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“An erect and princely figure rides under a starry canopy in a chariot drawn by two sphinxes. He carries the wand of authority and will. The shield on the front of the chariot bears a symbol typifying the union of positive and negative forces.” -Eden Gray, The Tarot Revealed
~~~
You’ve never been in a Rolls-Royce before.
This is your singular thought as your eyes drift from the road to the man in the driver's seat beside you while your hand anxiously strokes the leather upholstery. The luxury car is not as flashy as, say, a Ferrari or a Lamborghini, but it’s enough. It’s silver and sleek and devilishly fast as you careen along a deserted portion of Highway 1.
You’re having trouble deciding whether to focus on the view of the Atlantic Ocean to your left, or the profile of the man in the way of it. Baron Helmut Zemo’s eyes stay fastened to the road, but they contain a mirthful glint that somehow both unnerves and excites you. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that he seems so unbothered by the situation you find yourselves in.
“Enjoying the view?” The Baron smirks, his eyes crinkling slightly in amusement as you quickly snap your head forward, eyes pinned on the sun setting over the water in the distance.
“The ocean is beautiful,” you answer, your teeth worrying your bottom lip. You hadn’t meant to be so abrupt, but the snicker that Zemo gives you suggests that he’s aware that you were only partially staring at the water.
“It seems we are surrounded by beauty today.” The car flies around a curve hugging a cliff in true Bond-like fashion. You’re almost shocked at how well he’s handling the vehicle, considering the method of your introduction to him only eighteen hours earlier.
You turn to look at him again, now obviously staring at his stupidly handsome profile. The sunset paints his hair in shades of gold and tangerine, not unlike a crown. He stands out against the glow like some kind of renaissance portrait, and you find yourself trying to memorize the image. “How’s your head?”
Zemo flexes his jaw and cocks his head to the side, his expression remaining dismissive. His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I’ve had much worse.”
“I’m sure.” You’re also sure that the ten hour nap he took on the plane had something to do with it, but then again, you’d given him the equivalent of a level five hangover.
You tend to do that to people.
~~~
It began with a text from your old friend, Sam. You weren’t blind to the news, and you weren’t dumb- Sam was in hot water, and he was at the forefront of all this business with the Flagsmashers. Though you figured you were so low on the totem pole that his mind wouldn’t have even strayed in your direction in a crisis, he surprised you by proving you wrong. Your phone pinged out the message almost an hour before you normally would have risen to make your morning tea.
From: Bird-Man
New York is in trouble, and I have an old Harley that says you’ll help a friend in need.
Sam wanted you to help a contact escape the Dora Milaje- no pressure there. Shooting the craft down wasn’t the issue, it was evading and/or fighting the Wakandan bodyguard that was going to be the most daunting obstacle. Luckily, you had technology on your side.
You managed to pinpoint the shuttle as it was passing over Lombardy. This proved beneficial, considering you were already in Florence; suited up in tactical gear and armed with every weapon at your disposal, you followed the flight path to a barren part of the countryside just out of Siena, and there you waited.
When the shuttle came roaring along the horizon, you were prepared. The cannon at your elbow was fitted with a fuse of your own design, capable of releasing an electrical charge so powerful it could take down an entire helicarrier in one shot. The only damage would be to the craft’s power system- and whatever it sustained in its descent.
One shot, one fuse. The craft dropped out of the sky at an alarming rate, and you dove to the ground as it made impact with the earth. They probably heard that all the way in Siena, unfortunately, but you were thankful of the noise cancelling buds in your ears to protect you from the explosive crash.
You stood as the dust settled, rubbing the dirt from your goggles and face mask. You wanted to remain as anonymous as possible when the Dora Milaje came out of the craft (no need to become a fugitive of a country you’d never even been to); and they did, six of them, weapons poised and ready for battle.
You knew you were no match for them. That’s why you’d fitted the fuse with an extra precaution. A sound charge at a frequency that would knock out anyone who heard it for roughly an hour. Long enough for you to collect Sam’s contact and get the hell out before the Dora Milaje came to and kicked your ass into next month.
You punched a button on your wrist control and watched as each warrior clutched their ears briefly before collapsing to the ground as if overtaken by fatigue. They’d be angry when they woke, of course, but they were unharmed.
Confident that everyone was down, you stepped around your little boulder barricade and advanced toward the wreckage.
After accepting his offer, when you had asked Sam to identify the person you were supposed to be extracting, Sam had sent you a video that you figured was likely taken by Sam himself, considering the sound of his hysterical laughter from somewhere behind the camera. The video was of a dance floor in some kind of club, and amidst a sea of gyrating, drunken bodies a rather pristine looking man in a turtleneck stood, fist-pumping awkwardly to the beat of the music.
‘He’ll be the only white guy on the plane,’ was Sam’s text.
You watched the video multiple times. ‘What a fucking dweeb.’
~~~
When Zemo roused an hour later, you were already more than halfway to Pisa, going roughly 110 in your Honda Civic. He was not a bulky man, despite his heavy overcoat, and you were able to haul his unconscious frame a couple dozen yards to your puny little getaway car and take off like the dickens. At some point he had slumped to the side, shoulder resting against the windowsill as he slept.
