[his own face feels like it's on fire. what is he doing encouraging this when there's not a barrier of distance between them? several, actually - from the physical distance imparted between dorm rooms, let alone how close steve is standing, and...the very distinct lack of his clothing right now. that's the one that has his cheeks burning the most, forces him to duck his head down and get to work on mixing the ingredients for batter together in a bowl. his fantasies are veering elsewhere than a floor right now - not a bed either. no, instead it's a lazy weekend morning just like this, only he's in his robe with nothing underneath as promised, and steve looks exactly the way he does now. presses up behind him with little consideration for personal space before turning and hoisting him up on the counter, a clatter of empty pans to the floor to make room before sliding a hand down and untying his robe, letting it fall open and -
and that's when he realizes steve is actually right next to him and still very much scantily clad. zemo accidentally drops the flour he'd been sifting into the mix with a clatter, a white puff of it fluttering up like smoke and catching on his forearm. some of it splatters against his cheek too, though he doesn't feel it right away.]
Ah - apologies. I suppose that'll wake you up if you're still tired.
[he looks over at steve sideways knowing full well with one glance he doesn't look it, and there's something sheepish in his own expression as steve extends the nutella in his direction. he sets down the remnants of the flour off to the side and no longer at risk of making a mess, glancing up through his lashes this time. this close, he can see just how long steve's are, speaking of - and he can also see the way the muscles in his shoulder ripple when he shifts his arm in an extension. he feels like he's holding his breath looking up into that handsome face, and his fingers brush intentionally this time as he takes the jar from his hand.]
Thanks.
[a low murmur, just barely above a whisper before they pull away.]
You know - [he swallows hard too, cheeks hallowing and lips pursing briefly like he's working something out.] Has anyone ever told you there's green in your eyes, not just the impossibly blue?
[ What would he do, if Zemo had arrived in his robe, as promised? Steve wonders, briefly, how many surfaces he would press the boy against in the kissing alone, how many hallowed walls would watch as he committed the very cavern of the boy's mouth to memory. The kitchen itself holds plenty of possibilities, even now with him mixing ingredients, what might it feel like to turn him, pin him to the curved, vinyl edge and -
The flour puffs around them, a smattering of dust on his own arm, even on the stretch of ribs from the reaching, but it's the nearness that takes even him off guard, though he'd been the one to initiate it in the first place. Zemo's speaking, he's sure of it, but he's so focused on the flour settled gracefully on the rise of a cheekbone and the way his lips move around some kind of words that surely mean something. But the jar disappears and Steve blinks, looking down at those coquettish lashes, the swell of pink lips.
He can't breathe. His heart feels like it might rattle out of his chest and it takes every ounce of restraint in him to keep from closing the distance, from actualizing the boy pressed up against the counter or, God, up on it. What could he do to make Zemo look at him like that again, to whisper softly, though he nearly misses the words for the way his Adam's apple bobs in the delicate line of his throat. ]
No, just you.
[ His hand moves without permission, thumb grazing its way along that very throat he'd been admiring, all the way to the line of his cheek where he swipes at flour, retracting his hand as though to show evidence, proof of just why he had to let his pesky fingers investigate. ]
You spilled some.
[ Quiet, warm, curious. Nervous. He reaches then to slide his thumb along the tip of Zemo's nose, dotting it white with the flour from the pad of his thumb. ]
Thought I'd help you clean it up. [ Another swipe, this time to the cleft of his chin. ] See?
[he's about to add that it's especially for things he considers beautiful, worth looking at closely - but any semblance of coherent thought flies out the window the moment steve presses his thumb against the line of his throat. he swallows instinctively again, enough that he'll feel it trailing under his skin as his eyes widen marginally. it takes everything not to let his lips fall open in surprise or do something very, very foolish like lunge forward and kiss him stupid. the warmth and tension between them is palpable enough to be cut by one of the very utensils on the counter, forgotten right now for something that has an urgency begging to be addressed.
zemo doesn't even realize he's holding his breath as the soft touch is pulled away for his observation - indeed covered in flour he hadn't realized was there. but his line of sight dips for a few moments to the white smattering on steve's forearm, then drawn further down to the side of his toned torso which is equally dotted with it. it flicks back up when steve decides to make an even bigger mess - and some mischievous glimmers its way into the rich amber of his eyes.]
Ah - noble of you.
[there's a little bit of it on his fingertips, and he lifts them to flick it in steve's general vicinity, which isn't enough to add to the light dusting already on his chest. but if the other boy is going to get cozy in his overly familiar touch which isn't at all unwelcome, two can play at that game.
he dips a fingertip into the open container of nutella behind his back, lifting it suddenly to swipe it along steve's jawline. and honestly - what he wouldn't give to lick it off later.]
