Work Text:
Torres isn’t going to say so, but the way Sam and Sergeant Barnes are giving him last minute instructions before leaving their safehouse reminds him of how his mother would talk to him when she left him to babysit his younger siblings to go to her second job back in the day. There’s food in the fridge, don’t stay up too late, if something happens call your grandmother, don’t let the internationally wanted criminal run away …
“Don’t let him talk you into anything,” Sam says, again for the third time, before he pauses and adds, ”Actually, better not let him talk at all.”
To his right, Zemo sniffs, clearly offended and raises his hands placatingly to defend himself. He’s quelled immediately by Sergeant Barnes’s steely glare and crossed arms and he sinks back into one of the chairs by the desks they’ve arranged laptops and equipment on.
Sam turns his attention away from Torres finally and crowds into Zemo’s personal space, looming over him.
“If I find out that you’ve tried anything, you’ll be back on the Raft before you can blink. Understood?”
Zemo smiles, or at least his mouth stretches into an approximation of a smile and his eyes stay cool and unblinking.
“Of course.”
Torres watches fascinated as Sam gives Zemo one last look and he drops a pair of handcuffs and keys on the desk next to Torres. He claps Barnes on the shoulder in passing and then they leave. The three of them have an … interesting relationship to say the least and sometimes Joaquin feels like the odd one out. Getting shot at in the field does that to you, even if you don’t like each other. Sam acts like he doesn’t trust Zemo as far as he could throw him, but he keeps requisitioning him from the Raft nonetheless.
Zemo has his own agenda, but at least they know what he’s capable of. And in the meantime, he seems fairly happy to use his money and underground knowledge, as well as any conveniently placed Zemo estates.
The first time Torres had joined them in the field in southern France and Zemo had brought them to his family’s townhouse in Biarritz, Sam had told Torres to wipe his jaw off the floor or Zemo would be unbearable. And so what if he almost cried after Zemo offered him still steaming baguettes, fresh from the boulangerie, with a homemade strawberry jam? Barnes didn’t have to kick him so hard under the table.
When he’s not playing host and waging psychological warfare at the breakfast table, Zemo is an excellent strategist and intelligence officer. He’s a seasoned second pair of eyes while Torres is guiding Sam and Barnes remotely, feeding them satellite information and intel from behind their screens.
They’re watching two dots marked “ Cpt Wilson, S” and “ Sgt Barnes, J” move across a satellite image, circling around the edges of a rundown warehouse. The industrial area where they’d tracked their marks was largely abandoned in favour of cheaper manufacturing overseas, making the few spots of activity stand out.
“Go left,” Zemo says,”there’s a maintenance tunnel.” He points at the north east side of the building for Torres. He scrambles to bring up that part of the building on the screen, spotting the entryway that Zemo was talking about.
“Uh, yeah yeah! Go left.”
“Thanks, I see it. Okay, we’re going dark.” Sam’s comms goes silent and Barnes’s too a moment later.
“See you on the other side,” Torres signs off and sinks back into his chair, intertwining his fingers behind his head as he looks to Zemo. Zemo is keeping an eye on the hacked security feed at a nearby gas station and any mobile traffic pinging off the closest tower, the line of his shoulders relaxed and confident.
“You’re really good at this.” He says before he can stop himself. Zemo turns his head in his direction and quirks an eyebrow, because yeah of course he’s good at this. Torres scrambles to explain:
“I mean, you would be. What with the whole black ops thing, right? I read your file when Sam mentioned we would be working with you.”
The words come out in a breathless rush, and he watches Zemo hopefully for any indication that he’s going to put him out of his misery and just say something. But Zemo just spins in his chair until he’s facing Torres full on and tilts his head thoughtfully, watching him with deep brown eyes. The sole of Torres’s boot taps repeatedly against the floor as he bounces his leg, his keychain jingling lightly in his pocket.
“And you’ve probably infiltrated all kinds of military bases too, back in Sokovia. I remember watching the news reports back in the early 2000’s and –” And what? Hey remember when the US Airforce bombed your country to hell and killed all those civilians to put a stop to the growing Sokovian Liberation Front and the civil war, which you were probably also fighting in?
Zemo thankfully doesn’t seem to take any offence to Torres's flailing attempts at conversation. If anything the slight quirk of his lips say he’s mildly amused. That’s fine. He can deal with mildly amused condescension.
With a smooth movement, Zemo propels himself forward until he can put a hand over Torres’s knee, halting the nervous, repetitive movement. He keeps his hand there, just above the knee and pressing his thumb into the muscle through the rough denim to keep him still.
