Chapter Text
“Hers is the wisdom of nature, which understands that all things move in cycles and ripen at the appropriate time.” -Juliet Sharman-Burke, The Mythic Tarot
~~~
I
“We’re still friends, right?”
You stare down at your phone on the kitchen counter, coffee poised in the air, your brow furrowed so tightly that it nearly hurts. Bucky Barnes’ contact name glares up at you, the time stamp for the phone call reading a solid ten seconds.
“Bucky, you’ve had your head between my thighs. ‘Friends’ is not the term I’d use.”
Bucky audibly clears his throat, and you hear someone shouting something in the background. “So is that a no?”
You sigh as your cat, Artemis, enters the room, mewling pathetically as she hops up onto the counter to investigate your coffee. You give her a nonplussed side eye as you take a sip before she’s able to. “Is there a point to this call, soldier?”
“I need your help.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Well, remember when you said if I ever needed a place to lay low, you had some swanky estate up in the mountains?”
Your eyes instinctively glide to the open kitchen window, where the yellow curtain sways with the gentle, damp breeze blowing in from the misty morning. Fog rolls in across the valley, backlit by the rising sun- a picturesque fairytale landscape known only to you.
It’s been years since you came to possess the estate, and you have yet to allow anyone other than the groundskeeper to see it. You’d told Bucky about it once, back when you first acquired it; when you were sure you were going to die, and the prospect of dying alone scared you so entirely that you’d dared to imagine Bucky Barnes sharing it with you.
But that was a long time ago. Back before the Blip.
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t- I didn’t do anything.”
“Bucky.”
“What is it with people assuming it’s my fault?” Artemis meows loudly at the phone, and Bucky huffs a laugh. “Is that a cat?”
You lift the phone and step away, leaning on the counter just beside the stovetop. “So what’s definitely not your fault?”
Bucky sighs, and the crackle of movement resounds through the speaker. “I may have an acquaintance that needs a place to stay hidden from public view for a while.”
“Breadcrumbs aren’t going to wash with me, Buck.”
“Okay, fine. I… encouraged Zemo to break out of prison and now he’s on the run. I still need his help but I don’t know when I’ll need it, and I don’t trust anyone else to keep a leash on him.”
You can feel your expression wither and droop almost immediately. It’s too fucking early in the morning for this. “Zemo.”
“... Yes.”
“You helped… Zemo.” You’ve never met the man personally or even seen him in real life, but you knew practically everything there was to know about him.
“I know it sounds bad-”
“You helped the man who literally mind controlled you into attacking the Avengers, who killed King T’Chaka, who bombed the U.N…”
“Yes, I know, I get it!” There’s a loud whirring in the background, like the rushing of jet engines. “I don’t like it either, but he’s useful. If I return him to prison there’s no way I’ll be able to get him out again. He’s just... tricky.”
Your jaw sets with an uncomfortable click. “If you think I’d touch him with a ten foot pole-”
“Empress.”
The word sends a chill through you, like ice water poured down your bare back. “I don’t do that super hero shit anymore. You of all people should know that.”
“I’m not asking you to. But you’re more equipped to handle Zemo than just about anyone I know.”
You pound your fist against the counter beside you, because you know deep down that his flattery is working, despite how much you’re reviled by it.
“God damn it- please.”
That makes you smirk. You can hear the desperation in his voice, and you have to wonder if you’re the only option he’s got. “You always did sound so sweet when you begged.”
You hear him scoff. “You gonna help me?”
“When?”
His relieved exhale sounds a little bit too jovial for your liking. “We can be on the way to you immediately, if you send coordinates.”
You lift the phone, opening your messages as a disenchanted look passes over your face. “I hope to god you don’t make me regret this, Barnes.”
“You’re a peach, doll.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“See you soon.”
~~~
II
It takes 12 hours for Bucky to text you that he and Zemo are on the ground and headed your way.
By the time the doorbell rings, you’ve been seated on the chaise lounge in the entryway for so long that Artemis has fallen asleep on your lap. Her dozing form perks up just before the bell tolls, and she leaps from your legs before you can even straighten yourself out.
The battle to the door is something like a dance; Artemis skirts around your legs as you try to step in front of her before you open the door, where you can see the silhouettes of two people standing just beyond the antique stained glass window. Eventually you curse and scoop her up in one arm just before you throw open the door, and her claw swipes at you in displeasure.
“Dammit, Missy.”
“I was about to say the same thing to you.” You whip your head around to make uncomfortably direct eye contact with Bucky Barnes. His steel blue eyes stare solidly back at you as he smirks at your deer-in-the-headlights expression, muttering your name with a chuckle like he can’t believe he’s saying it after so long. “You said your house was big, but I wasn’t expecting a castle.”
“Tudor revival. How quaint.”
Bucky jams his elbow back into Baron Helmut Zemo’s ribs. Zemo grunts, looking as though he may double over, but he steels himself with a slow hiss through the teeth as his eyes drift with measured disgust to Bucky’s profile. Bucky is still looking at you, as your eyes flicker between the two men standing both awkwardly and ominously in turn on your doorstep.
You hum after a moment, stepping back and away from the door to allow them to enter. “Welcome to my humble home."
Bucky steps tentatively through the doorway, stooping a bit as though he’s trespassing despite the invitation. The Baron, however, stalks through the portico like he’s done so a million times before and shuts the door swiftly behind him, eyeing the squirming animal in your arms.
As soon as you hear the latch click, you open your arms and let Artemis drop to the ground. The cat situates herself and trods off, meowing louder than necessary.
“I apologize for my cat. Artemis likes to scream all day,” you explain as you return your gaze to Bucky, and then to Zemo, where your eyes linger just a little too long on the man’s piercing stare. “She’s in heat.”
“That’s… all right.” Bucky coughs, fascinated with something on the toe of his shoe. “You’re pretty hard to find out here.”
“That’s what you wanted, right?” You don’t wait for a reply before you turn to trail after Artemis down the hallway. You pause halfway down, when you realize the two men haven’t moved. “You gonna stand there in the entryway all day?”
The two men do a little back and forth, bumping against each other to determine who walks first before Bucky roughly shoves Zemo forward by the shoulder of his fur lined coat. You watch the exchange with a touch of incredulity before turning into the kitchen.
“I think you’ll find the house to be quite suitable to your needs,” you rattle on with clinical disinterest that requires almost too much effort to sound convincing. You bristle at the two men’s silent presence over your shoulder as you begin to set a fresh coffee pot on to brew. “We don’t get visitors here. On any given day, it’s just me and the groundskeeper.”
“You mean the mafioso who nearly pulled a gun on us at the gate?” Bucky’s voice holds a hint of humor.
“Valentino means well, he just isn’t used to strangers,” you reply with a cool look over your shoulder at the Baron. “Nor am I, for that matter.”
Zemo, for his part, gives you a curt nod in return, affecting politeness. “Apologies. My name is Helmut Ze-”
“She knows who you are,” Bucky deadpans. The icy glare the two share between them holds something more than just the animosity between old enemies turned grudging allies. You think you might be mistaking it, but the tension resembles something akin to rivalry.
You wonder what Zemo is capable of that’s making the Winter Soldier feel the need to peacock.