His head knocked against the glass and he snorted, opening his eyes abruptly.
“Finally, you’re awake,” you said. You watched as he sat up and went to rub his eyes, but stopped when he discovered he was no longer handcuffed.
“I take it you do not work for the Dora Milaje,” he spoke, blinking down at his hands like he was trying to determine what exactly he had missed and when.
You told him your name, keeping your eyes on the road. “A friend sent for you.”
“A friend,” he repeated incredulously, like he couldn’t believe the word even existed. He looked over at you and took in your appearance, dressed mostly in tactical gear, all holsters and buckles, cargo pants and black high collared shirt. You still wore your face mask, but you’d shed your goggles once you’d gotten on the road. He smirked after a moment, as if your appearance told him everything he needed to know. “Barnes or Wilson?”
“Wilson,” you confirmed. You’d never really met Barnes, but you knew of him through Sam.
“Interesting. Why would Sam send a rescue party for me?”
“Something drastic is happening in New York. Concerning the Flagsmashers, I’d assume,” you told him. “He requested I bring you to him as soon as possible, but the Dora Milaje will be on our trail any minute now and the nearest plane to New York is departing from Pisa. It’ll be about sixteen hours from there.”
“That is not a good idea,” he objected, pulling a cell phone out of his coat pocket. “Considering the Dora Milaje have found me in Sam’s company once before, they will think to look there first. It would be more beneficial to fly somewhere off the beaten path.”
“Like where, Rochester? Sam said New York City, I’m taking you there.”
“I have no intention to divert you from your task,” he said coolly as he raised the phone to his ear. “However, we will simply be taking a longer route.” After a beat of silence, Zemo spoke into the phone. “Hello, old friend. An... associate and I have need of a plane from Pisa International Airport to Portland, Maine.”
“Portland?” Your eyes snapped to look at him, but you didn’t think your expression of outrage could be done justice with half your face covered. As Zemo ended the call, you ripped the mask from your face and slammed your hand on the steering wheel. “That’s going to add five hours.”
“All the more time for the Dora Milaje to check New York and find we are not there.” He turned to look at you and his expression morphed into one of utter shock. “Well.”
You looked at him viciously. “Well, what?”
“I certainly wasn’t expecting my savior to be so beautiful.”
His words gave you pause. You grit your teeth, unnerved by the way your heart skipped at the compliment. “I think that sonic blast needs some more fine tuning.”
“Forgive me if I do not share that sentiment,” he replied, settling back in his seat and closing his eyes. You were sure that his head was absolutely killing him, but you tried to force yourself not to feel guilty for being the cause of it.
Despite yourself, out of the corner of your eye, you fixated on the sight of his fingertips rubbing circles against his temple.
~~~
Sam had mentioned Zemo was rich. He didn’t say exactly how rich.
Maybe you should have deduced it when Sam introduced him as Baron Helmut Zemo, but the magnitude of it didn’t hit you until you were stepping into a luxury private jet, and a glass of champagne was being pushed into your hand by an elderly butler. Sat in a white leather swivel chair, you stared wide-eyed between the old man retreating into the antechamber and the Baron, sitting across from you.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Zemo said with a smirk as he reclined in his seat, his fingers tapping against each armrest. Your eyes followed the up-down-up-down motion as you sipped your champagne.
“Something tells me you can afford more than just a penny.”
That earned you a snicker. “If I may,” he lifted one finger and touched it to the corner of his lip as though he were thinking through what he was about to say, “How exactly are you acquainted with our, ah, mutual friend?”
“Well, he may not be your friend, but,” you twitched your head in a shrug, using your toe to swivel your chair back and forth, “Sam and I worked together a while back. I was a bit surprised he reached out, but I did tell him to give me a call if he was in a pinch.”
You continued to follow that damned finger as it ran across his bottom lip. His eyes burned into you so that you looked away, cheeks flushed and fingernails tapping against your crystal champagne glass as you tried to find something interesting to look at on the floor.
“I’m sure he told you not to let me out of your sight.”
You looked back up to him. You weren’t sure if your expression gave you away, or if it was just the Baron’s smug demeanor, but that coy smirk continued to play on his lips like he knew everything about you and more.
“He did,” you told him honestly as you held his gaze. “In fact, he told me to use all means necessary.”
“All means?”
You stared at each other for an extended amount of time. And then, in the steadiest voice you could muster, you replied, “Any and all.”
He lowered his hand back to the armrest, where his two fingers resumed that same up-down-up-down motion, as he continued to fix you with his strangely piercing stare. “Then I am your prisoner.”
You simply blinked at him, trying to keep your face neutral. Of course he was your prisoner. You’d known and fought worse people than him, and you probably would in the future. But for some reason, with him staring at you from across the floor of his private jet, it felt like the tables were flipped.