Oops. Looks like you've been caught in the crossfire as well.
[said smugly, with no trace of remorse as his lips spread into a smirk not unlike a cat that's managed to catch its canary. what are you going to do about it? is the implication from a bounce of his brow and the way he steps back slow and deliberate. try him. maybe there's a part that's hoping he'll be messy enough to have to even things out in the state of their clothes.]
[ Steve barely expects the smear of nutella and he doesn't even have time to process it before he feels the warm, sticky line drawn by those fingers. Fingers now sticky-sweet with hazelnut spread that, for a moment, consume his focus. He's never been one overly focused on the sensual and intimate, but he can't help the fact that he wants to snatch that hand back and clean the very tip of it with his own lips, the salty taste of skin and nutella sure to be a winning combination.
The thought brings heat, fast and full, into the rise of his cheeks, the slope of his throat, into his chest. He laughs lowly, considering for a moment before he hums, reaching his own hand to touch the smear on his jaw. ]
Where did this come from?
[ A grin and he considers his options, considers how close they are, and how he feels as if he could kiss him stupid as well right now and not bother with flour, nutella, and pancakes. He reaches to spread the nutella on Zemo's jawline instead, before he dips a finger into the tub, scooping up some for the eating as he licks his finger clean, humming at the taste of it. ]
Guess I should go clean up. Get dressed. Since I have company and all.
[ Strange, though, that the very thought of leaving feels as though he's closing the door on something. That maybe walking away right now would shut down whatever warm, electric thing that buzzes between them. For a moment he wonders if he's the only one feeling it, that maybe he's just made up whatever this playful, teasing thing is. Maybe Helmut is humoring him. It wouldn't be the first, but he doesn't want to squash the tiny lick of hope the smear of nutella on his jaw might mean, never mind the way his skin burns with the touch.
A huff, and he raises his eyebrows, teasing and light, like he's making to leave before he turns around and smears the remainder on the other boy's hand, the soft back of his palm, almost like a dare, before he starts toward the kitchen door. ]
And you made the mess you know. Can't blame that one on me.
[it hasn't escaped his notice that all he would have to do is press up onto his tiptoes, tilt his head back and let the fantasy of finding out what steve rogers' lips taste like transpire. he's not sure when this became such an all-consuming thought. was it when they first exchanged a heated debate over the psychology of a main character in english class? was it the first time steve had run out after him and offered to walk him to his next class so they could carry on their spirited conversation? or was it some culmination of nearly a semester's worth of what ifs tipped to its boiling point by seeing him across his working table every day, topped off now by reminiscing the way that warm chuckle sounded directly in his ear. a nearly naked steve rogers in front of him is just the cherry on top.
he jolts when steve drags his own finger full of nutella across his jawline, and zemo lets out a noise of half-protest and half being startled. but he lifts his finger to swipe as much as he can off the underside of his chin, sticking it into his mouth and sucking it off with a small hum as he watches steve do the same. and yes - that same thought crosses his mind that really, they ought to trade. at the mention of getting dressed, however...god knows what possesses him, but he adds in boldly:]
Well, don't overdo it on my account. I'd say a shirt is optional.
[his voice is so utterly neutral that maybe steve won't take it as the flirting it is - the backhanded admission that yes, zemo has eyes and they maybe have lingered on his six-pack. he's about to get back to mixing when steve reaches for him again, this time making it worse.]
How very dare you, Steve Rogers. This means war.
[because now he's stomping off towards the door as well, smacking the back of his hand along the distinctive curve of the back of his shoulder blades with an aha of victory.]
[ Having play fights with flour and nutella isn't exactly how he had pictured his morning would go. He'd dreamed about the flirty boy on the phone, imagining him pressed into his chest, but winding up here with him? A surprise. But Helmut Zemo seems to be full of surprises, and the more they talk, the more the interact, the more he wants, well, more of it all.
Watching the other boy lick his fingers clean of nutella makes the heat in his gut rise to a simmer. Makes a pretty flush rise into the high points of his cheeks, down the line of his throat. It takes him aback, because he's felt attraction, sure. He's met pretty girls in parties and the occasional pretty-faced boy but he's never felt this at just watching someone. Someone who isn't his to kiss senseless, which is a real disappointment. ]
I'll think about the shirt. Jury's out.
