Work Text:
Bucky eases the gloves on over the stretch of his fingers and rolls the thick black material over his palms with a satisfying snap of latex at his wrists.
Outside the windows of his studio the setting sun erupts across the sky in a violent explosion of inky purples and fiery reds, mingling in a hazy gradient as the night begins to lay a pall over the day. The staff have gone home for the evening, leaving Bucky with the place to himself to take care of his final client of the day—a first time customer with an uncommon request.
He’s currently asking the man to drop his trousers, which—well, doesn’t take much urging at all with this particular client.
Bucky watches as Zemo gracefully kicks off his boots and reaches slender hands down to unhook the absurdly large and ornate belt buckle sitting snug around his waist. Easing the fly open, he shimmies out of his pants and silky boxer briefs with maybe a little too much enthusiasm, revealing strong thighs dusted with fine golden hair, a pair of somewhat exceptionally scarred knees, and some stylish-looking black straps nestled high up around shapely calves. Bucky marvels at the sock garters; he hadn’t even realized anyone still wore those.
Zemo sets the shed garments aside where his ostentatious fur-collared coat is already hanging, while Bucky casts a critical eye to his client’s flaccid cock dangling cheerfully between his thighs, uncircumcised and looking like it’ll be thick as a Coke can once erect.
“You’re gonna need to be hard in order for us to get started,” Bucky instructs his client.
Zemo’s dark eyes meet Bucky’s with amusement and he lifts the hem of his purple shirt with one hand while slowly running his other palm down the sparse trail of hair on his belly. He takes himself in hand and begins to tug at his cock, holding eye contact with Bucky all the while.
Bucky takes a slow breath, holding on to his well-practiced composure with all his might, and lets his eyes flick down to where the man’s cock is quickly thickening in his fist.
His client is a good looking man, unfortunate though his fashion sense may be—but his seductive eyes and youthful cheeks and pleasantly wide build more than make up for any sartorial transgressions. Bucky can’t say he minds the show at all, openly watching Zemo stroking at his sufficiently hard cock for maybe a little longer than necessary before telling him it’s enough.
Getting down to business, Bucky drops to his knees and wets his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue, now at eye level with his client’s appendage that he’s going to be getting very familiar with over the next hour or so. He grasps Zemo’s tantalizingly fat cock with one hand, barely getting his fingers around it, while reaching out with the other to run his fingers firmly along the shaft and wipe it down thoroughly with isopropyl alcohol to sterilize the entire area.
He tosses the used wipe into a bin and uncaps a disposable razor to carefully shave the wide base of Zemo’s cock to remove any hair on the shaft, leaning in to get a close look and ensure he doesn’t miss any. Zemo smells like a good, warm, musk-heavy soap, tingling at Bucky’s nostrils—clean but stimulating at the same time. When he’s satisfied that the entire area is smooth and unobstructed, he stands and tosses the razor into the bin as well.
“All right, now let’s get this art on you.”
Zemo stands serenely and patiently, his proud erection unflagging and in fact, seems to plump up a bit as Bucky slicks the stencil solution onto it. He hears a sharp inhale from Zemo as he wraps cool, wet fingers around his cock, and a little sigh as he gives it a few good pumps with a twist of his wrist to make sure it’s entirely covered and evenly spread. Once it’s ready—wet and glistening from root to tip—Bucky wraps the stencil around it, taking care to get the placement right, and smooths it down onto the skin with firm strokes of his hand.
“I can’t recall the last time I had anyone so handsome paying so much undivided attention to this part of me,” Zemo quips.
“Well, you’re paying for it,” Bucky tosses back amiably.
When he slowly, gently peels off the transfer paper, the art is revealed on Zemo’s substantially thick cock—delicate petals and leaves rendered in a slightly blurry outline of purple stencil ink. His client had told him the reason he’d chosen this imagery was because he liked cherry blossom tea; it wasn’t until he’d told Bucky where he wanted the tattoo that Bucky had realized just how much he liked cherry blossom tea. He’s still not entirely sure Zemo wasn’t being facetious, but it’s not his job to pry into any deeper meanings behind his clients’ choices.
“Take a look in the mirror there”—Bucky nods towards the side of the room—“and see if the placement and size look good to you. Let me know if you want anything changed.”
Zemo walks over quietly in his socked feet, his cock jutting out and joyfully bouncing with every step. He admires himself scrutinizingly in the glass, lifting his artfully decorated cock with two fingers under the head to get a glimpse at the underside, turning this way and that to view every angle.