A croaking sounds just beyond the open window, breaking you from your analysis of the two men. You step toward the Baron, reaching around him for the refrigerator handle, and he halts in his place. It appears to take him visible effort not to move away, peering down at you with careful stoicism even as you crouch level with his belt, and turn your head slightly towards him while reaching into the back of the fridge. Over your right shoulder, you hear the leather of Bucky’s glove creak in his tightened fist as you draw back holding a tupperware filled with greying meat.
“What the fuck is that?” Bucky startles, bumping into the island as a large black mass eclipses the window before it settles down on the sill in the form of a bird.
“This is Dodie. How are you, darling?” you say as you crack open the tupperware of rotting meat and shove it toward the tittering raven before the odour can assault you. The bird takes to the offering with obvious enthusiasm.
“You named a wild raven ‘Dodie?’” The name is drawn out in the Baron’s delicate accent, sounding somehow more elegant than you could ever dream to make it.
“Yeah, short for Dodecahedron.” The bird squawks as you set the tub down on the sill beside it, and you immediately shove your hand under the hot tap. “I should probably warn you, my house is host to a number of animals, both wild and domestic.”
Bucky snorts. “When did you become Doctor Dolittle?”
“When I realized that I would be alone in this enormous mansion with an ex-mafia bodyguard as my single confidante.” You dry your hand casually on a tea towel, and the petty side of you hopes that Bucky’s face reads the regret his silence speaks.
“Empress-”
“Zemo.” You cut Bucky off and spin around, your eyes desperately honing in on the Baron’s shrewd face before they can stray to Bucky. “Where are my manners? I think I should give you a tour of my home. You’ll be here for an indefinite amount of time, after all.”
“Indeed.” The Baron’s gaze rakes slowly over you, and despite the chill that comes from his scrutiny, it still feels more comfortable than the torture of finally meeting Bucky’s eye.
Because Bucky’s eyes are cold, and when he speaks, his voice is void of emotion. “It was good to see you again.”
“Was it?” You keep your expression carefully unreadable, mirroring his. In the back of your mind, the intonation of the conversation reminds you of the last goodbye you shared with him.
Bucky smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “Don’t worry. I know my way out.” As he approaches the kitchen door, he stops and turns back to point a gloved hand at the Baron. “You remember what I told you, right?”
“I will not soon forget it, James.” Zemo’s tight smile is sardonic, and gives you a small sense of dread despite not knowing the context of it.
You think you hear Bucky growl as he makes his exit.
~~~
III
Although you are normally a gentle and humorous person socially, your time as an agent of SHIELD taught you to use abruptness and frigidity to your advantage in order to maintain the upper hand of any given situation. Steve Rogers, bless him, used to describe you as ‘moody’ with the way you could turn your gentility on and off like a switch.
It has never been more difficult to keep a handle on your affectionate nature than it is now.
You stare across the library at the Baron, who has been content to trail behind you through the many rooms of your expansive mansion. He doesn’t seem to be feigning interest; in fact, he gives the occasional comment about the architecture, noticing small features most would overlook. It reminds you just how perceptive he is, which then reminds you who he is. And you remind yourself that you must not forget it.
Zemo admires the craftsmanship of the bookshelves on the far wall, while you stand with your back to the antique floor-to-ceiling windows. “Original panelling,” he observes with a hint of a smile, his head tilted upwards. “1921, it appears.”
You watch him blankly, or at least with what you hope is an expressionless face; on the contrary, you’re enrapt by the sight of his adam’s apple bobbing below his sharp jaw. You’d told Bucky flat out that you wouldn’t touch this man for anything, and now you’re swallowing back your realization that the Baron is, actually, a painfully handsome man. This information would have been appreciated before you’d allowed him into your home.
Your rationality tells you to look away. Your ego tells you that objectification is not idolization, and no harm comes from admiring a beautiful creature, even if it’s dangerous.
“Yes, it is. The house was built from 1920 to 1922.” You cross your arms, trying to appear dismissive. “I inherited it from my grandfather some years ago.”
Zemo turns to look at you, and his eyebrows quite obviously shoot up, despite his attempt to quickly sober himself. His lips quirk up at the edges just before he says, “You appear to have a bird on your head.”
You click your tongue. The budgerigar has been chewing on your eyebrow for about as long as Zemo has been studying the interior design of the room. “You don’t say.”
He turns his eyes to the rather large cage in the corner, which holds two more of the colorful birds, and tilts his head curiously when he sees the door to it hanging open. “You do not keep them caged?”
“You think this isn’t a cage?” You lift your finger to the bird on your head, and it hops on happily. You kiss it squarely on the breast before letting it flutter back onto your shoulder. “The birds don’t leave this room. They wouldn’t even if I left the door open. I believe they’re frightened of what’s outside of it.”
Zemo’s gaze cuts like a knife across the expanse of the room. “Is that why you refuse to leave, as well?”
You cast him a caustic glare, and decide not to dignify his question with an answer. “I will ask that you keep the door to this room and a few others closed. Artemis does tend to torment the other animals, especially now that she’s adolescent.”
“Of course.” His honeyed eyes linger on the sight of the budgerigar reaching its head to gnaw on the corner of your mouth. “You have… an affinity for animals, but not people.”
“I never said I don’t have an affinity for people.” You try not to break your composure as the bird begins to crawl across the neckline of your shirt, the weight of it tugging down slightly on the fabric. “I said I’m not used to strangers.”
He hums, nodding as his eyes travel from yours to the bird squirming across your chest. “And, what are their names?” When you frown, he gestures to the cage. “The birds.”
“Widget, Fidget, and Gidget.”
He coughs down at his feet, the back of his hand flying to his mouth to stifle it. When he looks back to you, he’s visibly holding in the laughter he just poorly tried to cover up. “Noble names, indeed.” He walks over to the cage, and a smile sneaks across his face for half a second.
“Hello there,” he nods to the two birds in the cage, speaking lowly, as though they are the most deadly assassins he’s ever met. “I am Baron Zemo. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m sure we will be seeing much of each other in the near future.”
You suck harshly on your tongue when the bird on your chest, Widget, flutters over to land on the Baron’s head with a decidedly happy chirp, and begins to groom his hair. Zemo turns to face you with a pleased look on his face.
“It seems we are no longer strangers.”
You allow yourself a sarcastic huff of laughter to compensate for how the sight of the budgerigar messing up his pristinely styled hair in the name of affection stirs something beneath your ribs, which has admittedly been dormant for far too long.
“You still have to do that to my python, though. And my german shepherd. And my ferret. And my monkeys. We have a lot more to get through before we reach the guest wing.” You walk past him, and the sudden movement causes Widget to flutter into the cage for the time being. When you reach the library door, you turn back to see him watching you with a wry smirk. “Why don’t you take off your coat and stay a while?”
~~~
IV
He’s scared of snakes.
You don’t know why the idea is funny to you, but something about the Baron, who can be aptly described as a serpent, being frightened of snakes just screams irony.
You showed him into the garden room with carefully concealed excitement, because the conservatory is your absolute favorite area of the mansion and, as someone so obviously educated on architecture, you figured he may have something to say about the engineering of the room.
Not that you care about anything he has to say about your house.
That being said, you didn’t expect him to take two steps into the room, and then turn tail and nearly run out without a second look. He stands five paces into the drawing room, through which you had to walk to reach the garden room, with his back to you blair witch-style.
“Should I even ask?” You bite your lip to hold in an obnoxious snort as he slowly shakes his head.