That ‘fucking dweeb’ in the video Sam had sent you was far from the person sitting across from you. Hell, you even had to admit that he was more handsome in person, and he was currently at around 10% from the sonic charge you’d used to knock him out. You couldn’t fathom what he’d be like at 100%, or even 50%, for that matter. He seemed to hold you captive in his gaze, without doing a single thing to restrain you otherwise.
“I can think of worse positions for you to be in.”
After a moment’s silence, the Baron smiled at you. It was a knowing smile, more than a smirk but less than a grin, and just with a hint of sarcasm to it. “Then I suppose you won’t mind if I sleep? After all, the force you exhibited before was so undoubtedly effective.”
You said nothing as he rose from his seat, suddenly looming over you as the plane rose to altitude. He moved to the back of the cabin and settled onto a bench along the windows, doing as he said he intended to.
You stayed there, alone with your thoughts for about two hours, rocking side to side in your seat and occasionally glancing at the sleeping form of the Baron. Sam had indeed given you a thorough briefing on who he was, and what exactly he was capable of. You could admit that he intimidated you with his too-smug demeanor, but as you watched him doze with his arm slung across his eyes, you had trouble seeing the danger lurking within.
Eventually, you brought your knees to your chest and turned sideways in your chair, deciding to get some sleep of your own. If he was going to sleep for a majority of the flight, then you didn’t see any reason why you shouldn’t either.
~~~
You woke to the sound of ceramic clinking somewhere adjacent to your hip.
You opened your eyes to see a bright white ceiling. You momentarily panicked. Where the hell am I- you sat bolt upright and blinked away your fatigue to find that your legs were slung over the armrest of the chair you were in, and that your neck had been supported by the other.
“Apologies. I didn't mean to startle you.”
Right. You were in the Baron’s luxury private plane, somewhere over the Atlantic. You turned to look at him as he sat in his seat across from you, a china tea set placed on the table between you. You grunted at him as you situated yourself properly.
“How long has it been?” you asked as you stretched, rolling your head from side to side.
Zemo’s eyes followed the movement as he sipped from his own cup. “Fourteen hours. We should begin our descent into Portland soon.” He motioned to the setup on the table before you encouragingly. “Please, have some tea.”
You blinked down at the impressive spread as you tentatively reached for the gilded teapot. The china was finely decorated with gold accents and what looked to be a Grecian inspired cameo on each cup. You prepared your own as you normally would in the morning, admiring the craftsmanship.
“Beautiful china,” you commented as you went to take your first sip.
“Versace.”
You gasped so rapidly that you inhaled a portion of the tea and choked. You coughed as you set the cup and saucer down, quickly covering your mouth through the fit. “Who just casually has a Versace tea set?”
“Someone who also has a private jet.” Zemo looked as though he were holding back laughter, opting to lean forward and hand you a handkerchief. You snatched it from him unceremoniously and covered your face, simultaneously covering your coughs and the blush that began to creep across your cheeks. “I take it you don’t have that at home?”
“No, not exactly.” You lowered the handkerchief as your coughs died down, shaking your head. “I think Better Homes & Gardens is more my variety.”
“But you have a home.”
His voice was passive, but the look on his face told you that he was hurting. You paused only for a second before you lifted the teacup again, determined this time not to make a fool of yourself. “I do.”
“That is where you have me at a disadvantage.”
You pursed your lips, looking for something to say to that. What do you say when one of the most dangerous fugitives in the world humbles himself to you? You considered that it could have been a manipulation tactic, but the way his eyes had a glassy, far-away look told you otherwise.
“I'll be honest with you,” you said slowly, choosing your words carefully. He looked up at you apprehensively, as though he were used to people reading into him and not much else. “Sam told me about you. It feels like he almost gave me your full biography. And I have to say, if I was in your position… I think I’d have done the same thing. Maybe not with the same method, but the same end goal.” You dropped your eyes to the overpriced cup in your hands, and you swirled the liquid around idly. “Provided I had a family to avenge.”
“You have no one at home?” You weren’t sure if he was merely deflecting the conversation or trying to assess you, but his polite inquiry lingered heavily in the air like a turning point. Your gaze flickered up to find him waiting for your answer with an open expression.
“No,” you said, picturing your tiny apartment in Florence, and the mess you’d left on the coffee table this morning that you’d have to clean up when you got back to it. Eventually. “No, it’s just me.”
“By choice?” You suddenly became aware of how effortlessly lilting his voice was, and how it came out like a soft caress depending on the subject it was speaking of. You found it comforting. That fact was less than.
You straightened your back as you met his scrutinizing gaze. “By default. Everyone I’ve known has left me in some fashion or another.”
He hummed in the back of his throat, his dark eyes still fixed on you. Then he elegantly raised his teacup toward you in a toast, and offered you a coy smile. “To finding your family worth avenging, liebling.”
You raised your cup toward him in return, not exactly knowing what else to say. As you finished your tea, your thoughts mostly revolved around your limited german vocabulary, and how it really only consisted of how to say ‘fuck you.’
~~~
“Where the hell are you?”
