, tiny puffs of steam drifting from the shower floor, drawing his skin up to gooseflesh.
Strong arms find their place around the man's slender waist, broad palms sliding along sides and hips to splay evenly across the small of his back, fitting where they shouldn't, but right where they should be.
His eyes flutter open when the kiss parts and all he can feel is Helmut against him, achingly familiar and perfect in a way that makes his heart burst, full to the brim with want and desperation and... so many, many other things.
Us, Zemo says, like it's torturous and dangerous, but Steve understands. Us had been a dream, once upon a time, and one that feels so close and so real, enveloped in steamy heat and the pleasant warmth of the man he's always found himself sinking into for refuge.
He's quiet at first, just panting into the soft brush of his lips, nose nuzzled and bumped against his. But his fingers flex against his back, drawing him tighter, closer, holding him there as if that alone might cement whatever it is this has become. ]
You've never left my mind.
[ He kisses him softly, fleeting little things while he tries to swallow back the lump in his throat. ]
I've missed this. I've missed you. And god you feel like... [ Like home. But he doesn't feel brave enough to say it. Instead, he uses those strong arms to carefully haul the man up like he might have years ago (though it's much easier now), encouraging those legs to find his waist so he can step them into the shower, his own back to the spray first.
Once upon a time, he might have let him back to his feet, might have drawn him in for showery kisses drenched and laughing amid the spray. Instead, he presses him up against one of the tiled walls, humming low and deep into a sloppy, needy kiss, as his own dick brushes the soft swell of his lover's ass, as one hand leaves to tweak the pretty pink nipple he'd neglected earlier.
They've been here, once upon a time. And maybe this is just how they're destined to meet from now on - frantic, fiery, longing, and yet always running away from one another. ]
[what outside world? nothing could pull him away right now - absolutely nothing. his whole focus begins and ends with steve in this moment. and honestly, isn't that how it's been since he left eight years ago? his life has been split into three very distinct parts with one marker of measurement: before steve rogers, with steve rogers, and after steve rogers. zemo only knew true happiness during one part of it, replaced by the devastation of aching loss and a hollowed out shell of himself the moment that dorm room door closed behind him. the early days were the most difficult: taking the tickets steve had left for them both and naively making the attempt to fasten them into a tool of forgetting him, or at least dulling the pain. a string of buff blondes in his drunken hazes that were close enough in appearance if he squinted just the right angle ultimately made it that much worse.
he never thought part three would bleed back into part two...well, ever. hasn't he tried to move past it? they say grief gets a little easier every day, but privately zemo wonders if those people have ever experienced grief for someone still living - the all-consuming suffering of heartbreak. even worse still: involuntary heartbreak. the truth is, he hasn't stopped loving steve. and judging by the response he's getting now, he wouldn't have the audacity to assume it's still love after what he did, but there's still deep admiration. and clearly there's no shortage of pent-up physical desire from either party in the moment. but that was never really their problem, was it?
no. and it's certainly not now, not when steve hefts him up like he still weighs nothing in arms that have surely gotten stronger by the looks of it over time. you feel like home - zemo can easily finish because the sentiment feels like it's going to burst out of his own heart. steve feels safe, just like he always did. it could have been them against the world until he shattered it all to pieces. he can't linger on that right now, not when he lets out sharp gasp and instinctively wraps his legs around steve's impossibly trim waist and slings both his arms around broad shoulders to hold on.]
Careful -
[he says it between a grin before nosing in for another kiss, swallowing back the emotion for something more lighthearted right now because if he lets anything else through he doesn't think he'll be able to stop, and he wants this to be a happy memory instead of a bittersweet one to join so many others. he knows steve won't drop him, and he's tempted to tease otherwise, but steve has other plans apparently. zemo can't help the hitch of breath lost underneath the pattering of running water when steve's fingers tease sensitive skin, a hungry groan that steve swallows between his lips. he hasn't been touched like this in years - and even if he had, nothing could even come close to having it be steve. his fingertips dig at the corded muscle of strong shoulders, desperately holding on as slides his tongue inside steve's mouth to twine with his lover's again and again and again.
it's only when he feels the telltale nudge of steve's cock between his legs that he pulls away, hand sliding to cup his cheek and press their foreheads together again. it's warmer now, but he thinks even without the steaming water his skin would be alight with the heat of the moment anyway.]
I want you, Steve. I need you.
[i never stopped wanting you, he cuts himself off from saying with a soft nip at steve's lips before he whispers against them.]
[ Steve tries not to think of the boys they were too terribly often. He feels so far away from the bright-eyed, football playing hopeful he'd been, who dreamt of a world he and Zemo could take by storm. Who dreamt of kisses in sleepy mornings, of hands twined where they whole world could see, where his love was something to be celebrated and not hidden away in stuffy dorm rooms.
He needed nothing if he had Zemo. He wanted for nothing if he had Zemo.