“That is the biggest snake I’ve ever seen in my life,” he admits so quietly you’re not sure he meant for you to hear it.
You pretend that you didn’t. By the time he turns around to face you again, you’ve already allowed the four foot reticulated python he’s speaking of to drop from its perch on the hanging tomato plant and slither its way along your shoulders. Zemo walks to the entrance of the garden room and leans casually against the doorframe with a blasé expression, but you can see the terror in his eyes.
“Can’t take the heat?” You ask with a coy smirk on your face. The Baron shrugs, visibly stretching his neck within the confines of his purple sweater. He refuses to move any further into the room, which is fine with you. The more distance he keeps, the better.
But you enjoy making a convicted murderer squirm.
“This is Nerissa, my darling baby girl,” you say as you lift your hand to cup the python’s smooth underbelly to help her pass along your arm onto a shelf of culinary herbs.
“You speak of it as though it’s a child.”
“She is my child, so to speak.” You stroke your hand lovingly along the end of the snake’s tail as it glides smoothly across your skin. “Why don’t you come introduce yourself?”
“I don’t feel that’s necessary.”
“Fucking liar, you made such a point of doing it to the birds.” You turn to look at him, and though his face has taken on a ghostly pallor, you can see a dangerous look of intrigue cross it.
He clears his throat, shifts his weight on his feet, but doesn’t move from where he rests his shoulder against the doorframe. “Hello, Nerissa. I’m Helmut.”
“Oh, not Baron Zemo this time?” You quirk an eyebrow at him, a taunting giggle leaving your lips.
“I don’t think my title will matter to her when she eats me, in the grand scheme of things.”
You snort and step back once Nerissa’s tail has securely passed onto the shelf. “You’re, what, five foot ten? She swallows her food whole. She’d sooner choke on you than fully enjoy you.”
The Baron seems to regard that statement with great interest for a moment before sly amusement washes over his features.
And then you realize the insinuation of what you just said.
You’re no stranger to making double entendres in order to take a person off-guard, but this was entirely accidental, an ill-timed Freudian slip. You try not to falter, running your tongue along your lips and cocking your head to the side like you’re waiting for a reply.
“May I ask you something?” Zemo’s voice is soft and dismissive. His arms rest crossed over his chest, seemingly void of tension, but his finger taps lightly against his sleeve.
“If you think you can handle the answer.” Oh yes, your SHIELD skills are coming in handy today. Because you sound so sure of yourself, so confident, all the while your pulse is pounding in your temples.
You do not like this man’s presence. Nor what it is doing to you.
“James referred to you as ‘Empress’ earlier,” he says slowly, sizing you up similarly to how he did when Bucky said it to you. When he’s satisfied that he hasn't elicited any sort of reaction, his eyes meet yours again. “What exactly does that mean to you?”
You give him a reserved smile. Just from his question alone, and the demeanor with which he asked it, you can tell that Bucky told the Baron practically nothing of your background. You aren’t sure whether you should commend him for it or not.
But then you remember something else that Bucky said.
“I’ll tell you what it means,” you begin, and watch the smile on Zemo’s face fall, “if you tell me what Bucky apparently wants you to remember.”
The Baron remains silent, and you’re certain that he’s not actually considering your bargain, he’s merely acting as though he is. Then he straightens himself up in the doorway with a polite bow of his head.
“You said you keep monkeys?”
You take a breath through your nose, and move toward the door. So, he’d rather be strangers. That’s a relief.
“I hope you’re not afraid of those, too.”
~~~
V
It takes six days for your composure at the Baron’s presence to wear thin.
On the first night, you’d laid out the ground rules as you walked him finally to the guest wing. “The animals generally wake with the sun, so I try to as well, but I’m prone to oversleeping. When it comes to kitchen leftovers, meat is reserved for Dodie, and the rest are tossed into the backyard for the other scavengers. Valentino will drive into town to get you anything that you need, but for the meantime I’ve provided you with a few basic changes of clothes.” You waved your hand at the open door to the rather large guest room, where a dark wood four-poster bed loomed out of the darkness.
“And mealtimes?”
You startled, turning to him with bewilderment. “Whenever you want to eat. Do as you like. You have free reign over the house.”
He gave you a polite smile that was otherwise emotionless. “Not unlike one of your pets, yes?”
Ah. Therein lies the catch. He’s your prisoner, not your guest, and you would do well not to forget it.
“Good night, Baron.” With a curt nod, you left him alone in the guest wing.
And he proceeded to fall into the routine of the house as though he’d been living with you for an eternity.
It started with little things. You’d wake up to an entirely clean kitchen and a fresh pot of coffee on the hot plate. You found that the budgerigars were never running low on water or food, when usually they would be. You occasionally heard a noisy meow from Artemis in the direction of the Billiards room, but you scantily saw her.
Then, things began to get more specific. On the third day, you woke not to a pot of coffee, but a steaming mug sitting on the counter, prepared just the way you preferred it. It was as though someone had been in the kitchen seconds before you entered, and heard you descending the stairs just before they slipped away unseen. That same occurrence repeated itself in the study, the parlor, the upper floor sitting room, and the dining room. The scent of his cologne tended to hang in the air, especially in the library, signifying that he’d just been there, but seemed to dissipate like a ghost.
You didn’t see much of him, but you felt his presence all through the house, seeping into the woodwork, curling around you like a vice. Suffocating you.
For your part, you’d been staying in and around the garden room, because it seemed like that was the one place in the entire house that wasn’t swimming with his energy. At one point you saw him pass through the drawing room from the kitchen, and through the open conservatory doors you could see him dramatically turn his head away, as though he couldn’t bear to perceive the room he knew housed a snake. You snickered, and turned your nose back to the book of poetry you were reading aloud to Nerissa, who slithered serenely along the top of your high backed wicker armchair.
Zemo doesn’t entirely avoid the drawing room, though. You discover this on the sixth night, when you plod down the stairs, heading for the kitchen to inhale some late night shredded mozzarella in your silk nightgown like a civilized person. It seems that he doesn’t mind the conservatory when the door is closed, because you walk into the drawing room to find him completely unconscious, sprawled across the antique couch with Artemis snoozing in a bundle on his chest.
His right hand rests on her back, as though he’d drifted off while petting her.
His other hand has fallen to the carpet, finger tucked between the pages of the poetry book you’d been reading to Nerissa when he passed by yesterday.
Your mouth runs dry at the sight. You don’t know why you suddenly become so frightened to make a sound, like you don’t want to disturb the tender moment you’d walked in on. Your deft footfalls against the paisley rug barely make a whisper as you clutch your nightgown close to your chest, somewhere in the back of your mind registering that you aren’t wearing anything beneath it, and you might actually die if he jolts awake to get an unwarranted look at your goods.
The Baron’s breathing is in sync with the cat’s. You pause, watching the rise and fall of his chest echoed in Missy’s little torso, curled up against the light grey fabric of his blouse. Slowly, you reach down to slide the maroon colored poetry book from where Zemo’s hand limply holds it, sliding your index finger between the pages beside his.
The book is Morning in the Burned House by Margaret Atwood. It’s an old copy that’s been worn from too many months being toted around in the bottom of a backpack, dogeared and annotated to oblivion. You’d tossed it onto the coffee table after you finished reading it to Nerissa, and from there you guess that Zemo came to investigate the book he’d heard you reciting.