“I’d say the size looks quite good,” Zemo remarks to him over his shoulder. “More than sufficient, most would say.”
Bucky groans at the teasing misinterpretation of his question, but he certainly can’t disagree. Zemo’s cock is maybe only a bit longer than average, but it’s mouthwateringly girthy, thick and veiny, and certainly would be nothing to complain about. From a purely professional standpoint—and surely Bucky is a professional—he’s glad to have this much surface area to work with as his canvas.
“Okay, the size is great,” Bucky relents. “What about the placement for the tattoo?”
“I’ll be happy to place it wherever you’d like me to. Just say the word.”
Bucky can hear the dumb, self-satisfied smirk in Zemo’s voice, and pinches the bridge of his nose to ward off any oncoming headache that might rear its head.
Zemo seems to take pity at the sight of him. “It looks beautiful, James. I can already see that it will be a stunning work of art under the guidance of your steady, skillful hands. Let us begin.”
“Great!” Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. “Make yourself comfortable in the chair. I just need a few minutes to prep.”
Zemo settles down in the tattoo chair while Bucky prepares his ink and sets up his machines. By the time he turns back around, Zemo is lounging against the black leather backrest, lazily jerking off while watching him.
“I thought I’d help by keeping the area prepared,” Zemo murmurs in a low, raspy voice that could only be described as intentionally seductive.
Bucky swallows hard, his eyes tracking over the alluring tableau laid out before him. It’s not every day he gets a client putting on a show for him like this. In fact, it’s even less than that—this is probably the first and only time it’ll ever happen. Bucky squares his shoulders, takes a deep calming breath and sets his mind to the task at hand. He’s here to do his job.
“So… do you have any other tattoos?” He good-naturedly bats Zemo’s hand out of the way so that he can get to work.
“Just one on my bicep, from my youth. A memento from another life.” Zemo begins to unbutton his shirt. “Let me show you.”
“Uh, that’s not really… necessary, but I guess if you want—” Bucky fumbles awkwardly, but Zemo already has his shirt fully unbuttoned and spread open, exposing his pale, freckled chest and small pink nipples that bracket a tangle of dark hair between them. He shrugs the dark purple fabric off his left shoulder to reveal a large blackwork scorpion on his bicep.
“Hey, that looks great! You’ve taken good care of it. The ink’s held up well.” Bucky scoops up a dollop of vaseline, rubbing it between gloved fingers to warm it up. He begins to smooth it all over Zemo’s cock, leaving the taut skin glistening and bringing the artwork stenciled on it into sharp relief.
The man raises his eyebrows. “Do you treat all your customers this well?”
“Only the ones who come in for dick tattoos.”
“Lucky me.”
Zemo pulls the rest of his shirt off and carefully folds it, draping it over the arm of the chair before settling back down on the plush leather backrest, now fully, shamelessly naked except for his socks and the garters holding them up. He brings his arms up to lace his fingers behind his head as he lounges back, shifting his hips to get into a comfortable position.
Bucky can’t help but notice that the smattering of freckles on Zemo’s chest extends onto his armpits too, and he presses his lips tightly together against the sudden flood of saliva in his mouth because, no, he does not want to lick them. Absolutely not. What Zemo also manages to do as he shifts around is thrust his lubed up cock right up into Bucky’s fist, which Bucky finally remembers to pull back. He stares at Zemo for a long moment, and Zemo smiles back serenely at him, relaxed as a well-fed big cat that knows it’s king of its enclosure.
“Okay, well… let me know if you get chilly and need the heat turned up, I guess.” Bucky picks up the liner machine. “Some parts of this might hurt a little more than your last tattoo, if you remember how that one felt.”
“I have experience,” the corner of Zemo’s lips quirk up and there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes, “with pain.”
Bucky’s not entirely sure how to respond to that, so he answers by turning on the tattoo machine and letting its electric buzz fill the air for him. He takes Zemo’s cock in hand, giving it a few firm strokes to make sure it’s still fully erect, then holds it steady and taut to put needle to virgin skin. Starting at the base of the shaft, Bucky begins to outline a delicate branch, keeping his practiced hand steady and smooth in its movement, as the little bundle of needles punches the ink into eager layers of skin with violent precision.
Above him, he hears a slow exhale of breath.