You contemplated how to tell Sam that you were standing on a tarmac in Portland, still five hours out and at the mercy of your ‘prisoner,’ so to speak, and what mode of transportation he pulled out of his ass this time.
“See, here’s the thing-” you stopped short when you caught sight of Zemo. Or rather, Zemo caught sight of you, because he had just driven around the side of his private jet in a sparkling Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. It took everything in you not to gawk as he got out and walked around the hood of the classic, strutting like some kind of gentleman spy. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s the fucking getaway car?”
“She’ll get us there,” Zemo replied with a smirk as he opened the passenger’s side door for you.
“Getaway car? What’s going on, what-”
“Is that Sam?” Zemo strode forward, seemingly enjoying the predicament he had put you in. “Hello, Sam. I hope we aren’t missing anything too important.”
“Zemo, what did you do this time?”
“I have done nothing but get us to America within a reasonable time frame, as requested.”
“Uh-huh. And where are you now?”
You stared indignantly at Zemo. Zemo tilted his head to the side, almost as though he had just realized the gravity of the situation.
“Portland.”
“Portland? Fucking Maine?”
“It is actually a very pleasant city.”
“I swear to god- you do realize we’re on a time limit here, right? Karli Morgenthau isn’t going to wait for you to take a roadtrip before she bombs the GRC.”
“And the Dora Milaje isn’t going to wait to try to find me again, Sam. You of all people should know this.” Zemo dark eyes found yours as you held the phone up in front of him like a microphone. You tried to ignore the hot finger of longing that began to drag down your chest under his gaze. “Not only will they be looking for me, but they will be looking for my savior as well. If they track us here, we will be on the way to New York. If they check New York first… we are still on the way.”
“I hope for your sake that you’re right, and Karli doesn’t destroy half the city before you even get here.” Sam ended the call without waiting for a response.
“Temperamental, isn’t he?” Zemo’s expression acted like the antithesis to yours; while you scowled after him, he walked back over to the car with his assured stride and gripped the door handle, turning to you with a Cheshire Cat smile. “After you, liebling.”
You all but stomped over to the ridiculous getaway car that was probably worth more than your entire flat in Florence and all the contents within it put together. “One of these days I’m gonna figure out what the hell a liebling is, and then you’ll be sorry.”
“I look forward to it.” The Baron waited until you had fully situated yourself before closing the car door.
~~~
So, here you are.
And there he is, looking impossibly at ease and more like you’re going to make a huge mistake every second. Because, after an hour and a half of driving with him in this stupidly expensive vehicle through wooded countryside as the setting sun paints him golden, you’ve come to a number of hard conclusions.
One- you find the Baron undeniably, unbearably attractive. In the time that it has taken you to get here, from receiving the dorky video of him from Sam, to having to sniff a facefull of his cologne while hauling his boujee ass into your little Honda, to nearly admitting your daddy issues to him on his private plane, to watching him finesse a 180 on the tarmac, you have thought about straddling him and getting him out of that purple turtleneck upwards of 500 times.
Two- you’re pretty sure he knows. He has to know. It doesn’t take a genius to read body language; you keep staring at him despite yourself, crossing and uncrossing your legs, watching the ministrations of his fingers as they flex against the steering wheel. At one point his hand brushed your thigh as he shifted gears, and you nearly jumped out of your skin at the contact. People notice these sorts of things. His eyes, even though they constantly had a look of knowing about them, seemed to hone in on every tiny nervous deviation your body made.
Three- there is no console in this car. Apparently cars didn’t have storage compartments in the sixties, because the front seat is just an uninterrupted bench, and so is the back seat. Either way you toss it, this car is made for fucking. Not exactly a hard conclusion to come to, merely an astute observation, but it’s kept your imagination alive and thriving for the couple hours you’ve been sitting beside him.
You’re not going to admit it to him. Absolutely fucking not. Not when it’s taken you the whole day just to admit your own moral ambiguity to yourself.
“The stars are lovely tonight,” he says after a long period of heavy silence, during which you had been contemplating the mechanics of that fur lined coat he’s wearing and what it would look like when you rip it clean from his body.
“I thought you were watching the road.” You try not to stare as his lips turn up at the edges into the ever-present smirk he wears so well.
“I’ve simply been focusing on many things at once. For example,” he quirks his head at the radio built into the dashboard, “you seem to dislike playing music on long drives.”
“I don’t presume to play my taste in music with someone else in the car.” That’s partially true. There’s always that fear of rejection, the other person objecting to what you play. However, in this case, you’re almost afraid to breathe with how tightly wound he has you. Selecting music is an afterthought.
“Perhaps they are playing something we may enjoy.” The sultry timbre of his voice is not lost on you, nor is the use of we. “Turn it on.”
A scoff falls from your mouth as you lean forward to punch the button on the radio. “Yes, master.”
You sort through the fuzz until something intelligible comes out of the tiny speaker beside the controls. After a moment of trying to understand the words and tune, you recognize Alex Turner’s voice crooning, ‘At least as deep as the pacific ocean, I wanna be yours.’