You flip it open, but you don’t really have to check to know which poem he had been reading. It’s the last one in the book, the titular piece, in which the narrator mourns the loss of their family and their lack of intimacy in the wake of it.
Faded pink highlighter marks the first stanza. “In the burned house I am eating breakfast./ You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast,/ yet here I am.” You don’t remember highlighting it, but it sounds so much like the sad girl literature you’d buried yourself in during the Blip that you probably did at some point.
Then your eyes fall to the third stanza, where fresh pen marks underline the words in bold, as though they were just put there. And you know from the fact that you read the poem yesterday that they absolutely were.
“Where have they gone to, brother and sister,/ mother and father? Off along the shore,/ perhaps.”
Your toenail taps against something hard on the carpet, and you glance down to see the felt tip pen in question, its cap still tucked tightly onto the back end of it. Zemo hasn't finished annotating.
You pick up the pen and cap it before the ink dries out, and tuck it into the pages before setting the book onto the edge of the coffee table. You frown, though, considering how relevant the poem is to the both of you. You, with your reclusive lifestyle. Him, mourning his family.
Your eyes flicker back to Zemo’s sleeping form, his head turned barely toward the backrest of the couch, his hair just dishevelled enough to cause a few strands to fall across his brow. In sleep he seems so at peace, without the stiffness he keeps about him at all times like some kind of rigid mask he puts on in waking life.
You stop your outstretched hand just short of brushing the strand of hair away from his forehead.
Then you nearly run back to your room after filching the bag of shredded cheese from the refrigerator, like a misbehaving child trying not to get caught.
~~~
VI
You’re not much of a drinker. Occasionally you’ll treat yourself, but on the whole you keep the liquor cabinet in the drawing room shut. Tonight is not one of those nights, though, because all afternoon you had to watch Zemo playing fetch with Bruno, your elderly german shepherd.
Bruno never even plays fetch with you.
But oh, how he was so energetic with the Baron, as if the arthritis in his ancient hind legs didn’t even exist. Zemo has a ridiculously strong throwing arm, as it turns out, and you found yourself watching the immaculate arcs of the bone as he tossed it through the air, all the while imagining how strong his arms could prove to be in other circumstances.
So here you are, curled up in your wicker chair in the garden room, nursing your third brandy and praying to god that the alcohol kicks in soon, because you don’t think you’ll get to sleep unless it does.
The antique lamp beside you casts a golden hue across the vibrant green forestry throughout the room, reflecting off the darkened glass. You’d taken the liberty of putting a record on the old player in the corner to fill the silence. Bizet’s Carmen was the only disc you could find that wasn’t covered with dust, though.
Nerissa has been contentedly cuddling with you almost the entire time you’ve been seated, slithering across your lap and over your shoulders, at one point nuzzling herself beneath the flap of your loose fitting satin robe and worming her way down the sleeve of it like it’s a McDonald’s Playplace.
Despite the snake’s condolences and the tune of Habanera, you’re still seeing visions of Zemo’s back flexing beneath a blue v-neck sweater, the hem of it riding up as he stoops to praise your dog for bringing the bone back to him. You take a sip of brandy, and you wonder if Bucky didn’t foist the Baron off on you on purpose, just to torture you and your touch-starved impulses.
You don’t even realize that you’ve completely zoned out until the Baron speaks.
“Well, you look lovely this evening.”
You lift your eyes from the floor, and nearly spill your drink at the sight of his face. Three deep gashes arc across his cheekbone, blood spilling down the side of his face and along the line of his jaw, dripping down onto his sweater.
Zemo, for his part, stares levelly at you like he can’t even feel it.
“Are you- your face is bleeding,” you splutter out, setting the brandy down on the side table with your glass of water.
“Really?” He quirks an eyebrow at you. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“What happened?” You go to stand, but Nerissa holds you in place as she glides slowly across your lap and wraps herself around the arm of the chair.
Zemo stands awkwardly in the doorway, arms limply hanging by his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Regrettably, I made the mistake of leaving the door to the library open.” When you open your mouth to chide him, he supplements, “I could hear you playing Carmen. It’s... a favorite of mine.”
Your expression crumbles, because you don’t really want to berate him while his face is bleeding all over his shirt. Your hand falls to the tissue box on the side table, and you beckon him toward you. “Come here.”
Zemo doesn’t move. His eyes fall to the python that’s nuzzling its way up the line of your chest.
“Helmut, my cat just mauled your face. What more can a snake possibly do to you?”
His eyes snap back to yours, dark and brimming with carefully withheld anxiety. Then, hesitantly, he steps into the garden room for the first time and approaches your outstretched hand.
He stands before you just within arms reach, but when he realizes that you’re not going to simply hand him the tissue box, he reluctantly takes a knee. He watches the snake nudging at your neck, his mouth moving with the nervous swallow that he makes at the sight of it.
You take his chin between your fingers to tilt his head up to look at you instead. When his honey brown eyes meet yours, his pupils are blown so wide that they’re almost black.
You dip a tissue into your untouched glass of water, and begin to wipe the blood from his chin. “Are the birds all right?”
“Yes.”
“And Missy?”
“Yes.” His voice is hoarse, but he hasn’t moved his eyes from yours. “She put up a fierce fight. You would be proud.”
You hum, running the damp tissue up the side of his cheek toward the gashes. “On the contrary, I think it’s a shame she maimed such a pretty face.”
And there it is. The alcohol has worked its way to your mouth. The Baron’s eyelashes flutter, evidently surprised that you would pay him a compliment. But, of course, Zemo is incredibly perceptive. You know he can smell the brandy on your breath, can see the legs of alcohol running from the high water mark on the side of your glass. He says nothing in return.
“You seem to have gotten close with many of the animals already.” You have the presence of mind to use your loose tongue to your advantage and keep him talking, so that he doesn’t focus on the reptile that’s slowly inching its way toward his hand on the arm of the chair.
“You have an impressive menagerie. They are all very social creatures.” He doesn’t wince as you press the tissue against his open wound. “You were right.”
“About?”
“It is better to have animals around in isolation. They distract the mind from the monotony.”
His eyes begin to follow your hand as you move to grab a new tissue, but you grab his chin again, a bit rougher this time, and order, “Look at me.”
He clenches his jaw, causing a few beads of blood to pool at the surface of the scratches. “May I ask a question?”
“You may.” You dip the corner of the fresh tissue into your glass of brandy in lieu of antiseptic. As you raise the tissue to his cheek, you warn him, “This will sting a bit.”
He jumps when the alcohol touches his wound, his hands surging forward to grip onto both of your knees.
The touch is meaningless, a grasp for stability through the shock of pain, but the warm grip of his fingers against your bare skin burns along your nerves, your own need culminating at the apex of your thighs. You swallow hard when he makes no move to release your legs, nor to look away from where you keep his face gazing steadily into yours.
“Why do you refuse to leave this place?”
“I can’t leave,” you reply simply, honestly. “I’m wanted by the government for helping Steve and Bucky evade capture after-”
You falter, your gaze flickering to where you press the alcohol soaked tissue against the Baron’s cheekbone.
“After I bombed the U.N.” He says it so matter-of-factly, you’re sure he’s had this similar conversation time and time again. He squeezes your thighs gently, his own way of urging you to meet his eye. When you do, he nods at you. “Go on.”