“How’s that feel so far?” he asks as he finishes the first stroke and wipes off the excess ink to reveal a fine black line snaking up from the crease at the base of Zemo’s cock.
“Delightful,” Zemo sighs, and Bucky would’ve taken it for sarcasm except that as he goes to apply the next stroke of ink, he can’t ignore the trembling little groan that makes its furtive escape from between Zemo’s slack lips. His cock pulses a bit in Bucky’s hand, jumping at the new sensation of each raw bite of the needles.
“Shhhh,” Bucky hushes, rubbing soothingly along the slick length, feeling the raised line of a thick vein engorged with blood rushing against his own pulse in the pad of his thumb. “You’re doing great.”
He continues to alternate between outlining the furcating branches and gently petting Zemo’s fitfully throbbing cock to calm its excitement. The man’s heavily freckled thighs shake with the effort of holding himself still as Bucky runs the needles over a particularly sensitive vein, and Bucky’s forced to let go of Zemo’s cock momentarily to hold his hip in place with a bruising grip.
“Oh!” Zemo gasps in surprise. “You’re stronger than you look.”
“Sorry.” Bucky releases his fingers from where they’d embedded themselves in the soft curve of Zemo’s hip and strokes the area in apology, already anticipating the bloom of violent blood red that will soon mar the creamy skin as it bruises. “Just need you to keep still so I don’t mess this up.”
“No, it’s more than fine.” There’s that dangerous glint in his eye again. “Please, proceed.”
Bucky goes back in to begin inking a cluster of leaves and is soon greeted with a chorus of breathy little moans that rise above the electric hum of the machine and intertwine with it in a whole new euphony of pleasure. Zemo’s cock swells and throbs in Bucky’s gloved hand, jet black ink overflowing along the path of his needles as they push into the flushed and quivering skin at their relentless pace.
“You’re, uh, taking this better than most of my clients,” Bucky remarks.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret.” Zemo turns half-lidded eyes up to meet Bucky’s. “Some of my extensive experience with pain has very much been by choice and for my pleasure.”
And isn’t that an interesting revelation to chew on.
“Well, I hope you have some patience to go along with that experience, ‘cause I can’t let you… finish until the piece is done,” Bucky admits awkwardly, feeling a prickle of embarrassment at having to put their predicament into words.
“Yes, sir,” Zemo drawls—practically purrs—in that low voice of his, as Bucky’s own cock throbs intensely in his pants, and he can’t pretend to himself anymore that he’s not painfully hard by now from watching this beautiful man come slowly and shamelessly undone under the sustained violence of his tattoo gun.
Bucky wonders if he could push his luck here, just a bit. If Zemo’s responding this well to what he’s been doing so far, could he up his game a little and draw even more of this reaction out of his client?
“Let me try something else,” Bucky says. He puts down the tattoo machine to adjust the backrest of the chair, so that Zemo can incline his body further into a horizontal position. “Bring your legs up a bit.”
Zemo tilts his head to the side, narrowed eyes watching Bucky carefully as he lubes up the black latex-covered fingers of his off-hand, using some of the vaseline that he’s been applying to Zemo’s cock to keep the working area slick. With a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, Zemo slowly and knowingly lifts his knees, placing his socked feet flat on the leg rest of the chair and letting his thighs fall apart.
Bucky’s about to pinch himself, wondering when he’s going to wake up from the sight of this wet dream of a man sitting in his shop, invitingly spread out and naked in his chair, all while Bucky’s still on the clock. Not giving himself a chance to back out, Bucky runs his slick fingers between the plump cheeks of Zemo’s ass, finding his tiny puckered hole in the centre like the site of a precious treasure waiting to be unearthed. He pets it gently.
“Is this part of your regular customer service?” Zemo asks, slightly breathy.
“I just think it might be helpful in your case. You’re having so much trouble staying hard,” Bucky deadpans as he looks right at Zemo’s engorged and leaking cock.
“Well, that I certainly cannot dispute.”
He nudges a fingertip against the puckered rim, massaging the area until it gives and swallows down the tip of his digit. He begins to stroke slowly at the soft inner wall, inching his way in as he’s allowed further entrance.
“Hold yourself still for me,” he instructs Zemo, gesturing at his client’s fat and swollen cock with a nod of his chin.
Zemo takes it as an opportunity to start palming himself, careful as he runs his fingers lightly over the sensitive tattooed areas. His cock is already red and straining and looks about ready to burst. Can’t have that though—not yet.