Zemo remains thoughtful for a moment as the needle on the speedometer creeps upward. “I have no desire to be your master.”
You can’t help the incredulous grin that breaks across your face, all but laughing along with it. “I appreciate that, Baron.”
“That is, unless you have a desire to be my servant.”
You stop, eyes going round as you struggle to determine if you even heard him correctly. From the look on his face as he continues to watch the road with his smug stare, you realize that you did. You’re still trying to find some witty retort to clear the air when he speaks again, and his voice smolders as it rolls over you like a caress.
“Do you long to be my servant, schatz?”
Your mind scrambles to maintain a sense of calm, but the longer you watch the Baron and his ungodly confidence, the further you sink into a sea of panic. You’re torn between playing along and seeing where it leads, or refusing to comply and gripping steadfastly to that eight foot distance you’ve kept him at all day. Mostly.
Eyes darting from the Baron’s chiseled features to the dark, deserted highway before you, you come out with the first thing that springs to mind. “Fick dich.”
Immediately after you speak the only German words you’re familiar with, you’re thrown to the side as the Rolls-Royce comes to a screeching halt in a pull-out on the side of the road, tucked almost entirely behind a line of trees. You sit clutching the edge of the leather seat, your breath coming out a bit shallow.
The beams of the headlights reflect off the pines in front of the car and illuminate the Baron as he slowly turns to look at you, his expression almost unreadable save for the hungry glint in his eye. Pupils blown wide in the darkness, he looks every bit like the demon his past attests to him being.
Your breath stutters in your throat. Heat pools between your legs as he leans ever closer toward you.
“Are you entirely sure about that?”
Your heartbeat seems to be pounding in your ears, the scent of his expensive cologne invading your space for the second time, coming in incense and patchouli. This is not a good idea. This was never a good idea from the start.
His arm stretches along the backrest of the seat as he uses his other hand to brush a strand of hair away from your temple, the touch like a whisper down the side of your face. You shiver slightly, following his movement when his two fingers tilt your chin up to look at him directly.
His voice is rough when he murmurs, “Are you certain you want what comes next, kätzchen?”
You swallow, feeling his fingertips press lightly against the soft curve of your chin. “How many more German phrases are you going to come out with before you do something about it, rich boy?”
Your self assurance falters as you watch a grin break out across the Baron’s face when he pulls back, and he laughs darkly down at the steering wheel as he turns the key in the ignition, shutting the car off completely. “Schatz, bitte.”
He barely allows you to think of another sentence before he swallows it for you, closing his mouth over yours. His fingers burn like hot coals when they grip your waist, pulling you across the seat toward him. With a surprised moan, you latch your hands onto his face and lean into the kiss as his tongue darts into your open mouth.
One strong hand guides your leg up as the other turns you toward him. His motions are relaxed, touched by an amount of resignation that allows you time to decide whether to move with him, or against him. Dominant, but not demanding or rushed.
Sam’s going to fucking kill you for this. You’d been giving your self control more credit than it was due, apparently. And you had been doing so well… but then you swing your leg over his and lock his hips between your knees, and his thigh presses against your cunt. You feel him smile against your lips when you shudder, and you’re not thinking about consequences or what any of this possibly means for the future. Your fingers stroke down the plush cashmere of his sweater and tug on the collar of his coat, trying desperately to rid him of it.
The chuckle that rumbles through his chest sends a jolt into you as he sucks on the skin just below your jaw, his hot breath whispering across your skin. His voice is devilishly low and full of gravel as his lips brush against the shell of your ear. “Patience, my dear . We aren’t in a hurry, are we?”
“You know damn well we’re in a hurry,” you nearly growl as you tug on his coat again, finally managing to pull it from his shoulders.
His arms slide free of the coat and he laughs, his hands falling to stroke along your lower back. “Then tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”
His hands guide your hips to roll against his thigh, and the moan that escapes your mouth is obscene. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders, eyes falling shut as you try to focus on words through the feeling of him rocking your core against him, whimpering at the friction and the satisfied hum he makes into your ear.
“What do you want me to do, schatz?” He gently glides the tips of his fingers up the length of your spine, and your nerves blaze where his touch skims across the exposed skin below the hem of your shirt. Another helpless whimper falls from your mouth, nearly cut short by his hand wrapping around the back of your neck.
The words tumble out before you even take the time to process them. “I want you to fuck me on the front of this ridiculous car.”
A snicker leaves Zemo’s mouth. “Outside?”
“What’s the matter, Baron?” You whisper as you grind down onto where you feel his hardness through his trousers, and drink in the moan that he makes against your lips. “Afraid of scratching the paint?”
When Zemo tilts his head back to look at you, his fingers tighten against the sides of your throat. You stare deep into those dark irises as they flit dangerously across your face. “I believe we are going to do more than that.”
His arm snakes around your waist and crushes you against his chest while the other throws the driver’s door open. You’re too busy clinging to him for dear life to work out the mechanics of how he does it, but he manages to get out of the car swiftly while holding your body against his. Your face buried into his collar, you feel a rush of air and hear the car door slam before your back makes contact with warm, solid metal.