You reconsider it only for a moment before the brandy and your own need to just tell someone gets the best of you. “I used to work with Steve. Not super closely, but in the same circles. I was an agent for SHIELD, and when that went under, I became something of a mercenary for hire.”
Your thumb strokes along the curve of his chin just before your hand fully cups his jaw to tilt his head up a bit further, because Nerissa is now slithering along the arm of the chair toward his elbow.
When you’re satisfied that his eyes are trained solely on you, you tell him, “They called me ‘Empress.’”
“It was your alias.” He says it as a statement, likely to show you that he’s following you.
You nod your assent. “I would train new field agents. I had a way of… commanding people.” You lift the tissue away from Zemo’s wound to find that it’s no longer actively bleeding.
You don’t release his chin, though, because Nerissa has found her way onto his shoulder. He knows it; his pulse pounds beneath your fingers. His eyes drift in the direction of the snake, but you snap, “I told you to look at me.”
You steal the breath from the Baron’s chest when you tighten your fingers on his jaw.
His eyes are wide when they return to yours, and he croaks, “Please continue.”
So, you do. “When they needed a place to hide, Steve called me. I took Bucky in for a little while before they went to Siberia, and… well. You know the rest.” You tilt your head to the side, effecting a shrug. “I learned that my grandfather left me this estate, and when I went into exile, I came here. I’ve been here ever since. No more fighting, no more super heroes.”
“Is that why you dislike when James calls you by that name?”
“Not entirely.” You can feel the flush creep across your cheeks at the prospect of telling the Baron your personal history, but you know even before opening your mouth that fighting it is a losing battle. “Bucky and I were… together for that time, when I took him in. He knows that I only allow the people I’m closest to the privilege of calling me ‘Empress.’ Now that we aren’t so close, I imagine he just does it to mock me.”
You feel Zemo swallow against the palm of your hand. “James was a lucky man.”
You give him a small smile, but you’re sure it doesn’t meet your eyes. “He could have been, if he’d taken my offer to come here with me. He chose Siberia instead.”
The Baron’s pupils are still eclipsing his irises, but there’s an eerie heat in them, simmering just below the surface. “That was foolish of him.”
“Maybe not. He’s a good man, but he isn’t meant for love. Good men usually aren’t.”
Zemo’s eyes flutter again, and you swear that his hands move up your thighs a miniscule amount. “What makes you say that?”
“They’re too selfless. Their loved ones usually get the short end of the stick in favor of the masses.”
“And who do you think is meant for love?”
You smile, but it’s not because of Zemo’s question. It’s because, during the course of your conversation, Nerissa has slithered her way along the span of his shoulders. When you release his jaw, you pretend the weak noise he makes in the back of his throat doesn’t send a rush of pulsing heat between your legs.
“Look at you,” you breathe, letting your hand fall to stroke the python on his shoulders. “You did so well. That’s what happens when you listen.”
This time, you don’t question that his hands slide further up your thighs, because they’ve now breached the hem of your robe.
He whispers your name, and it sounds like a prayer on his lips. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”
You may be a filthy hypocrite when you say you want him despite your prejudice, but you’re not a liar, and the room is spinning.
“Smart boy,” you remark, and hear his sharp inhale with a touch of pride. “Too much.”
He ducks his head to let you lift Nerissa from his shoulders, and he waits there a moment longer than necessary, staring down at your lap like he’s looking for the answers to life’s mysteries in the parting of your thighs. Before he stands, he takes your hand and presses a chaste kiss to your knuckles, but the look in his eyes as they gaze up at you through his lashes is less than.
At the door, he pauses as though he means to say something else, but appears to rethink it at the last moment. Instead, he leaves you with a soft, “Good night, dragă.”
You remain, downing the last dregs of your brandy while your breath stutters in your lungs.
~~~
VII
You don’t sleep that night.
You could blame the alcohol. Or, you could blame the screaming fire in your core, trying to pull you off your bed, out the door and down the hall to where you know the Baron lies in his own bedroom, probably half naked and wonderfully upright.
You slip in and out of consciousness, but never truly give in to the other side of sleep. It’s too hot beneath the sheets. You can hear Bruno’s asthmatic wheezing at the foot of the bed, and it seems like it’s booming throughout the cavern of the master bedroom.
When you rouse early in the morning to let the dog limp out of the room and down the hall, the alcohol hasn’t entirely worked its way out of your system, and has left you with the disorientation of a mild hangover. You’re not stumbling, but you’re parched, and so ravenous that the emptiness of your stomach lends itself to nausea.
Your movements are jerky and a little bit too slow as you move through the kitchen. By the time you rip open a fresh package of bacon, the pain in your stomach is so strong you think you might kill someone.
And that’s precisely when Artemis comes trundling into the kitchen, howling like she’s being tortured.
She hops onto the counter to investigate what you’re doing as you begin slicing the cuts of bacon, a frying pan already heating on the stove. She butts at your hand to try and get at the fragrant meat, giving you an indignant, “MRROW.”
You affect an unamused glare. “What, you think you’re the only horny one in this house?”
“May I offer some assistance?” comes the Baron’s voice.
Your ears start to ring with the rush of blood to your head as you turn to find Zemo standing two feet from you with a coy smirk on his face, holding a glass of water. When you blink at him, he opens his palm and gestures for you to give him the knife in exchange for the water.
You take the glass, and press the flat of the blade into his outstretched palm. He wordlessly nudges you to the side and begins to slice the bacon with such quick, careful precision that the fluid motion mesmerizes you for a second.
As you sip the water, your eyes follow the line of his hand up to his strong forearm, bared to you by his rolled sleeves, and further up until your eyes settle on his face. The scratches on his cheekbone are still bright red, but seem to have sealed up in the night.
The flapping of wings at the window heralds Dodie’s arrival, and you snatch up a piece of the raw bacon before Zemo can manage to cut it. The raven titters at you as you hold the scrap out to it, and you nudge your knuckle affectionately against its plumage. “Good morning, my love.”
You hear Zemo’s meditative hum from behind you. “So that’s who you presume to be meant for love.”
“Please, Baron. Animals are innocent souls,” you tell him easily as you stroke the raven’s beak. “They’re all worthy of love.”
“Whatever happened to ‘Helmut?’”
You pause as Dodie takes flight, feeling your blood humming through your veins with such a fever you think you may be turning red. His voice is quiet, much like it had been when he first spotted Nerissa, like he might not have meant for you to hear him say it.
But you turn to him, and he’s not looking at the stove or the knife, or anything else. He’s looking at you.
“Do you want me to call you ‘Helmut?’”
He considers you for a moment, his sharp eyes scanning you with growing warmth, like you can see a fire being lit within his irises. But then they go cold, and they drop to the stove without warning.
“What I want makes no difference,” he states with clinical detachment. “Perhaps it is best that you call me ‘Baron.’”
“Why is that?”
“Because, I made a promise to James,” he explains, and his voice has garnered a rough edge. “A promise that he told me to remember.”
Bucky’s parting snarl rings through your mind. ‘You remember what I told you, right?’
“What was that promise?”
“That I would remain a stranger to you.” He continues to conduct himself about the stove, tossing the bacon as if the conversation is of little importance to him. “And that if I don’t, it is with the understanding that he will, and I quote, ‘cut off my balls and use them as a hacky sack.’”