“I’m serious,” he scolds. “Hold it down right there. We don’t wanna irreversibly fuck up something this beautiful, do we?” He punctuates this by stroking his fingertip gently against the little lump of gold that’s Zemo’s prostate.
Zemo’s cock gives a very interested twitch at this.
“So demanding,” he grumbles, voice gone a bit hoarse, but he holds his cock down firmly where Bucky had indicated, pressing it down against his lower belly and holding the skin taut.
Bucky turns the tattoo machine back on, instructing Zemo to wipe the excess ink for him after each stroke, and returns his needles to ink-kissed skin—outlining petal after petal in the artfully tumbling riot of cherry blossoms beginning to take shape on his thick and veiny canvas—all while gently petting inside him, opening him up until Bucky’s able to add a second finger.
With both fingers now, he feels again for the nub of Zemo’s prostate and presses up firmly against it, causing his client’s cock to jump violently against the tattoo needle with a gasp.
“Hey, what did I say about holding steady?” Bucky surveys the area and thankfully it didn’t cause the needle to go far off course.
“I’d say my artist needs a steadier hand,” Zemo throws back haughtily. He’s exquisitely flushed all over, and not just on his poor abused cock. His once pale chest is now dappled pink, lips bitten red and lashes quivering beautifully, as the battleground between pain and pleasure grows bloody with war across his face in a bright bloom of heat.
Bucky steadily, methodically massages Zemo’s prostate as he continues the tattoo. Each time Zemo’s thighs begin to tense and tremble, his fingers digging into the chair’s leather armrests, Bucky slows down and stops until Zemo has it under control again, driving him to the edge over and over.
By now Zemo’s cock is engorged and speckled with blood; the thick, pulsing vein running up its underside, a complement to the vining black ink. As he runs the needles up towards the head, Bucky notices a lone freckle right at the tip—a little brown dot adorning the exclamation mark of his yawning slit; a mote of pollen fluttering above the blossoms. As if drawing forth nectar from a well, a bead of precome emerges with the upward movement of his stroke and glistens on the freckle, magnifying the dot as it swells and spills over to run down the head.
“I should probably get that,” Bucky says, knowing he should wipe it off before it drips down over the tattooed area.
“With both hands occupied, whatever will you do?” Zemo teases him, and Bucky shouldn’t rise to it—he shouldn’t—but there’s suddenly never been anything in his life that’s looked this delectable, and he wants to see if there’s anything he can do that will wipe the smugness off this man’s face.
Bucky leans down, keeping his eyes on Zemo’s for a beat before dropping them to take in the sight of the indulgent treat being offered to him. He reaches out tentatively and licks up the trail of precome, sticky sweet like wild honey on his palate, dipping the tip of his tongue into the sensitive slit before sucking the head into his mouth. It’s somehow the most decadent thing he’s ever tasted, even though he knows that can’t objectively be true.
Bucky suckles at the head of Zemo’s cock, gently working the foreskin down and carefully running his tongue along the firm ridge at the bottom of the revealed glans, drawing forth a breathy little moan from the man, before releasing it entirely from his mouth with a wet ‘pop’. His eyes meet Zemo’s again—his client looking extremely pleased with this turn of events—and he restarts the tattoo machine to continue the piece.
He alternates between tattooing and sucking on just the sensitive head of Zemo’s cock—the stop-start of it causing Zemo to groan in frustration each time he’s released from between Bucky’s lips—all while Bucky works his fingers in a slow, steady rhythm against the velvet inner walls of his tiny little hole.
At some point, Bucky gives up the pretense that there’s any professional reason for what he’s doing, and leans down to nose at Zemo’s tightly quivering thigh. Soft hair tickles his nostrils as he inhales the base notes of that darkly seductive soap that his client uses. Rubbing the stubble on his cheek against Zemo’s tender inner thigh and huffing warm breaths against the sweaty skin there, Bucky reaches out with his tongue to run it along the crease of his groin.
Encouraged by a surprised gasp from Zemo above him, Bucky dips his head further, extending his tongue to meet the rim stretched around his gloved fingers, lapping at the place where his digits plunge into Zemo’s body. He scissors his fingers, dipping his tongue in between the spread to probe into the wet heat of him and pulse against the firm walls of muscle it finds there.
He continues to supplement his tattooing by caressing Zemo’s responsive hole with his fingers and occasionally breaking from his work to add his tongue as a treat for both of them, lapping at Zemo’s sweet little asshole while two and then three fingers deep in him.