There's a hole, shaped like the needy, perfect, beautiful boy he loved (loves) burned into his chest, his ribs reformed into the very shape of him, his heart beating a stuttering rhythm around the sounds of a foreign, lilting name. But here he is, that very same boy, worn with the years but still handsome, still just as perfect, still just as beautiful and he somehow fits. The sound of his voice fills up the space left between his ribs, makes his heart ache, makes his throat swell.
There's a sob somewhere, drowned by the hiss of water and swallowed up by Zemo's kiss, and Steve leans into the press of that mouth, the desperate wrap of his tongue. He allows his hands to wander, the pad of a thumb over that same raise of pink, fingers digging against hips and the low of his back, pressing faint bruises as though to say Steve Rogers was here, with a date hastily scrawled beneath.
If he cold promise dozens more, their names pressed together like two teenagers carving the bark of a tree? God.
Steve whines, unintentionally, when Zemo pulls away, his own chest heaving, his body pressed flush, holding his lover (yes, lover - that's what they are? not strangers, not friends, but two parts of a shattered whole) up against the wet tile. ]
Fuck, Zee.
[ A whisper, shaking and trembling before he leans his forehead against his. It's impossible to deny what those words do to him, the way his blood runs from a simmer to a roiling boil, the way his cock aches for want of friction, of something, muscle memory and all.
He dips his head for a moment, finding the very same place against his neck the way he had when they were young, and sucks at the skin there, laving it and soothing it with the warmth of his tongue. It's impossible to ignore the hot press of Zemo's prick against his abdomen, trapped between them. ]
No lube.
[ Well, this is his mother's house, and his mother's guest bathroom. There's a huff of a laugh there, husky and needy and desperate, and he presses his hips closer, flush, inching Zemo up along the wall, free hand dragging the blunt of his nails along his side, his hip, to the curve of his ass where he palms the skin, brief, before his hand dips down, down, down, slicking himself with pearls of needy precome he's nearly ashamed of for how desperately his cock's all but weeping.
There's no time for the gentle ravishings of their youth, no time for patient, careful love making beneath the heat of the spray. This is different, fueled by eight years of want and hurt and love. ]
I'll be gentle. I need you. [ Earnest, even if he can't help the way his hips roll, grinding insatiable heat against him, followed closely by a soft, whispered echo: ]
I'm yours.
[ He'll regret that, one day. He can feel it sink its hooks in and subtly pull. ]
[stupidly he wonders if this will feel like the first time all over again. he's tried for years not to tug on that string - to erase every single thing that reminded him of steve rogers and keep it at arm's length just like he tried to do with steve back before their lives ever permanently intertwined. a stupid, naive part of him assumed it would go away eventually if he pushed it down enough or let some magic number of days pass by without the painful, physical presence to haunt him. but it could never be that simple - not when the neat and tidy signature of steve rogers was here has already been scrawled across his heart since that needy, frantic kiss in the threshold of his dorm room. the specter of steve rogers was perhaps the one constant in his ever-shifting world. not even the duty and obligation he'd given up their life together for could take that from him - and truthfully? despite the pain, he would have done it all over again. wasn't knowing real love better than never having it at all? after all, neither of them have ever done anything in half-measures with one another.
one hand splays across steve's cheek again, thumb sliding under his jaw with a soft noise meant to soothe as steve sobs against him. he's cried so many nights at the thought of never having this moment again, utterly hollowed out as he puts on the aloof face the rest of the world thinks he's snide for having. none of them will ever understand it except the man holding him so tenderly right now, gripping and clinging and marking him all over again - a fresh bit of ink coating over the memory of what once was with a shakier hand.
zemo lets his head thud back carefully against the wet tiles, giving steve easier access to his neck and stifling a moan out of habit - the quiet boy always afraid of letting his fervor for steve rogers, the boy he loved, spill out into the rest of the unforgiving world that wouldn't understand or tolerate it. but it's not the same anymore, is it? this was their sanctuary, and it can be yet again. his fingers rake up the back of steve's neck, digging into his wet hair and scratching along his scalp with an insistence as he feels the tease of teeth between the heat of tongue.
no lube would normally be an ironically cold spray of disappointment, but right now? he'd have gotten down on his knees in front of the church if it meant having this moment. there's not a chance in hell he's going to waste it over a little discomfort. there's too much desperation threatening to overflow - there always was. he lets out an honest to god giggle at the matter-of-fact declaration, the reality kicking in that yes...sarah wouldn't have a need for that. somehow, he doesn't think she'd be judging them for it though.
It's fine, Steve, I can take it.
[it comes out in a breathy rush, in between a hard press of his lips as he glances down at steve's hand working over himself. fuck, how many times have those perfect hands done the same for him? he remembers every tough - from feather-light to frantic and everything in between. his legs tighten instinctively, not willing to risk slipping downward from where he's perfectly lined up and aching for steve to slide inside him.
i'm yours hits like a punch to the gut, and he lets out a guttural, wounded sound not completely drowned out by the rush of water against steve's cheek. he reaches down, biting his lip as his fingers slip along the throb of his own cock and shift between his own legs to start slowly pressing a fingertip in and testing just how uncomfortable this might start out. it's going to be tight - it's been years since he did this. part of him wishes he could say it only ever belonged to steve, but there's a string of mistakes that would beg to differ. but he can say with utter certainty: no one ever made him feel so utterly adored, like something to be protected and treasured like steven grant rogers.]