A litany of emotions bombard you at once, freezing you in space without any way to reply. First comes flattery, at the fact that Bucky still feels protective of you in some regard. Second, anger, because it’s not his place to be protective of you when he didn’t want to remain with you.
And third, frustration. Because now that he’s successfully gotten under your skin, Zemo’s doing the fucking right thing.
“And you intend to honor that?” It seems ridiculous that he would, considering Bucky’s “warning” sounds more like a schoolyard taunt and less like an actual threat.
But Zemo looks at you, and smiles warmly. “Yes, dragă, I do.”
You nod slowly, eyes falling to the floor, chewing on your lip because you can feel your frustration rising to the surface. “Are you trying to be a good man, Baron?”
He barks a laugh, and turns to look at you.
“In my life, I have been many things. A good man is not one of them.” Though he keeps his face evenly measured, you can see something pained within his gaze. “However, I shall make a valiant effort.”
You suck on your tongue as you watch him turn the stove off and plate the horrendous amount of bacon you’d decided to make in your stupor.
“I’m disappointed,” you say, just as he sets the plate beside you on the counter. He’s not a foot away from you now, and as you stare challengingly up into his eyes, you can see every little deviation his face makes.
“Are you, indeed?” He tilts his head slightly, and his lips turn up at the corners.
“Yes.” Taking the plate from him, you let your fingertips brush his, where they linger on the porcelain. “Here I thought I was supposed to be keeping a dangerous villain in line.”
You watch his pupils dilate dramatically, and a smile breaks across your face. That’s what you were looking for. Last night his eyes weren’t blown completely black because he was frightened of your pet snake. He liked that you were in control.
The low timbre of his voice vibrates through the air around you. “Didn’t you say that I do well when I listen?”
You hum, and slide around him with newfound purpose, allowing your fingers to trail innocently along the line of his belt. “Come to me when you decide who it is you want to listen to, Baron.”
You smile to feel his eyes scorching your back as you exit the kitchen.
~~~
VIII
The Baron is already out of breath.
You can’t imagine the inner dialogue he’s been through to get to this point, but the look on his face is earnest, like he’s two seconds from begging you on his knees. You allow yourself to smile at the thought.
You haven’t done anything to him. Not yet, anyways, but you can tell by the way he stands at the threshold of the conservatory with his fists clenched at his sides, his chest heaving and his eyes trained solidly on you, that it won’t be long before you do. Because he’s just played right into your hand, as you knew he would.
Bucky knew he would, too. Because the same thing happened with him, and history tends to repeat itself.
“Have you given up your valiant effort so soon?” You recline in your high backed chair, not unlike a queen upon her throne.
“It seems my villainy knows no bounds.”
Nerissa is asleep, coiled into a pile on the shelf of culinary herbs, but you don’t think he cares by the way he threw open the doors with barely contained desperation.
He steps into the room.
“Did I give you permission to enter?”
The Baron halts, hands flexing at his sides. “No, dragă.”
“Dragă?”
Behind you, rain dashes against the darkened conservatory windows, rippling down the glass like a waterfall. In the silence that hangs throughout the room, thunder can be heard echoing from the valley. You wonder how long it will take him to address you correctly, or if you’ll have to guide him there.
“No… Empress.”
You incline your head toward the Baron’s rigid form. “Very good. You are a smart boy. Now,” you cross your legs to tease him with the fact that you’re wearing nothing beneath your robe, “have you decided what you want me to call you? Baron, or Helmut?”
“Helmut,” he says almost too quickly. He’s all too eager, likely from a culmination of years locked in a prison cell without any contact, combined with whatever internal crisis he’s been having all day to break his resolve so quickly.
For that fact, you’re just as tightly wound as he is, the pulsing in your core echoing the way his trousers are nicely tented below his belt. But you’re not going to rush things along. He strikes you as a patient man.
You’d like to test that theory.
“So, you don’t want to remain strangers.” You run the tip of your finger along your lip, mostly to stop yourself from nervously tapping it against the arm of the chair. In testing his patience, you’re also testing your own. “You seem to have an issue following orders.”
“That depends on who’s giving them.”
You raise your eyebrows. Normally you would bark at him for speaking without being spoken to, but you do love to hear his rasping voice. “Do you think you’ll be able to follow my orders, Helmut?”
His eyes glow gold in the dim light. “Yes, Empress.”
“Then you may come closer.”
It’s a dance, trying to hide your own need while also feeding off of his. He crosses the room slowly, trying to conceal how his hands twitch to reach out to you. He stops just short of your crossed legs.
“Tell me, Helmut,” you say, revelling in the way his eyes flutter at the sound of his name, “were I truly a queen, how would you approach me to ask for something?”
His face is darkened with lust, his breath coming in swift bursts. “On my knees.”
“Show me, then.”
Zemo falls to his knees before you, his gaze remaining trained on your face. You keep your expression level as you move your leg with aching slowness and precision, ensuring that it brushes teasingly across the Baron’s growing bulge. He hisses through his teeth, and his hand catches your ankle to hold it there.
You tut at him condescendingly. “Did I give you permission to put your hands on me?”
His nostrils flare with the impatient breath he huffs out as he releases your ankle. “No, Empress.”
“That’s right.” You continue to rub the length of your calf just barely against his hardness, smirking at the strained grunt he gives you. “Remove your shirt.”
His fingers hasten to unbutton his blouse, but once they fumble a few too many times in response to your gentle caress against his trousers, he roughly yanks the closure apart with a growl, buttons flying as the fabric falls from his shoulders and exposes the lean expanse of his chest.
You make no attempt to hide the impish smile that stretches across your face. “Are we in a rush?”
When Zemo remains silent, dark eyes glaring up at you defiantly, angrily, you stop the movement of your leg against him.
“No,” he chokes out weakly, leaning into you to find that friction again.
“I thought so.” Graciously, you resume your gentle teasing against his trousers, and he visibly melts into you. “Tell me what you want, Helmut.”
He hesitates. He seems to contemplate his words before finally saying, “I want to taste and touch every part of you. I want to feel you come apart around me.”
“My god. A poet.” You smirk, dragging your calf a little harder against his bulge. “Run that by me again, and say what you mean this time.”
He sucks a breath through his teeth at the added pressure against his hardness, his voice tinged with a new kind of hunger. “I want to fuck you until you can’t speak. I want to feel you cum on my cock so hard that you beg me to stop. I want to mark you as mine, dragă. And I want the Winter Soldier to know it when I do.”
Your leg halts of its own accord, because his lewd admission has you clenching pathetically on air, the heat of your slick dampening the satin of your robe where it’s seeped from your cunt. You could make him wait longer, simply because he dared to use his own pet name for you instead of the one you’d given him. But you don’t want to.
You uncross your legs before him, then lean forward to grip his chin in a similar fashion as you did to wipe the blood from his face. “You’ll be content with what I give you for now, yes?”
He nods obediently, swallowing hard against your hand before vocalizing, “Yes.”
“And then, if you behave yourself, I’ll allow you the privilege of feeling me cum on your cock.”
You restrain yourself only for a moment, but the sound of the Baron’s stuttering breath prompts you to lean forward and pull his lips against yours. He stays there, allowing you to drink in the small moan he makes into your mouth as his tongue dances between your lips. He tastes sweet, like bourbon mixed with ripe summer fruit, meeting your lips with a fervor you haven’t known in years.
Your own desperation seeps into your voice when you whisper, “Touch me, Helmut.”