Waves break on the cliffs somewhere below the pull out spot. The sound and the smell of iodized ocean air mixed with the heady scent of pine is a grounding reprieve from the man standing between your legs. He pins you by the hips against the steep curve of the hood, and you open your eyes to catch a haunting image of him, illuminated from behind by the blue light of an extremely bright moon as he pulls back from you.
His hand paws up the curve of your waist and across your ribcage as he pushes the hem of your shirt upwards, and his fingers hook under the soft fabric before gracefully pulling it up and over your head. You watch him toss it aside just before his lips are on your chest, kissing and sucking across the freshly exposed skin. His fingers elegantly drag up the sides of your back to undo the clasp of your bra in what seems like one flick of his wrist, and the garment falls free from your shoulders.
“I should warn you, my dear,” he murmurs against your bare chest as his strong hands lay you to rest back against the hood of the car, “I will not be gentle.”
Your fingers snag and curl under the straps of the gun holster he wears over his sweater, and you roughly yank him to look at you without warning. “You think I want you to be fucking gentle?”
With the way his hands rest flat against the hood on either side of you, boxing you in, and he peers up at you from beneath his eyelashes, you find he resembles a viper ready to strike. Your fingers flex beneath the leather of his holster, giving yourself leverage to hold yourself up as he looms over you.
“As you wish.”
Zemo pulls away from you, and the rush of cool air to your chest makes your sensitive nipples ache. His hands slide across your breasts, taking the opportunity to let each finger catch on the hardened buds as he moves them downwards.You let out a needy whine, back arching into his touch.
His right hand skims over the fly of your pants, but just when you think he’s going to undo them, he continues down, running his palm brazenly over your thigh to lift your calf. Then he looks you in the eye, and he pulls off your boot with one hard jerk at the heel.
“What the fuck,” you nearly laugh, knocking your head back against the metal.
“You can’t make love with your shoes on,” he mumbles as he tilts his head and does the same to the other.
A giggle finally does leave your mouth. Even as he’s undressing you, he still feels the need to be a gentleman, refuses to say the word fuck. It’s almost endearing. “Who says?”
“I do.”
Oh. Oh. You tilt your head up and meet his eye again as he runs his hand slowly up your calf, the smirk on his face reaffirming your thought process.
“You said you didn’t want to be my master,” you say almost breathlessly as his hand slides up the side of your thigh and to your fly again.
“Unless you desire to be my servant,” he reiterates darkly. He pulls your loosened pants down, taking your underwear with them, dragging them down at a frustratingly slow pace. “You never answered my question.”
“I serve no one.” The statement hangs in the air over you, punctuated with the sound of waves in the distance. Zemo rids you of your clothing, and gazes down upon your naked, moon bathed body with an expression akin to reverence.
“No, of that I am certain.”
The Baron drops to his knees before you, bringing your thigh over his shoulder and pulling you forward by the hips. The movement makes you gasp and fall back, hands scrabbling along the metal for stability. Your fingers curl around the ridge of the hood against the windshield just as his hot breath hits your wetness.
His tongue presses into your cunt, and the heat of it is absolutely searing. You bite back a strangled cry, hips jolting towards his face at the contact. Your back arches and your eyes fall shut to feel him spreading your folds with his tongue, teasing and circling up towards your clit, drinking in your taste and collecting your slick only to spread it around.
His mouth closes over your clit and sucks, and your voice breaks as you let out a hoarse cry, not trying to hold it back anymore. You don’t think you’re even able to. His mouth is absolute torture, and you find yourself panting, trying in vain to hold yourself together as his tongue laves against you and draws another whine from your lips.
You can feel yourself teetering on the brink of something absolutely wretched already, eyes squeezed tight and hips bucking against the Baron’s mouth. Where the fuck did he pull this from, and where has it been all day? Where was it on the plane when he was analyzing you up, down, and sideways?
His tongue passes over your clit one more time and you’re pulled toward a dizzying peak, letting out a weak gasp as your hand blindly shoots forward and buries itself in his hair. He moans against you at the sensation, and the vibration of it flares against the building inferno in your core.
Your fingers tighten in his hair as his mouth circles around that sensitive bud again, and his name tears out of your mouth as you come, your orgasm rocking through your body and jerking you against him in waves. He hums into you, letting you ride it out until you collapse back against the hood of the car, breathing heavy and with a sheen of sweat over your exposed skin.
You keep your eyes closed as Zemo rises from between your legs. It didn’t take much for him to bring you to orgasm, and that alone is enough to have you blushing, hiding your face like an idiot while you try to steady your breathing while the throbbing of your cunt continues to send shockwaves through your body.
It isn’t until you feel the Baron’s hand stroke up the side of your body and fall flat against the hood of the car just next to your waist that you open your eyes. He leans over you, and his mouth is twisted into a satisfied smirk as he stares down into your eyes to watch you come down from your high.