You were the best thing that ever happened to me.
[there's a soft murmur, and zemo closes his eyes against the wetness pricking at the corners that aren't from the hot spray of the shower.]
[ What would those eight years have looked and felt like had they been together through it? Would his body be bruised and scarred? Would they both be tired and sad and desperate now beneath the spray of the shower if they had just taken a dangerous chance on one another? He doesn't allow himself to think about the would-bes and could-have-beens, doesn't let himself think of the happiness that somehow slipped through his fingers, no matter how hard he'd tried to hold on.
Please stay. Plaintive, on the voice of a boy having the whole future he'd begun to nurture torn from beneath his skin. But Zemo hadn't stayed and Steve left for war, and it seems they've both come out of eight years of battles battered and weary.
In another time he might have taken his time here, might have mapped the lines of Zemo's body with his mouth, might have gently begun to work him open and pliant with the delicate curve and push of fingers but there's nothing of that gentle caution from years ago, though there should be. But his lover practically giggles and it brings up the huff of a chuckle in him, lips curved in a smile behind an open mouthed, needy kiss, unable to stifle the way the sound turns into a guttural moan as the other man's fingers tangle in his hair, bringing fire to a roar beneath his skin.
Carefully he lines up the head of his cock at the man's entrance, that sensation alone enough to send electric pulses up his spine. It's been years, since they last tumbled in the spare bedroom or dorm room bunks. Part of him wonders if he even remembers, if his body will recall the rhythm and angles and so much more that could make Helmut Zemo fall apart. He wants that: to make him fall apart, to undo eight years of stitches and curl himself around the tiny, guttering flame they shared, once upon a time.
One hand grips the muscle of his ass, bracing the pretty man against the wall as his hips shift just so, pushing in slowly, slowly, with a quivering sort of restraint. ]
Zee, I —
[ I love you, I've missed you, I need you, I wish you'd — Steve closes his mouth over Zemo's, licking hot and slow into his mouth, emptying a heady groan against his lips as the tight heat of the other man all but overwhelms him, his cock practically throbbing for the want of friction, speed, more, but made needier for the way Steve slowly presses up into him and, with the hand on his ass, carefully brings him flush and down, as if he could bury himself here and stay this way. ]
S'it alright? [ Words a panting whisper against Zemo's jaw, his ear, his fingers digging in to bruise, all the while his free arm braces against the slick tile. ] You feel —
[ Another inch and he stifles a practically filthy, wanton grunt against Zemo's throat, stilling his hips long enough to clear the stars from his vision. (It might be tears, too, slipping out from the cracks newly pressed into his heart). ]
[his head arches back against the slippery tile as he swallows around a curse, fingers digging in hard around steve's shoulders - enough to leave a few marks of his own as his thighs start trembling from how they're trying desperately to cling and find some sort of leverage. the thought of leaving steve a souvenir burns low in his gut, a pleasing ripple all the way up his spine and curling at the corner of his mouth. it's been years since anyone has had him like this, and longer still since it was someone who used to know every intimate spot, every secret press and would whisper adoring words against his temple or in his ear every time they came together. it isn't an exaggeration to call it making love - why would it? that's what they were back then - young, in love, full of unbridled passion as if no one else existed in the world besides them. he loved steve, and the truth is he still loves him now, maybe more than eight years ago if it were even possible.
it's not fair to say it, even though he desperately wants to, especially when steve groans the affectionate nickname against his neck and starts to push inside. it's tight, and he'd be lying if he tried to pretend there wasn't a burn from the stretch of it, especially without the careful attention that came from nothing but the luxury of time and softer moments. these feel utterly stolen, the two of them suspended here to wade through the ache of memories years old, yet hurtling them faster and faster toward dawn all at the same time in some illogical paradox.
zemo exhales hard, biting down on his lip to hold in a high, keening noise as he feels steve finally manage to bury himself up to the hilt and holds him in place with one big, warm palm like he used to. his stomach trembles, breath heaving as his body finally adjusts - remembers that steve belonged here, once upon a time, laid claim to it nearly as possessively if not moreso than the handprints and bruises that fade from the surface of his skin. his eyes open slowly, half-lidded with droplets clinging to dark lashes as he nods against steve's cheek.]
You're perfect. It's good, Steve - go on.
[uttered reverently between shaky breaths, before he lets steve swallow up another moan and shift his hips upwards and make him realize just how full he feels - like for one blissful moment maybe he can be whole again. he can handle it, legs digging into his hips intentionally digging into his hips as if he were wordlessly commanding an unruly stallion. and - if that's not enough to convey his abject need - the way he intentionally squeezes around steve, accentuating the nearly unbearable tightness should do the trick.]
Take me.