He obliges without a second thought. His hands slide up each of your calves, running along the length of your thighs and back down again, as though testing the waters. You kiss him feverishly, drawing him closer to you, his torso slotting between your knees to press against the edge of the chair.
His thumb slides up your inner thigh to brush along your slit, and you nearly let out a noisy whine.
“You are eager, aren’t you?” you force through gritted teeth, tightening your hands on his shoulder and jaw. His mouth breaks from you with a gasp, forehead pressed to yours for a modicum of stability.
“Yes.”
“Such a smart mouth, and all you can say is, ‘Yes?’” The sound of his desperate groan at your words only serves to spur you on, your hips jolting forward on your seat. “Why don’t you show me what that mouth can really do, Helmut?”
He affords two wet kisses along your jaw before he forgoes all propriety, and pushes your robe up to expose you from the waist down, pulling you forward until your hips meet the edge of your seat. Then his hands rake down your thighs as he dips his head between them, and his tongue slides between the lips of your cunt.
You suck in a gasp unexpectedly, grinding against his mouth as your fingers weave into his hair like they’re made to be there. He takes to you like a man starved, his tongue spreading you open and his lips devouring, and a swift flex of your fingers in his hair draws a moan from his throat.
“Such a lovely tongue. It always gets you what you want, doesn’t it?” You release your grip on his roots and stroke gently through his hair, like butter against your fingers.
Zemo hums a response, his lips closing around your clit to suck hard against it. Your back arches, a loud moan finally falling from your mouth, and he chuckles against you just before flicking his tongue across the swollen bud.
“You fucking bastard,” you choke out, nails digging against his scalp as you desperately rut against his mouth. “You like to hear how good you are, don’t you? How much you make me fucking want you?”
Your head tilts up seemingly on its own, pulling you to look at him. He’s watching you from beneath his lashes, looking like an absolute devil as his tongue drags through your folds and pauses just shy of your clit.
You can’t help the way your mouth falls open in a needy gasp, your fingers tugging on his hair once again. “Don’t you dare stop, Helmut.”
He obliges you by sucking your clit between his lips with spiteful force. You’re all too aware that his eyes are still on you, watching your head drop back as the muscles of your core tighten, your legs shaking where they rest on his shoulders.
Your orgasm is ravaging. Maybe it’s because it’s been so long since you’ve had a partner to bring you there, but the pulses seem to constrict every part of your body, hoarse cries stealing from your throat to mingle with the sharp sound of rain striking the windows. Your skin sings, breath shaking when the Baron draws away from you to rest his chin on your thigh.
Then, the fucker has the audacity to say, “Take your time.”
You don’t even lift your head up in order to watch how Zemo flies backward when you use the ball of your foot to shove him by his collarbone, hearing his soft grunt as he lands on his back against the floor.
“You think I’m not taking my time with you, you entitled little shit?” you hiss as you straighten yourself, your hands falling to the tie of your robe. He raises himself on his elbows, watching you with hungry eyes as you stand, shrugging the satin negligée from your shoulders and towering over his sprawling form. “No. If I wasn’t taking my time with you, you’d already be blissed out of your fucking skull. I want to hear you beg for it.”
The look on the Baron’s face is excitable, fearful, his sharp features looking younger and more boyish now as you bend at the knee and begin to crawl tantalizingly between his parted legs, running your palms along the inside of his thighs toward where he strains against his fly.
“Poor thing,” you coo, hooking your finger beneath the buckle of his belt to tug lightly against it, and watch him buck his hips along with it. “You really need me so badly?” You undo the buckle to slip the belt from his trousers, and use two fingers to release the button of his fly before sliding your hand across his bulge as you drag the zipper down. And then, the Baron surprises you.
He whimpers.
It’s not a sound you ever expected to come from him. Zemo is normally so regally composed, stoic and even-tempered with just a hint of malice below the surface. You expect growls and groans, deep, guttural noises with primal connotations. But not this. A pathetic little whimper high in his throat, so soft it’s almost like a sob.
You can’t contain your self-aggrandizing grin as you reach into his trousers to finally relieve him of his restraints, his cock swollen and hard and leaking against your fingers.
His hand comes up to grasp your shoulder at the contact, but you’re not about to let him guide you. You grab him by the wrist and pin his hand against the floor, watching him strain to hold back a moan as you stroke him. You can hear his nails scratch roughly against the floor when his elbows give and he falls back, bucking his hips into your hand.
“Oh, you like that.” You give him a languid stroke, feeling him rigid and pulsing against your hand. Beneath the pleasure of watching Zemo squirm against your touch is the undercurrent of, ‘I want to taste it,’ as your thumb drags the bead of precum down his shaft, and your mouth waters. And who are you to deny yourself the pleasure?
You lick him from base to tip, and feel him shudder against you. You know you’ve wound him up enough that he won’t last if you go at him like this for too long, but still, you close your mouth around his tip and take him in as far as you can, his hitching breath like music to your ears and his salty taste like heaven on your tongue. And then, you draw back slowly, giving him one long, hard suck between your cheeks before your mouth pops off of him, and he very nearly screams.
“No, no, darling, you’re not going to finish like this. Not before I give you what you asked for.” His chest heaves as you dip your head down and slide your tongue up the hollow of his stomach and the line of his ribs, pulling back just at the burst of hair on his sternum. “Do you think you deserve to be given what you want, Helmut?”
His hands land on your waist as you hover over him, staring down into his glassy, dark eyes and carding your fingers delicately through his dishevelled hair. He’s shaking, his skin is burning.
“Yes.” His voice is broken, like it’s been stolen from him and wrung so tightly that he can barely use it anymore. “Please.”
A smirk twitches on your lips. “What was that?”
“Please.” His eyes are searching, desperate, a look you’ve been familiar with before. He’s not above begging, at least not now. His hand brushes your cheek, stroking a finger along the side of your face with tender reverence. “Please, dragă.”
You take his hand, and press a kiss to his palm. “Since you asked so nicely.”
You skim your hands down the length of his body as you rid him of his shoes and trousers, not really trying to conceal your own haste anymore. Your need is already evident in the way your slick seeps down your inner thighs, wet against your skin as you move up his legs.
Zemo is sitting now, his arms outstretched and grabbing for you like he can’t be without you, pulling you against his chest because he said he wanted to touch all of you, not just your cunt, not just your mouth. He’s peppering kisses along your jaw and down your neck, sucking and biting, nails scratching, marking. He holds you so close it’s like he wants to intertwine himself with you entirely.
His hands find your hips. You make no move to guide them away. You run your palm up his chest as you rub against him, raising your hips to align him with your entrance.
When you sink down onto him, your name breaks in his throat like a swan song.
You, on the other hand, are so overwhelmed with the feeling of finally being filled, you’re clinging to him like he might float away from you, moaning against his neck as your walls tighten around his intrusion.
When was the last time you felt so complete?
Zemo’s hand strokes down your spine, raising the hairs on the back of your neck with the gentle caress, and his whisper is soft as velvet. “You’re divine.”
Your eyes flutter before you finally collect yourself, and you bite down on his shoulder as you rock your hips into his. He groans loudly into your ear, his chest vibrating against yours as you lift yourself up on your knees to pull back again.
And you push him flat down onto the floor once again before you drive yourself back down onto him with excessive force, biting your lip as he strikes deeper within you.