His lips connect with yours, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. Slowly, you feel the fingers of his other hand brush along your inner thigh, just as you were beginning to let them relax. Then, with little warning, he rocks his knuckles through your dripping folds, and he pulls back to watch the ministrations of your expression as you hold in the helpless moan that threatens to fall out as his fingers brush against your swollen clit.
“Let me hear you,” he all but commands, his eyes glued to your face. “There is no need for you to hide from me.”
So you do. When his fingers press up into you relentlessly, you let out a cry so loud you fear it’ll wake whatever may be lurking in the trees. You try the best you can to keep the eye contact he seems to relish, but it proves difficult as he continues to pump his fingers into you, your vision swimming through the building sensation in your core. You think for a second that he’s going to bring you to another orgasm, but he stops short. He pulls his fingers away, earning an agitated whine from you as he moves to undo his belt.
You’re running on autopilot at this point, still chasing that second wave he nearly brought you to. You push yourself up by your elbows and reach to help him, fingers frantically tugging at buckles and buttons and zippers to free him where his erection strains against his trousers.
When he springs out toward you, you don’t hesitate to wrap your fingers around the thick shaft of his cock, running your fingers along every ridge and vein of his hardened length. The Baron makes a pleasured moan in the back of his throat as you pump him once, your thumb rolling around his glistening tip to collect the bead of precum leaking from him.
Before you can give him another pump, his hands fall to your wrists. Your eyes flicker up to his face to find him gazing down at you with half lidded eyes, mouth open and spilling shortened breaths. You move to object, to say you want to give him at least a fraction of the pleasure that he’s already given you, but he cuts you off before you can voice your thoughts.
“Not now, schatz.” He guides your hands away, until they rest against the metal on either side of you. “There will be plenty of time for that later.”
Your breath hitches in your throat when he pulls you forward, your hands falling to his holster to steady yourself again as he aligns himself with your entrance. He pauses, hesitant, and stares into your eyes, waiting for you. Waiting for your word.
“Move, Baron.”
His hips surge forward, and the ungodly moan that leaves you mingles with his in the night air. You feel exquisitely full and wonderfully stretched, your muscles tightening as his cock is sheathed inside of you. Your eyes nearly roll back in your head as he pulls back just slightly, the sensation shooting waves of bliss through your core.
You swallow, steadying your breathing as your forehead rests against his. You can feel his breath billow against your cheek, his fingertips tightening on your thighs. The moment of feeling is coming to an end.
“Don’t hold back,” you tell him, your voice rough and more insistent than before. You don’t think you could handle it if he did.
He takes your order in stride. His hands guide you to lay against the hood of the car, back arched against the curve. His palm slides down to rest against your stomach as his hips pull back, leaving you with an aching emptiness in its wake. And then, with blinding strength, he snaps forward into you.
The car shakes with the force of it. You hear the metal creak somewhere near the right fender, but you can’t bring yourself to care about the car while he’s pulling back again, and he gives you another forceful thrust. Your gasp turns into a moan somewhere at the end, breaking in your throat. The snap of his hips pushes you further up onto the hood, grinding your spine into the metal and making you scratch along the windshield for stability. Your fingers catch on something solid and clutch onto it, just before you hear a snap and feel it give. You barely register the thought that you just broke it before the Baron is distracting you yet again.
He takes your hips in his hands, thumbs digging into your skin as he pulls you back down towards him, correcting the distance you had shifted. The sound of your sweat slick body squeaking along the steel would be funny if he wasn’t literally bringing you down onto him at the same time as he’s thrusting into you. The pleasure of it is almost unbearable, and hits something inside so searing that you slam a fist down onto the hood in vain retaliation.
Zemo seems to be feeling the same. You hear a low growl come from him when he rocks into you, swaying the car with the effort. You open your eyes briefly to find him straining, jaw clenched and veins bulging, short snarls leaving his throat. It’s animalistic and carnal, his eyes blazing into yours with a fury and passion mirrored in his movements.
One particularly well aimed thrust lands exactly on the mark, and you knock your head back with a shrill howl. His right hand, which had been gripping your hip with growing strength, slides up the length of your torso, through the valley between your breasts and across your sternum. Splayed flat along your skin, he skirts his thumb up the ridge of your adam's apple, and then his hand finally comes to rest against your bared throat, his fingers wrapping strongly around to squeeze from the sides.
It’s the sudden contact of his hand on your throat that sends you over the edge, and heat blossoms in the pit of your stomach as you orgasm. The release is much stronger, but almost more relaxed than it had been with his mouth. You’re less inclined to jerk against him, and more inclined to ride the blissful wave as every nerve in your body sizzles while he continues to rock you into the car.
You clench down onto him, and a moan leaves his own mouth as he follows you seconds later, hips stuttering and breath coming in clipped gasps as he comes. His hand slams down hard against the metal hood, and you hear a groan from the metal as the car shifts when Zemo lurches forward into you one last time, his hand leaving your throat as his arms steady him on either side of you. His head falls slack, dropping to your shoulder as he slowly slips from you, his breaths fanning out in long puffs along your sweat damp skin.