[he leans in again to nip at those plush, reddened lips that stand out among the stark white of the shower and shivering skin. it's playful as he whispers against steve's lips in a soft murmur - words maybe he'll remember even if they aren't in english.]
If his heart could break again, just like it had in their shared dorm eight years ago, it might. The shards could turn to glittering dust to dissolve in the wind. Steve hasn't stopped loving this man, hasn't stopped yearning for this man, even though he's never said as much out loud. To have him here like this, the steamy spray of the shower against his shoulders and Zemo's lips nipping at his own? It feels like a dream.
The heels dig into his hips, coupled with the sting of teeth and the keen that slips between those pretty lips, and Steve begins to move, one hand keeping Zemo supported as he draws out, painfully slow, and back in, setting a slow, diligent pace despite the burning need he feels deep in his gut. But each time his hips slide flush, burying himself to the hilt and back. ]
Lúbim—
[ He shouldn't. Not after the time that has spanned the distance between them, even though all of that is lost in the steady pump of his hips and the way he pants against Zemo's throat, lips peppering kisses, tongue lapping at the soft curve of his jaw until he finally finds his lips again.
Strangle out the desperate need to tell him just what he feels, just how deeply he misses him, and just how complete he feels like this. His free hand slides up into Zemo's hair, tugging it back to bare his throat so his mouth can fixate on the gentle rise of his adam's apple. The hand drops back down, fingers sliding to his ass, hands braced on either side to hold him up all while the rhythm of his hips begins to quicken. ]
You're so— shit.
[ Spoken against his skin, desperate and hot. Eight years since he could love and be loved like this, eight years of yearning all flooding out now in the damp air between them. His mouth drags its way back to meet Zemo's, panting and wanting, before he speaks: ]
You're beautiful.
[ The next thrust drives hard, the sound of wet skin slapping amid the trickle of water, body suddenly remembering the angles, the touches, the way Zemo so liked it back when they were younger, hopeful things. ]
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Instead, he dips his head again to press a kiss against Zemo's shoulder, hands sliding down along the planes of his chest, his sides, to the dip of his low back, then up again, mapping out the man who used to be a boy he could draw to perfection from memory alone. His fingers know the way, know the dips and valleys, pleasantly surprised to find he's firmer in some places, softer in others, in ways that makes him want to dip and taste the differences on his tongue.
That thought alone makes him chuckle, low and arm against Zemo's neck. Once upon a time, he might have pushed him back against the door and had his way, but they're here, slick and cold from rainwater, trying to kindle warmth with the press of fingers and lips. It's not enough, but it's stirred something to life in him all over again, and he gives a needy hum. ]
The shower's always warmer, you know. You'll catch your death.
[ An invitation, not a demand, even as he slides his lips back up along the fair slope of his neck, worrying at a spot just where his jaw meets, a spot he found himself pressing little bruises into when they were younger and swept up in the romance of futures. It's difficult, though, to stop kissing him, to stop touching him, even with the promise of warmer, more intimate places. Letting him go now feels like letting him go forever all over again and his body resists.
His hands slide round that slender waist and fingers trip over the buckle of what is surely a bespoke, designer belt, catching the fine leather and pulling, both to relieve the hook and to drag Zemo in for another hot, needy, almost desperate kiss before he applies pressure, gently walking the man a step, then another, backwards toward the bathroom, without drawing his lips away for anything other than the quick catch of air. ]
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it's not as if his body hasn't changed too - still lithe, maybe a little less full than before from running ragged trying to plan the wedding he won't let himself think about right now lest it break the magic of this moment. but there are parts of him that have gotten softer - the line of his jaw, his lower abdomen. none of which makes him insecure in the slightest, because that was never something steve ever made him feel worried about. the way they fit together was simply too perfect and too adored by his ex-lover, and frankly by his own confidence to ever feel like he wasn't enough. and the fact that they're still standing year eight years later, unable to control themselves or their wandering, desperate hands is testament enough that yeah, there's still a lot of that to go around, apparently. zemo never fell out of love, and maybe he can dare to think that steve never did either. maybe.
zemo tips his head back with a low groan, both hands dragging along steve's arms to fist into his hair and hold him where he's pressed against his neck. he's always been extra sensitive there, and steve always knew exactly how much teeth to use to get him to be marked, to lay claim to zemo's body in a more physical acknowledgment.]
You don't have to tell me twice.
[there's a lazy grin that can be heard in his tone, the murmur of it vibrating against his throat where steve's lips are still so close. he's trying not to shiver - both from the cold and the sensation of those hands he's dreamed of all over his skin yet again. they're more calloused, he can tell, and the texture of it makes his knees weak and his own fingers tighten against steve's scalp before they rake down his back with another low noise hot in his ear. steve's chest is somehow both warm and chilled when pressed against his own, and he can feel the oversensitive drag of skin and muscle against his pink, peaked nipples. he lets steve guide him back, toeing out of his sloshing oxfords and accidentally nudging at steve's knee as he kicks one to the side. he doesn't bother to apologize, instead stilling him for a moment and lunging forward for to kiss him in protest for any small separation - even if it's to breathe.
his other shoe takes some wiggling to make loose, and he busies himself with unbuckling steve's belt enough to unbutton and unzip his pants and loosen them around the enticing dip of his waist and hips. his tongue swipes along the inside of steve's mouth, lips dragging back to offer him another enamored look.]
