[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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no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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). ]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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. ]