[ Worse still when that hand swipes against his back, leaving fire prickling up under his skin. He whirls without thinking, laughing and rolling his shoulder blades back against the stickiness. Without thinking he reaches for Zemo's wrist, if only to keep him from retreating as he uses his other hand to smear the remainder of the nutella from his own jawline and reach to smear it across Zemo's cheek, mouth, jaw. ]
Then it's war. [ And Zemo better hurry before Steve gets to the pot of nutella first. ]
[to be fair, it's not at all what he expected his morning to entail either. he genuinely had come here to make actual breakfast instead of smearing it all over steve's body in a dangerously flirtatious challenge. but he also can't seem to care enough to get back on task and stop either, especially not when that someone seems to square up to their full height - enough that zemo has to tip his chin as he takes a slow step back towards the counter to try and get the head start towards some line of defense. whether it's the whole spoon or the jar - doesn't really matter.
what ends up happening instead is steve's fingers trailing along his face again, and it shouldn't have him suppressing a shudder. normally he'd be furious at getting filthy or risking ruining his clothes, but it's the furthest thing from his mind right now. now he just feels the sticky-sweet dessert along the line of his jaw and brushing across his lips. it should be embarrassing that his first instinct is that he wants to slip his tongue out and lick it right off those fingers - that he has to actually forcefully suppress that urge. instead he waits until they're far enough away that he can just swipe his tongue out and lick at his own lips instead, humming lightly as he takes another step back.
at least until steve grabs his wrist - and maybe he thinks he's strong enough to keep him from continuing his escape, but zemo tugs hard enough with no intention of breaking it as opposed to dragging him closer to the counter where they'll really have to duke it out over the open jar.
except - he realizes he's backed himself up against the counter as it nudges his spine, the sudden realization that it's a very tiny space for two grown men to be in close quarters. he glances up through his lashes - at the shimmer of mischief in beautiful blue, the way steve's lips look good curled into a smile, and most importantly - how he doesn't look ready to give up at all.]
You should yield while you can, Steven.
[coming from the person in the more compromising position - that might be a little amusing.]
[ Steve hardly expects the force of the pull, no less to be pulled in instead of pushed away. It's the unexpectedness of it all that leaves him stumbling forward, free hand reaching for the counter behind Zemo to brace himself, though it does little good to prevent the closing of distance, of the way he's near-flush with the other boy, a hand on the counter just outside the tantalizing slope of his waist.
(What would it be like to grab him here, to press broad palms and trace the slim curvature of his waist, all the while pressing him back, back, back against the counter to - )
Steve's eyes flicker to Zemo's lips for a fraction of a second too long, where some nutella remains despite the absolutely naughty swipe of his tongue previous. He thinks for a moment he could lean in and clean up the mess himself, and the thought alone makes fire burn high into his cheeks. It's difficult to suppress the way warmth pools low in his belly, a warning, but something else: curiosity, want.
And Steve will see that coquettish little expression in his dreams for the way Zemo looks up through his lashes at him. He huffs a laugh, though it's tighter than before. ]
While I can? Pretty sure you're the one on enemy soil, Helmut. But maybe we can come to a truce?
[ Maybe. He shouldn't be in this predicament to begin with. Should have shooed the other boy out or gotten dressed instead of entertaining this game. But he's stubborn, of course, and his heels dug in long, long ago. So he leans in, pressing their chests flush as he reaches around him for the jar of nutella, coming back only to press the jar where his own body had been. ]
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no subject
[his own face feels like it's on fire. what is he doing encouraging this when there's not a barrier of distance between them? several, actually - from the physical distance imparted between dorm rooms, let alone how close steve is standing, and...the very distinct lack of his clothing right now. that's the one that has his cheeks burning the most, forces him to duck his head down and get to work on mixing the ingredients for batter together in a bowl. his fantasies are veering elsewhere than a floor right now - not a bed either. no, instead it's a lazy weekend morning just like this, only he's in his robe with nothing underneath as promised, and steve looks exactly the way he does now. presses up behind him with little consideration for personal space before turning and hoisting him up on the counter, a clatter of empty pans to the floor to make room before sliding a hand down and untying his robe, letting it fall open and -
and that's when he realizes steve is actually right next to him and still very much scantily clad. zemo accidentally drops the flour he'd been sifting into the mix with a clatter, a white puff of it fluttering up like smoke and catching on his forearm. some of it splatters against his cheek too, though he doesn't feel it right away.]
Ah - apologies. I suppose that'll wake you up if you're still tired.
[he looks over at steve sideways knowing full well with one glance he doesn't look it, and there's something sheepish in his own expression as steve extends the nutella in his direction. he sets down the remnants of the flour off to the side and no longer at risk of making a mess, glancing up through his lashes this time. this close, he can see just how long steve's are, speaking of - and he can also see the way the muscles in his shoulder ripple when he shifts his arm in an extension. he feels like he's holding his breath looking up into that handsome face, and his fingers brush intentionally this time as he takes the jar from his hand.]