You're still impossibly handsome, you know? How did you get even hotter, Steve Rogers?
[another quick nip, and he lets his thumbs stroke at the hard-won jut of his sculpted hipbones with a delighted hum.]
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The words alone crack open something warm and surprised and vulnerable. He meets the other man's eyes and feels the creep of an old flush in his neck, his cheeks. Like he's some bright-eyed school boy dreaming about futures all over again. He doesn't feel like the war-scarred soldier, the tired captain, the quiet friend. He feels like Steve Rogers for the first time in a very, very long time. No, he hasn't fallen out of love with this man. He never did. He just locked that love away with the boy who kindled it.
The way Zemo's fingers twist in his hair make him moan, shamefully and low against the slope of his neck. The feeling of fingertips and the blunt of nails along the bare planes of his back, sends wild hot fire down his spine. His fingers work feverishly at the belt, the button of pants, loosening the wet fabric clinging to the slender dip of Zemo's hips. Stepping out of his own soggy dress shoes, letting his own pants slide once they're loose, he can't help but hum in appreciation as those fingers trace the jut of his hips. His palms know these planes and valleys as well as he knows his own name and he takes advantage of that, one pausing the journey toward the bathroom long enough to slide his hands up Zemo's chest, fingers tripping over the pretty, pink raise of a nipple, swiping a thumb over it in cautious acknowledgement, his free hand wrapped still round his hips now, letting those tricksy fingers slide beneath the waistband of wet pants and the band of some surely expensive underwear, to palm his ass, warm and soft beneath his touch. He groans, pleased. ]
I could say the same for you, you know.
[ Another nudge back (and the careful side step to avoid tripping over his own wet pants as he manages to step out of them) and they're met with the bathroom door, shut, and he lets out a low laugh. ]
I'd say you should have brought your robe, but I don't think I want anything between you and me right now.
[ Another searing kiss, his tongue sliding hot and needy along Zemo's, the hand from his chest sliding down his side to fumble with the bathroom door handle, opening it behind them and blindly pawing at the light switch, if only so he can keep kissing the other man as though Helmut Zemo is the very air that Steve needs to exist, to survive. But the shiver of cold (and want) takes over instead and he breaks the kiss, pressing their foreheads together as his hands instead reach to pull at the waistband of the man's underwear once more. ]
Out of these wet clothes. I'll get the shower.
[ Though he's having a very difficult time pulling his hands and lips away from the smoldering man across from him. ]
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christ, he's so giddy with it he hardly feels cold right now, even as his body is shivering lightly and his fingers are like ice. steve feels so warm and inviting despite it, the hot press of his mouth and thumb pressing across one sensitive nipple earning a gasp he couldn't stifle if he tried. it grows even firmer under his touch, and zemo pauses just before his back hits the door to drag him down more forcefully into another hungry kiss, tugging him by the neck without regard for the impact once they're there. he grins into it when steve breaks to let out a laugh and tease him about a robe, even as his hand seeks out the chilled skin of his ass underneath the waistband of his underwear. zemo moves to mimic the motion, snapping his waistband lightly with an amused hum and thumbs dipping ever so slightly down, down, downward and just barely grazing above the nestle of steve's thick cock.]
Not a chance. This - [he snaps it again, this time hooking his thumbs under and slowly starting to drag the fabric down his hips and along the strong muscle of his thighs] - is already pesky enough, hmm?
[he presses up on his toes, pecking kisses at him and lifting his legs as needed until they're both fully naked and stepping inside the bathroom. only now does the cold seem to settle in with another full body shiver, and zemo pulls away long enough for steve to fumble with the water. only when his attention is fully focused again while waiting for the water to warm up does he lean in, licking against his lips with a content sigh and arms draping along his shoulders to press their bodies flush. even with the clamminess of wet skin he can feel the heat radiating underneath, nuzzling in close and whispering against his lips.]
I missed the way you feel, Steve. Everywhere.
[he shouldn't say what inevitably follows. but the door's been opened, and he just can't stop it now. he needs steve to hear his words and know the actions that follow mean something.]
I think about it - every day. About you, us.
[and god, he hopes the ardent confession won't bring sorrow right now in lieu of something heated and so desperately needy.]
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The awkward steps into the bathroom, carefully tripping over the sticky-wet fabric - it's a trail not unlike breadcrumbs: wet clothes leading them back to the lives they live outside of these four walls, to the lives they chose in favor of the warm, familiar fire set on the air around them. The sound of water fills his ears, the hiss of showers taking him back to hazy, dorm room days where they fumbled awkward and unknowing, trying to discover what language their bodies spoke together.