Bucky can tell by Zemo’s physiological responses that the most intense pain he experiences is when Bucky’s inking the single cherry blossom on the head of his cock. There’s a thick vein bulging in the middle of his forehead and an errant curl has escaped his neatly coiffed hair to bounce over it with each sensuous roll of his neck as he cries himself hoarse, tremouring all over his body in a show of just how much pleasure he derives from the pain.
“James,” Zemo gasps, “James, I’m—”
Bucky can feel the tension in Zemo’s thighs and the tightness in his balls where they’re resting against the heel of his palm as he roughly fingerfucks Zemo while finishing the outline of the flower, the needles punching over and over into the delicate skin of his exposed head. He quickly pulls his fingers from Zemo’s grasping hole to clench them firmly around the base of his cock and hold back his climax. A spurt of precome splashes violently over Bucky’s gloved fist.
He waits for Zemo’s panting breaths to even out before letting go, and in the meantime carefully places down the tattoo machine, freeing up his right hand to unbutton his jeans and tug out his own hard and leaking cock. Zemo tracks his movements with dazed eyes, chest rising and falling, sweat glistening like dewdrops on his peaked nipples.
Bucky slicks himself up with the vaseline and nudges the head of his cock against the cleft of Zemo’s ass with no preamble, pushing slowly into his begging hole. Zemo is so tight around his considerable girth that Bucky himself shakes and strains against the intense pressure swallowing him up, but he takes his time sliding in inch by inch until he bottoms out and the front of his thighs press up to meet Zemo’s ass.
Bucky lets go of the base of Zemo’s cock that he’d been holding securely, and brings his hand up to his mouth to lick up the splattered precome, rolling Zemo’s delicate flavour along his tongue. As he slowly grinds into him, he runs his hand up Zemo’s soft belly, connecting various moles and freckles along the journey and ending at the hard pink nub of a nipple, which he twists sharply between thumb and forefinger, causing Zemo’s cock to jump against his belly where it’s come to rest.
“You’d look real nice with more art on you… So much good skin for it.”
“Based on your performance this time,” Zemo pants, “I’m highly considering becoming a frequent customer.”
The outline of the tattoo now done, Bucky takes a moment to wipe down his client’s cock with a diluted solution of green soap, and Zemo sighs in intense relief at the swipe of the damp paper towel, cool against his burning skin. The smudgy, purple stencil ink and speckles of Zemo’s blood melt away to reveal clean lines of artwork winding their way along his thick length.
Bucky switches out his liner machine for the shader, dipping its needles into the prepared ink in the lightest shade of green. He fucks into Zemo slowly, though not necessarily gently, keeping a consistent rhythm and trying not to jostle his client’s body, so that he can hold down Zemo’s cock and return the needles to it. With his enhanced eyesight, he can see the details of his work just fine from up here; is able to paint life into the greenery, imbuing the artwork with a verdant depth, all while Zemo squeezes an electric current of pleasure around him with the filthy clench of his hole.
Bucky makes sure to stop thrusting into him with both cock and needles whenever Zemo seems to get close—when his breath quickens, and the straps of his sock garters dig hard into Bucky’s sides where his legs are braced, and there’s a lovely little furrow that appears between his brows as his cries get louder and louder. It keeps him on edge, not letting his body acclimate to the intensity of the pain or the fucking.
By the time he finishes shading in the deepest green shadows amongst the leaves, Bucky feels himself closing in on his own climax. He eases back, sliding his length out almost all the way so that only the tip remains held in the delicious grip of Zemo’s greedy hole.
“Hold yourself down for me again,” he tells Zemo, and his lovely, accommodating client does exactly as requested. “You’re doing so well for me.”
“You’re not doing too badly yourself,” Zemo breathes, in perhaps the most condescending manner possible for someone who looks like he’s being fucked within an inch of his life.
Bucky huffs an incredulous laugh to himself and switches machines again to begin shading the cherry blossoms. He runs his needles over the inked flowers, paying special attention to the spread of delicate pink colour over the angrily raw and abused skin of Zemo’s cock. With his off-hand he begins to stroke slowly at his own shaft, jerking himself off into Zemo while holding his hips motionless, so that Zemo’s body can remain still—a calm and peaceful canvas.