He gasps as you rake your fingernails through his chest hair, scratching deep red welts into his skin that mimic the ones on his face. He’s surprised, and delighted, and one particular swirl of your hips makes his face scrunch so preciously you’d dare to call it cute, if that’s a word that could be used to describe the Baron.
Zemo’s hands grip your hips, moving in tandem with them as you roll down onto him, a strangled whine leaving your lips. It’s been a long time since you’ve done this, and yet, you find that the movement and feeling is not something one easily forgets.
His hips erratically buck to meet yours, a tense sort of culmination building between you as you bend forward over him, your hand coming to rest on the floor beside his head.
You’re so enrapt in his mouth as you kiss him, it takes a moment for you to register that the ringing in your ears is not, in fact, from your own sensory overload, but that it’s from your cell phone, which sits two feet away on a little antique footrest. You break away from the Baron with a frustrated growl, refusing to stop the rolling of your hips even as you knock over the footrest in your haste to shut the fucking thing up.
And then you see the caller ID.
“Well, well,” you laugh as you grind your hips into the Baron’s, your eyes flickering to his confused visage, “It looks like you really do get whatever you want.”
You push the phone into Zemo’s palm, as Bucky’s call continues to vibrate in his hand.
“Answer it,” you order, your eyes blazing into his as you straighten yourself, trailing a finger down his torso.
Zemo swallows, a hint of terror washing across his face before he clears his throat, eyes steeling and growing sharp. It takes you a moment to realize that you’ve just watched him put on the mask that he wears in daily life; he’s no longer Helmut, he’s Baron Zemo.
Nevertheless, his voice cracks when he answers the phone. “Hello, James.”
You can hear a vague chattering coming from the phone against his ear, his eyes staring up into yours with unadulterated lust as you continue to roll yourself down onto his cock.
“The phone was simply nearest to me.” Zemo speaks clearly now, but his voice is deeper than normal. “Is there something you wish to tell me, zimniy soldat?”
If you listen hard enough, you can hear the cadence of Bucky’s voice over the sounds of your own erotic gasps, watching the Baron’s jaw tighten when he drives his hips up particularly hard into you, like he’s trying his hand at warning you to shut up.
“Is that so?” he nearly growls through gritted teeth. “That didn’t take long at all. I expect you’ll be chaperoning me, then?”
Ah. So Bucky called to tell you that he’s coming to collect Zemo for whatever job he needed the Baron’s help with. It makes sense for that to be the reason he called, but similar to what Zemo’s apologetic expression attests to, you thought you’d have more time.
Might as well go out with a bang.
“Actually, she is right here,” Zemo says, his words coming out thick with anger and desperation. “Perhaps you’d like to tell her yourself?”
He quirks his brows at you, like he’s asking if you want to talk to Bucky. The little inquiry for your consent is almost heartwarming; as you reach to take the phone from his hand, you bend forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips.
And then you pick up your hips and slam down onto him as hard as you can, making him give out a moan that he strangles to a quiet grunt in his throat before it can be heard over the phone.
“Hi, Bucky,” you sigh into the phone, putting all your frustration into the two words.
“Hey, I know it’s probably late where you are, but I wanted to catch you before tomorrow. Something came up with the Flagsmashers, I need Zemo as soon as possible.”
“Well, that’s what you left him with me for, right?” Your breathing is coming hard through your nose as you try to choke back your own moans, because now Zemo’s hands are truly guiding your hips, and he’s ensuring that each time you fall down onto him, his cock is hitting that perfect spot within you that wants it most. “You don’t need my permission to come get him.”
“I just figured I’d let you know before showing up unannounced.” Bucky’s voice is tense, like he doesn’t like the prospect of seeing you again. “I’m sorry you’ve had to put up with him even this long. I hope he wasn’t too difficult to deal with.”
“On the contrary,” you gasp out as you sweep your hand up the Baron’s chest, taking in his face as he gazes up at you with what can only be described as adoration, “he’s been a very, very good boy.”
At your words, and a particularly well aimed rut of your hips, Zemo lets out a groan that you’re sure can be heard through the phone.
Bucky is quiet for a moment, before he says in the most disappointed tone you’ve ever heard, “You didn’t.”
This time, you sigh a quiet little moan of your own into the speaker. “Don’t be too hard on him, Bucky. He made such a valiant effort to resist me.”
You feel Zemo twitch within you as you rock down onto him, his fingers tightening on your hips as you toss your head back at the sensation.
Bucky’s voice is enraged now as he growls, “Empress…”
Your head snaps forward, and you stare directly down into the Baron’s dark eyes as you say, “I’m not your Empress anymore, Bucky.”
And you end the call as Zemo jerks his hips up ungodly hard into yours. You squeeze the phone in your hand just before your core tightens, and you launch it across the room and through the open door with a ridiculously loud cry, like everything you’ve been holding back all evening is coming out all at once.
You catch yourself on your hand before you can collapse against him, allowing your release to seize you entirely. You jolt forward into it, feeling your cunt pulse around his cock with your eyes screwed shut, searing heat exploding in your belly and sizzling through your veins.
You hear Zemo’s harsh cry at the same time as you feel his hands tug you further onto him, and then the warm rush of his release, sprung forth with the sensation of you cumming around him.
He hasn’t quite finished his orgasm when his hands slide up your sides to pull you down against his chest, his arm winding around your waist and his hand cradling the back of your head, hugging you to him as he continues to moan out his release. Your head dips into the crook of his neck, lips pressed to his collarbone while you’re lost in the aftershocks of your muscles pulsing against his hardness.
You lay atop him, breathing him in. It’s the only thing you can do. You can’t seem to form words. You suppose he’s managed to get what he wanted in that respect as well; you’re dumbstruck at the intensity of your orgasm, the fact that you’ve thoroughly debauched yourself in the proverbial face of your ex, and that in less than eight hours, the man holding you like a treasure will be whisked away by said ex, likely never to see you again.
You try to burn it into your memory that Helmut’s sweat-damp body tastes of salt, and smells of sandalwood.
You remain like that, with his arm hugging you to his body and his thumb stroking circles against the back of your head, while he slips from you and his breathing slows.
Eventually, you’re able to find your voice again when he croaks out a gentle, "Thank you."
“It isn’t always like that with me, you know,” you mutter, your voice echoing in the dip of his collarbone.
“Is that so?” His voice vibrates against where your mouth is pressed to his skin.
“Yeah. Sometimes, I like to be on the receiving end.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”
You raise your head, your nose brushing the stubble on his jaw as you find his eye. “Next time?”
“Yes, dragă.” His thumb continues its gentle caress of your head as his eyes search your face. “There will be a next time, if you desire it.”
“Of course I desire you, Helmut.” His breath audibly stutters when you say his name, his arm tightening around your waist.
“It… relieves me to hear you say that.” His eyes flutter shut when you press a kiss to his jaw.
“But you have to leave in the morning. And Bucky might actually kill you.”
“Don’t worry about that. I believe I can talk down our zimniy soldat.”
“I have no doubt about that,” you say with a small laugh, and rest your head in the crook of his neck again. “But he’s definitely not going to be bringing you back here, that’s for sure.”
“Have no fear, dragă. I know where to find you.” Helmut’s hand strokes down the back of your neck, beginning a gentle descent along your spine. “One trait we villains have in common is that we know a good thing when we see one.”