He knows it now, knows it in the press of Zemo's body up against his own and he all but purrs at the contact, shivering skin against skin, but he can feel the beating of his heart against his chest. It hurts, strangely, and he dismisses the thought with another hungry kiss, slower and deeper, tongue playfully twining with its tricksy partner. The bathroom slowly begins to warm, tiny puffs of steam drifting from the shower floor, drawing his skin up to gooseflesh.
Strong arms find their place around the man's slender waist, broad palms sliding along sides and hips to splay evenly across the small of his back, fitting where they shouldn't, but right where they should be.
His eyes flutter open when the kiss parts and all he can feel is Helmut against him, achingly familiar and perfect in a way that makes his heart burst, full to the brim with want and desperation and... so many, many other things.
Us, Zemo says, like it's torturous and dangerous, but Steve understands. Us had been a dream, once upon a time, and one that feels so close and so real, enveloped in steamy heat and the pleasant warmth of the man he's always found himself sinking into for refuge.
He's quiet at first, just panting into the soft brush of his lips, nose nuzzled and bumped against his. But his fingers flex against his back, drawing him tighter, closer, holding him there as if that alone might cement whatever it is this has become. ]
You've never left my mind.
[ He kisses him softly, fleeting little things while he tries to swallow back the lump in his throat. ]
I've missed this. I've missed you. And god you feel like... [ Like home. But he doesn't feel brave enough to say it. Instead, he uses those strong arms to carefully haul the man up like he might have years ago (though it's much easier now), encouraging those legs to find his waist so he can step them into the shower, his own back to the spray first.
Once upon a time, he might have let him back to his feet, might have drawn him in for showery kisses drenched and laughing amid the spray. Instead, he presses him up against one of the tiled walls, humming low and deep into a sloppy, needy kiss, as his own dick brushes the soft swell of his lover's ass, as one hand leaves to tweak the pretty pink nipple he'd neglected earlier.
They've been here, once upon a time. And maybe this is just how they're destined to meet from now on - frantic, fiery, longing, and yet always running away from one another. ]
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he never thought part three would bleed back into part two...well, ever. hasn't he tried to move past it? they say grief gets a little easier every day, but privately zemo wonders if those people have ever experienced grief for someone still living - the all-consuming suffering of heartbreak. even worse still: involuntary heartbreak. the truth is, he hasn't stopped loving steve. and judging by the response he's getting now, he wouldn't have the audacity to assume it's still love after what he did, but there's still deep admiration. and clearly there's no shortage of pent-up physical desire from either party in the moment. but that was never really their problem, was it?
no. and it's certainly not now, not when steve hefts him up like he still weighs nothing in arms that have surely gotten stronger by the looks of it over time. you feel like home - zemo can easily finish because the sentiment feels like it's going to burst out of his own heart. steve feels safe, just like he always did. it could have been them against the world until he shattered it all to pieces. he can't linger on that right now, not when he lets out sharp gasp and instinctively wraps his legs around steve's impossibly trim waist and slings both his arms around broad shoulders to hold on.]
Careful -
[he says it between a grin before nosing in for another kiss, swallowing back the emotion for something more lighthearted right now because if he lets anything else through he doesn't think he'll be able to stop, and he wants this to be a happy memory instead of a bittersweet one to join so many others. he knows steve won't drop him, and he's tempted to tease otherwise, but steve has other plans apparently. zemo can't help the hitch of breath lost underneath the pattering of running water when steve's fingers tease sensitive skin, a hungry groan that steve swallows between his lips. he hasn't been touched like this in years - and even if he had, nothing could even come close to having it be steve. his fingertips dig at the corded muscle of strong shoulders, desperately holding on as slides his tongue inside steve's mouth to twine with his lover's again and again and again.
it's only when he feels the telltale nudge of steve's cock between his legs that he pulls away, hand sliding to cup his cheek and press their foreheads together again. it's warmer now, but he thinks even without the steaming water his skin would be alight with the heat of the moment anyway.]
I want you, Steve. I need you.
[i never stopped wanting you, he cuts himself off from saying with a soft nip at steve's lips before he whispers against them.]
Inside me - please. I'm all yours.
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He needed nothing if he had Zemo. He wanted for nothing if he had Zemo.
There's a hole, shaped like the needy, perfect, beautiful boy he loved (loves) burned into his chest, his ribs reformed into the very shape of him, his heart beating a stuttering rhythm around the sounds of a foreign, lilting name. But here he is, that very same boy, worn with the years but still handsome, still just as perfect, still just as beautiful and he somehow fits. The sound of his voice fills up the space left between his ribs, makes his heart ache, makes his throat swell.
There's a sob somewhere, drowned by the hiss of water and swallowed up by Zemo's kiss, and Steve leans into the press of that mouth, the desperate wrap of his tongue. He allows his hands to wander, the pad of a thumb over that same raise of pink, fingers digging against hips and the low of his back, pressing faint bruises as though to say Steve Rogers was here, with a date hastily scrawled beneath.
If he cold promise dozens more, their names pressed together like two teenagers carving the bark of a tree? God.