The vibrations of the tattoo machine, its electric hum like the buzzing of a bee—pollen-laden, flitting from flower to flower—lulls Bucky into a hypnotic focus as he works at his own cock with unyielding vibranium fingers, the heat of Zemo’s entrance a tight squeeze around his sensitive head. Chasing his release, he gradually picks up his pace, but holds off just long enough to finish this round of shading, and then his hand is flying over his cock with a vice-like intensity and he’s spilling long and hard into Zemo’s tight, voracious hole.
There’s something extra exhilarating in the danger of letting go before his needles have even fully lifted from where they’re buried in Zemo’s skin, the rush of his orgasm hitting all at once in a powerful surge, shaking him loose until there’s nothing but the pure feeling of wave after wave of his release.
As he comes down, he gives a few last lazy pumps of his cock into Zemo’s body, his hot slick easing the way for him. Pulling out gently, he watches in fascination as his come drools out of Zemo’s winking hole, a glossy dribble of it trickling out to pool on the leather chair beneath him. Scooping it up before too much escapes, he smears it generously around the rim before pushing it back in, slipping three fingers into Zemo’s insatiable hole, stroking into him as his own come spills out around his knuckles, overflowing to coat his black latex gloves with a pearly white sheen.
Zemo is barely keeping it together by now, flushed and shaking all over with the effort of holding himself still and compliant this whole time, as Bucky’s abused his cock relentlessly and is even now unwilling to let his poor, aching hole rest.
“Nearly done,” Bucky soothes. “You’ve been so good for me. The best sitting I’ve ever had.”
“Unsurprising,” Zemo murmurs, and Bucky rolls his eyes at the size of the man’s ego.
All that’s left now is the last wash of colour, the centre of each cherry blossom to be fed a bloom of tantalizing darker pink. Bucky pets inside Zemo languidly, almost mindlessly, as he works—the slick thrusting of his fingers steady against the constant thrum of the tattoo machine.
He checks up on Zemo regularly to make sure he’s still conscious. The man seems to be straddling a precarious line somewhere between euphoria and oblivion, eyes dazed and body relaxing into his treatment, his lucidity slipping further and further away from him.
Nearing completion on the tattoo, Bucky puts some fervour back into fingerfucking Zemo—plunging his digits over and over into that pliant heat with a renewed intensity that arouses the man from his trance—and as he touches the needles to the head of Zemo’s cock one last time to deposit the dark pink blush at the centre of the final cherry blossom, he rubs relentlessly at that firm bundle of nerves deep inside him. Zemo’s cries are breathy and rhythmic, in time with the driving piston of Bucky’s fingers, and melding with the song of his tattoo in a beautiful melody.
As he lifts the needles away, he presses hard into Zemo’s prostate and says, “Now you may come.”
With a sharp cry, Zemo comes hard—an eruption of honey-sweet nectar spilling over Bucky’s hand and shooting into his lap. Bucky can’t bear to let it all go to waste, so he swiftly leans in to seal his lips around the head of Zemo’s cock, letting the next spurt hit his palate, slonking it all down and savouring the taste of him.
Finally parting his lips to let Zemo’s softening cock fall from his mouth, he sits back and looks over his handiwork.
Zemo is a gorgeous work of art from head to toe, sprawled out on the leather chair—his naked skin gleaming with sweat, pink and flushed, with galaxies of freckles glinting beneath a gold dusting of fine body hair, his chest rising and falling with a heavy panting of breath, cheeks painted with the ruddiness of exertion, dark eyes boring into Bucky’s with the praise of satisfaction; and finally, the more permanent art of Bucky’s creation, the swirl of dancing cherry blossoms floating across the beautiful canvas of Zemo’s bruised and bloodied cock.
“Well,” Zemo breathes, his low voice gone slow and hoarse, “I’ll be leaving a glowing review, for a level of service provided well above and beyond what was expected.”
“This may be some of my best work yet,” Bucky admits, with an honesty he hadn’t anticipated. “You just might be my masterpiece.”
“James? James.”
Zemo’s voice reaching for him shook Bucky out of his reverie. He brought his attention back to the man in front of him, sinfully dolled up in a sheer purple dress, and presenting his flower-adorned cock for admiration.
A curious smile tugged at Zemo’s lips. “Don’t tell me this isn’t holding your attention.”
“No, I was…” Bucky grumbled sheepishly, “just daydreaming—wondering what it was like for you getting that tattoo.”
“I’ll regale you with its tale sometime. But for now, there are better ways to keep our mouths busy.”
And so, Bucky found better ways to keep them both busy.