Your core hums in satisfaction, still quivering as you come down from your orgasm. You can feel him leaking from you, fluids dripping from your cunt and likely smearing across the pristine paint job. You finally cast a singular thought toward the state of the Baron’s classic as you draw your arm across his back, pulling him down against you.
“I think I broke the wiper.”
You feel his chuckle rumble against you, and his voice sounds far hoarser than it was before. “You did. Don’t worry, I am not attached to it.”
You lay in comfortable silence for a moment, drowsy eyes gazing up at the stars as you hold him against you. After a few more breaths he pulls away from you, propping himself up on his elbows above you. He gazes down into your face, and runs a thumb across the apple of your cheek.
“I should thank you,” he says after regarding you this way for a few seconds.
You lift your own hand to tuck a strand of hair away from where it hangs loose over his brow. “Why’s that?”
“It has been a while, for me.”
His admission touches something in your chest, and you smile tenderly at him. “Well, don’t thank me just yet.” When he tilts his head at you, a look of bewilderment crossing his face, you hold back a laugh. “Not until I finish what I was about to do to you earlier.”
Zemo huffs a soft chuckle of his own, dropping his eyes from yours almost bashfully. The thought of making the Baron blush causes you to grin as you run a hand down the soft cashmere of his sleeve.
“As much as that idea tempts me,” he says in his endearing rasp, “we do have somewhere to be.” You whine as he pulls away from you, standing up between your legs once again.
As he tucks himself back into his trousers, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him. “There’s still something I want to know.”
“Anything you want,” he replies as he bends down to grab something from the ground.
“What do all those German names you’ve been calling me mean?”
When he straightens, holding your bra, he places it delicately beside you on the hood. “They are pet names,” he explains, glancing at you briefly before turning to pick something else up. “Liebling, darling. Kätzchen, kitten.” He places your top and your pants into a pile on top of your bra.
“And schatz?”
“Treasure.” He meets your eye, looking as apprehensive as he did on the plane when you spoke to him about his past, as though wondering if he had overstepped in some way.
You just smile at him. “Do you know Italian?” He gives you a curt nod in response. “I live in Florence, I have for a few years. Maybe that’s why Sam called me to get you, who knows.” You lick your lips as you watch him step towards you again, his hands falling to rest on either of your knees. “Voglio baciarti al chiaro di luna.”
A look of amusement crosses his face. “‘I’d like to kiss you by the light of the moon.’”
“That’s right.”
The Baron lifts his head and looks directly up at the canopy of stars. “We seem to have already done that.” You stare at the chiseled features of his face caught in the silver glow, just before he looks back down at you with a wry smile. Then he slides his hands up your thighs and yanks you towards him again. You yelp at the sudden movement, but his hands pull you flush against his chest, and sturdy arms wrap around you to keep you in place.
He brushes the back of a single finger down the side of your face before he cups your cheek, and he kisses you as requested. It’s a chaste kiss, but it sears in a way none of the others did. It’s gentle, and laced with soft affection. When he breaks away from you, he takes your hand.
“Come,” he insists, pulling you off the hood of the car. “Your friend awaits.”
You slip to the ground, and his arm wraps around your waist before your knees buckle beneath you, muscles aching from the work they were just put through.
“I don’t think I can get dressed,” you admit weakly against his chest, where your face is smushed into his sweater.
You feel his laugh rumble against your nose. “I’m sure we can manage something, schatz.”
~~~
“You said Zemo’s coming?” Bucky Barnes’ stoic face is lit by flashing police lights as he walks on Sam’s right along central park west. He doesn’t look happy; he never does, really, but he’s especially displeased that Sam managed to get Zemo out of the custody of the Dora Milaje only 12 hours after he had turned Zemo over to them, after all the coercing Bucky had done to get Sam to agree to let the bastard out in the first place.
Sam shakes his head, dutifully looking forward and trying not to let on how ridiculous he truly felt. “My contact said they’re in the states, they’ll be here soon.”
“Uh-huh. Your contact- who’s that, again?”
“Listen, she’s an old friend, a highly trained field operative, I’ve known her since before I even met Steve. She can absolutely handle Zemo, trust me.”
“Handle him, right. In what way?”
Sam stops abruptly, turning to face Bucky, who stares at him with something akin to amusement. He’s holding a phone in his hand; it’s the smart phone that Zemo insisted on paying for when he saw that Bucky was using a burner phone while they were in Madripoor.
“What the hell are you getting at?” Sam squints at him as Bucky’s lips quirk up suddenly, and then he really takes Sam off-guard.
Bucky Barnes laughs.
He shoves the phone into Sam’s hand and walks away, shaking his head as a string of police cars speed past. Sam can still hear Bucky’s raspy, incredulous laughter as he peers down at the phone screen.
From: Zemo
Please let Sam know that his friend is perfectly safe, however, I believe we may arrive later than previously scheduled.
Attached is an image of you.
Completely and utterly unconscious, you’re stretched across the backseat of a car, obviously naked save for the Baron’s expensive coat, which is curled around you like a blanket.
“Son of a bitch.”