Steve whines, unintentionally, when Zemo pulls away, his own chest heaving, his body pressed flush, holding his lover (yes, lover - that's what they are? not strangers, not friends, but two parts of a shattered whole) up against the wet tile. ]
Fuck, Zee.
[ A whisper, shaking and trembling before he leans his forehead against his. It's impossible to deny what those words do to him, the way his blood runs from a simmer to a roiling boil, the way his cock aches for want of friction, of something, muscle memory and all.
He dips his head for a moment, finding the very same place against his neck the way he had when they were young, and sucks at the skin there, laving it and soothing it with the warmth of his tongue. It's impossible to ignore the hot press of Zemo's prick against his abdomen, trapped between them. ]
No lube.
[ Well, this is his mother's house, and his mother's guest bathroom. There's a huff of a laugh there, husky and needy and desperate, and he presses his hips closer, flush, inching Zemo up along the wall, free hand dragging the blunt of his nails along his side, his hip, to the curve of his ass where he palms the skin, brief, before his hand dips down, down, down, slicking himself with pearls of needy precome he's nearly ashamed of for how desperately his cock's all but weeping.
There's no time for the gentle ravishings of their youth, no time for patient, careful love making beneath the heat of the spray. This is different, fueled by eight years of want and hurt and love. ]
I'll be gentle. I need you. [ Earnest, even if he can't help the way his hips roll, grinding insatiable heat against him, followed closely by a soft, whispered echo: ]
I'm yours.
[ He'll regret that, one day. He can feel it sink its hooks in and subtly pull. ]
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one hand splays across steve's cheek again, thumb sliding under his jaw with a soft noise meant to soothe as steve sobs against him. he's cried so many nights at the thought of never having this moment again, utterly hollowed out as he puts on the aloof face the rest of the world thinks he's snide for having. none of them will ever understand it except the man holding him so tenderly right now, gripping and clinging and marking him all over again - a fresh bit of ink coating over the memory of what once was with a shakier hand.
zemo lets his head thud back carefully against the wet tiles, giving steve easier access to his neck and stifling a moan out of habit - the quiet boy always afraid of letting his fervor for steve rogers, the boy he loved, spill out into the rest of the unforgiving world that wouldn't understand or tolerate it. but it's not the same anymore, is it? this was their sanctuary, and it can be yet again. his fingers rake up the back of steve's neck, digging into his wet hair and scratching along his scalp with an insistence as he feels the tease of teeth between the heat of tongue.
no lube would normally be an ironically cold spray of disappointment, but right now? he'd have gotten down on his knees in front of the church if it meant having this moment. there's not a chance in hell he's going to waste it over a little discomfort. there's too much desperation threatening to overflow - there always was. he lets out an honest to god giggle at the matter-of-fact declaration, the reality kicking in that yes...sarah wouldn't have a need for that. somehow, he doesn't think she'd be judging them for it though.
It's fine, Steve, I can take it.
[it comes out in a breathy rush, in between a hard press of his lips as he glances down at steve's hand working over himself. fuck, how many times have those perfect hands done the same for him? he remembers every tough - from feather-light to frantic and everything in between. his legs tighten instinctively, not willing to risk slipping downward from where he's perfectly lined up and aching for steve to slide inside him.
i'm yours hits like a punch to the gut, and he lets out a guttural, wounded sound not completely drowned out by the rush of water against steve's cheek. he reaches down, biting his lip as his fingers slip along the throb of his own cock and shift between his own legs to start slowly pressing a fingertip in and testing just how uncomfortable this might start out. it's going to be tight - it's been years since he did this. part of him wishes he could say it only ever belonged to steve, but there's a string of mistakes that would beg to differ. but he can say with utter certainty: no one ever made him feel so utterly adored, like something to be protected and treasured like steven grant rogers.]
You were the best thing that ever happened to me.
[there's a soft murmur, and zemo closes his eyes against the wetness pricking at the corners that aren't from the hot spray of the shower.]
Do it - please.
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Please stay. Plaintive, on the voice of a boy having the whole future he'd begun to nurture torn from beneath his skin. But Zemo hadn't stayed and Steve left for war, and it seems they've both come out of eight years of battles battered and weary.
In another time he might have taken his time here, might have mapped the lines of Zemo's body with his mouth, might have gently begun to work him open and pliant with the delicate curve and push of fingers but there's nothing of that gentle caution from years ago, though there should be. But his lover practically giggles and it brings up the huff of a chuckle in him, lips curved in a smile behind an open mouthed, needy kiss, unable to stifle the way the sound turns into a guttural moan as the other man's fingers tangle in his hair, bringing fire to a roar beneath his skin.
Carefully he lines up the head of his cock at the man's entrance, that sensation alone enough to send electric pulses up his spine. It's been years, since they last tumbled in the spare bedroom or dorm room bunks. Part of him wonders if he even remembers, if his body will recall the rhythm and angles and so much more that could make Helmut Zemo fall apart. He wants that: to make him fall apart, to undo eight years of stitches and curl himself around the tiny, guttering flame they shared, once upon a time.