Thanks.
[a low murmur, just barely above a whisper before they pull away.]
You know - [he swallows hard too, cheeks hallowing and lips pursing briefly like he's working something out.] Has anyone ever told you there's green in your eyes, not just the impossibly blue?
no subject
The flour puffs around them, a smattering of dust on his own arm, even on the stretch of ribs from the reaching, but it's the nearness that takes even him off guard, though he'd been the one to initiate it in the first place. Zemo's speaking, he's sure of it, but he's so focused on the flour settled gracefully on the rise of a cheekbone and the way his lips move around some kind of words that surely mean something. But the jar disappears and Steve blinks, looking down at those coquettish lashes, the swell of pink lips.
He can't breathe. His heart feels like it might rattle out of his chest and it takes every ounce of restraint in him to keep from closing the distance, from actualizing the boy pressed up against the counter or, God, up on it. What could he do to make Zemo look at him like that again, to whisper softly, though he nearly misses the words for the way his Adam's apple bobs in the delicate line of his throat. ]
No, just you.
[ His hand moves without permission, thumb grazing its way along that very throat he'd been admiring, all the way to the line of his cheek where he swipes at flour, retracting his hand as though to show evidence, proof of just why he had to let his pesky fingers investigate. ]
You spilled some.
[ Quiet, warm, curious. Nervous. He reaches then to slide his thumb along the tip of Zemo's nose, dotting it white with the flour from the pad of his thumb. ]
Thought I'd help you clean it up. [ Another swipe, this time to the cleft of his chin. ] See?
no subject
[he's about to add that it's especially for things he considers beautiful, worth looking at closely - but any semblance of coherent thought flies out the window the moment steve presses his thumb against the line of his throat. he swallows instinctively again, enough that he'll feel it trailing under his skin as his eyes widen marginally. it takes everything not to let his lips fall open in surprise or do something very, very foolish like lunge forward and kiss him stupid. the warmth and tension between them is palpable enough to be cut by one of the very utensils on the counter, forgotten right now for something that has an urgency begging to be addressed.
zemo doesn't even realize he's holding his breath as the soft touch is pulled away for his observation - indeed covered in flour he hadn't realized was there. but his line of sight dips for a few moments to the white smattering on steve's forearm, then drawn further down to the side of his toned torso which is equally dotted with it. it flicks back up when steve decides to make an even bigger mess - and some mischievous glimmers its way into the rich amber of his eyes.]
Ah - noble of you.
[there's a little bit of it on his fingertips, and he lifts them to flick it in steve's general vicinity, which isn't enough to add to the light dusting already on his chest. but if the other boy is going to get cozy in his overly familiar touch which isn't at all unwelcome, two can play at that game.
he dips a fingertip into the open container of nutella behind his back, lifting it suddenly to swipe it along steve's jawline. and honestly - what he wouldn't give to lick it off later.]
Oops. Looks like you've been caught in the crossfire as well.
[said smugly, with no trace of remorse as his lips spread into a smirk not unlike a cat that's managed to catch its canary. what are you going to do about it? is the implication from a bounce of his brow and the way he steps back slow and deliberate. try him. maybe there's a part that's hoping he'll be messy enough to have to even things out in the state of their clothes.]
no subject
The thought brings heat, fast and full, into the rise of his cheeks, the slope of his throat, into his chest. He laughs lowly, considering for a moment before he hums, reaching his own hand to touch the smear on his jaw. ]
Where did this come from?
[ A grin and he considers his options, considers how close they are, and how he feels as if he could kiss him stupid as well right now and not bother with flour, nutella, and pancakes. He reaches to spread the nutella on Zemo's jawline instead, before he dips a finger into the tub, scooping up some for the eating as he licks his finger clean, humming at the taste of it. ]
Guess I should go clean up. Get dressed. Since I have company and all.
[ Strange, though, that the very thought of leaving feels as though he's closing the door on something. That maybe walking away right now would shut down whatever warm, electric thing that buzzes between them. For a moment he wonders if he's the only one feeling it, that maybe he's just made up whatever this playful, teasing thing is. Maybe Helmut is humoring him. It wouldn't be the first, but he doesn't want to squash the tiny lick of hope the smear of nutella on his jaw might mean, never mind the way his skin burns with the touch.