One hand grips the muscle of his ass, bracing the pretty man against the wall as his hips shift just so, pushing in slowly, slowly, with a quivering sort of restraint. ]
Zee, I —
[ I love you, I've missed you, I need you, I wish you'd — Steve closes his mouth over Zemo's, licking hot and slow into his mouth, emptying a heady groan against his lips as the tight heat of the other man all but overwhelms him, his cock practically throbbing for the want of friction, speed, more, but made needier for the way Steve slowly presses up into him and, with the hand on his ass, carefully brings him flush and down, as if he could bury himself here and stay this way. ]
S'it alright? [ Words a panting whisper against Zemo's jaw, his ear, his fingers digging in to bruise, all the while his free arm braces against the slick tile. ] You feel —
[ Another inch and he stifles a practically filthy, wanton grunt against Zemo's throat, stilling his hips long enough to clear the stars from his vision. (It might be tears, too, slipping out from the cracks newly pressed into his heart). ]
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[his head arches back against the slippery tile as he swallows around a curse, fingers digging in hard around steve's shoulders - enough to leave a few marks of his own as his thighs start trembling from how they're trying desperately to cling and find some sort of leverage. the thought of leaving steve a souvenir burns low in his gut, a pleasing ripple all the way up his spine and curling at the corner of his mouth. it's been years since anyone has had him like this, and longer still since it was someone who used to know every intimate spot, every secret press and would whisper adoring words against his temple or in his ear every time they came together. it isn't an exaggeration to call it making love - why would it? that's what they were back then - young, in love, full of unbridled passion as if no one else existed in the world besides them. he loved steve, and the truth is he still loves him now, maybe more than eight years ago if it were even possible.
it's not fair to say it, even though he desperately wants to, especially when steve groans the affectionate nickname against his neck and starts to push inside. it's tight, and he'd be lying if he tried to pretend there wasn't a burn from the stretch of it, especially without the careful attention that came from nothing but the luxury of time and softer moments. these feel utterly stolen, the two of them suspended here to wade through the ache of memories years old, yet hurtling them faster and faster toward dawn all at the same time in some illogical paradox.
zemo exhales hard, biting down on his lip to hold in a high, keening noise as he feels steve finally manage to bury himself up to the hilt and holds him in place with one big, warm palm like he used to. his stomach trembles, breath heaving as his body finally adjusts - remembers that steve belonged here, once upon a time, laid claim to it nearly as possessively if not moreso than the handprints and bruises that fade from the surface of his skin. his eyes open slowly, half-lidded with droplets clinging to dark lashes as he nods against steve's cheek.]
You're perfect. It's good, Steve - go on.
[uttered reverently between shaky breaths, before he lets steve swallow up another moan and shift his hips upwards and make him realize just how full he feels - like for one blissful moment maybe he can be whole again. he can handle it, legs digging into his hips intentionally digging into his hips as if he were wordlessly commanding an unruly stallion. and - if that's not enough to convey his abject need - the way he intentionally squeezes around steve, accentuating the nearly unbearable tightness should do the trick.]
Take me.
[he leans in again to nip at those plush, reddened lips that stand out among the stark white of the shower and shivering skin. it's playful as he whispers against steve's lips in a soft murmur - words maybe he'll remember even if they aren't in english.]
Som tvoja, moja láska.
[i'm yours, my love.]
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If his heart could break again, just like it had in their shared dorm eight years ago, it might. The shards could turn to glittering dust to dissolve in the wind. Steve hasn't stopped loving this man, hasn't stopped yearning for this man, even though he's never said as much out loud. To have him here like this, the steamy spray of the shower against his shoulders and Zemo's lips nipping at his own? It feels like a dream.
The heels dig into his hips, coupled with the sting of teeth and the keen that slips between those pretty lips, and Steve begins to move, one hand keeping Zemo supported as he draws out, painfully slow, and back in, setting a slow, diligent pace despite the burning need he feels deep in his gut. But each time his hips slide flush, burying himself to the hilt and back. ]
Lúbim—
[ He shouldn't. Not after the time that has spanned the distance between them, even though all of that is lost in the steady pump of his hips and the way he pants against Zemo's throat, lips peppering kisses, tongue lapping at the soft curve of his jaw until he finally finds his lips again.
Strangle out the desperate need to tell him just what he feels, just how deeply he misses him, and just how complete he feels like this. His free hand slides up into Zemo's hair, tugging it back to bare his throat so his mouth can fixate on the gentle rise of his adam's apple. The hand drops back down, fingers sliding to his ass, hands braced on either side to hold him up all while the rhythm of his hips begins to quicken. ]
You're so— shit.
[ Spoken against his skin, desperate and hot. Eight years since he could love and be loved like this, eight years of yearning all flooding out now in the damp air between them. His mouth drags its way back to meet Zemo's, panting and wanting, before he speaks: ]
You're beautiful.
[ The next thrust drives hard, the sound of wet skin slapping amid the trickle of water, body suddenly remembering the angles, the touches, the way Zemo so liked it back when they were younger, hopeful things. ]