A huff, and he raises his eyebrows, teasing and light, like he's making to leave before he turns around and smears the remainder on the other boy's hand, the soft back of his palm, almost like a dare, before he starts toward the kitchen door. ]
And you made the mess you know. Can't blame that one on me.
no subject
[it hasn't escaped his notice that all he would have to do is press up onto his tiptoes, tilt his head back and let the fantasy of finding out what steve rogers' lips taste like transpire. he's not sure when this became such an all-consuming thought. was it when they first exchanged a heated debate over the psychology of a main character in english class? was it the first time steve had run out after him and offered to walk him to his next class so they could carry on their spirited conversation? or was it some culmination of nearly a semester's worth of what ifs tipped to its boiling point by seeing him across his working table every day, topped off now by reminiscing the way that warm chuckle sounded directly in his ear. a nearly naked steve rogers in front of him is just the cherry on top.
he jolts when steve drags his own finger full of nutella across his jawline, and zemo lets out a noise of half-protest and half being startled. but he lifts his finger to swipe as much as he can off the underside of his chin, sticking it into his mouth and sucking it off with a small hum as he watches steve do the same. and yes - that same thought crosses his mind that really, they ought to trade. at the mention of getting dressed, however...god knows what possesses him, but he adds in boldly:]
Well, don't overdo it on my account. I'd say a shirt is optional.
[his voice is so utterly neutral that maybe steve won't take it as the flirting it is - the backhanded admission that yes, zemo has eyes and they maybe have lingered on his six-pack. he's about to get back to mixing when steve reaches for him again, this time making it worse.]
How very dare you, Steve Rogers. This means war.
[because now he's stomping off towards the door as well, smacking the back of his hand along the distinctive curve of the back of his shoulder blades with an aha of victory.]
no subject
Watching the other boy lick his fingers clean of nutella makes the heat in his gut rise to a simmer. Makes a pretty flush rise into the high points of his cheeks, down the line of his throat. It takes him aback, because he's felt attraction, sure. He's met pretty girls in parties and the occasional pretty-faced boy but he's never felt this at just watching someone. Someone who isn't his to kiss senseless, which is a real disappointment. ]
I'll think about the shirt. Jury's out.
[ Worse still when that hand swipes against his back, leaving fire prickling up under his skin. He whirls without thinking, laughing and rolling his shoulder blades back against the stickiness. Without thinking he reaches for Zemo's wrist, if only to keep him from retreating as he uses his other hand to smear the remainder of the nutella from his own jawline and reach to smear it across Zemo's cheek, mouth, jaw. ]
Then it's war. [ And Zemo better hurry before Steve gets to the pot of nutella first. ]
no subject
what ends up happening instead is steve's fingers trailing along his face again, and it shouldn't have him suppressing a shudder. normally he'd be furious at getting filthy or risking ruining his clothes, but it's the furthest thing from his mind right now. now he just feels the sticky-sweet dessert along the line of his jaw and brushing across his lips. it should be embarrassing that his first instinct is that he wants to slip his tongue out and lick it right off those fingers - that he has to actually forcefully suppress that urge. instead he waits until they're far enough away that he can just swipe his tongue out and lick at his own lips instead, humming lightly as he takes another step back.
at least until steve grabs his wrist - and maybe he thinks he's strong enough to keep him from continuing his escape, but zemo tugs hard enough with no intention of breaking it as opposed to dragging him closer to the counter where they'll really have to duke it out over the open jar.
except - he realizes he's backed himself up against the counter as it nudges his spine, the sudden realization that it's a very tiny space for two grown men to be in close quarters. he glances up through his lashes - at the shimmer of mischief in beautiful blue, the way steve's lips look good curled into a smile, and most importantly - how he doesn't look ready to give up at all.]
You should yield while you can, Steven.
[coming from the person in the more compromising position - that might be a little amusing.]
no subject
(What would it be like to grab him here, to press broad palms and trace the slim curvature of his waist, all the while pressing him back, back, back against the counter to - )
Steve's eyes flicker to Zemo's lips for a fraction of a second too long, where some nutella remains despite the absolutely naughty swipe of his tongue previous. He thinks for a moment he could lean in and clean up the mess himself, and the thought alone makes fire burn high into his cheeks. It's difficult to suppress the way warmth pools low in his belly, a warning, but something else: curiosity, want.
And Steve will see that coquettish little expression in his dreams for the way Zemo looks up through his lashes at him. He huffs a laugh, though it's tighter than before. ]
While I can? Pretty sure you're the one on enemy soil, Helmut. But maybe we can come to a truce?
[ Maybe. He shouldn't be in this predicament to begin with. Should have shooed the other boy out or gotten dressed instead of entertaining this game. But he's stubborn, of course, and his heels dug in long, long ago. So he leans in, pressing their chests flush as he reaches around him for the jar of nutella, coming back only to press the jar where his own body had been. ]
What do you say? I'll surrender first.