"Oh sorry! That's probably really annoying. I don't even notice I do it sometimes."
Zemo's hand slides further up his leg, and Torres’s words stumble to a halt. He squirms in his seat under Zemo’s watchful eyes, searching his reactions, as his thumb rubs along the inseam of his trousers. Nervously, Torres’s eyes flicker between Zemo’s face and the hand slowly creeping up his legs.
"It's fine. You remind me of my younger squad mates; always restless. The secret was to keep them sufficiently occupied.”
Zemo’s hand has reached the wide, meaty part of Torres’s upper thigh now, digging into the firm muscle and coming very close to his groin. A weak, shaky breath works itself loose from Torres’s lungs as he tries desperately to hold himself still.
"And how'd you do that?" He forces out, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. His heart is beating fast in his chest and his cock is filling out in his trousers, under Zemo’s steady gaze and wandering hands. There is no way Zemo doesn’t notice, the way he’s leaning into Torres’s space, holding his legs open.
The edges of Zemo's smile stretch further and curl into a smirk. He slides out of the chair, pushing it away behind him and sinks to his knees between Torres’s thighs. With the lightest touch, Zemo pushes his legs further apart and crowds close, leaning in and nuzzling his nose and mouth against Torres’s straining cock through his trousers.
Part of him can’t believe this is happening. It shouldn’t be happening, but it feels so good and this might be the best thing to come out of his awful case of foot-in-mouth syndrome ever so he’s not going to complain. Zemo is attractive too, not in the same way Sam or Sergeant Barnes is with their chiselled faces and bulging muscles, but in an exciting, dangerous way. Something about the blink and you’ll miss it flashes of darkness in his eyes as he wanders around in a fluffy robe, straight out of the bath.
The teasing pressure of Zemo’s nose and the hot breath of his mouth against his cock, sends jolts of pleasure through him and he bucks upwards without thinking. Zemo’s teeth press against the front of his trousers when he smiles and then he pulls away and puts his hand over the hard length, fitting his hand around it through the fabric.
Working the zipper down finally, Zemo takes Torres’s cock in hand and guides the wet tip to his lips. His cockhead smears precome over Zemo’s thin bottom lip when he just barely takes it into his mouth, the tip of his tongue pressing just so under the head. The light, teasing touches are maddening and Torres writhes under the attention, his thighs flexing and hips jumping with every pass of Zemo’s tongue.
“Oh, fuck.”
He reaches out, his finger brushing against the loose, silky strands of hair that have fallen out of their careful styling and over Zemo’s forehead. Without missing a beat in his attentions to Torres’s cock, Zemo snatches his hand up, the grip bruising around his wrist. With his other hand, Zemo takes the forgotten handcuffs off the desk.
Torres watches him, a flush rising rapidly from his chest and up, over his cheeks as his cockhead slides wetly from Zemo’s mouth, and he slips the cuff around the captured wrist.
“Better keep your hands to yourself, I think.” Zemo reaches around Torres and cuffs his hands together behind his back. Torres shuffles forward in the seat of the chair, back arching and feet braced wide on the floor to keep himself steady. He’s had a few partners, sure, but nothing like this. There was a heady powerplay that they both had to carefully navigate here where he let himself be manoeuvred by a man who was technically his responsibility, and a prisoner on parole at that.
Zemo sits back on his heels and rakes his eyes over Torres’s body, appreciating and warm now that he’s got him where he wants. His lips are shiny with precome and saliva, and even on his knees, he looks confident and right where he belongs as he looks up at Torres through his eyelashes.
Warm, clever fingers wrap around his cock again and strokes him into full hardness, the slick slide of precome and saliva making it easy. Zemo leans forward, still making eye contact as he opens his mouth to take him in again and Torres whines, low in the back of his throat. His hips push forward in his eagerness to get inside that slick heat again and Zemo stops immediately, his mouth open and tongue curled over the bottom row of his teeth.
Torres pants and stares at the parted lips and the presented, open mouth for a moment more, a warm hot breath ghosting over his cockhead – so close but so far away. He manages to tear his eyes away and meet Zemo’s cool gaze again, reproachful and patient.
“Right. Sorry? I’m sorry. Please?”
One of those must be the correct answer because Zemo closes the last inch between them and licks his cock from root to tip before taking most of his length into his mouth. Torres spasm in his seat, throwing his head back against the cushioned headrest of the chair and breathing open-mouthed at the hot, wet suction around his cock.
Glancing down, he watches Zemo’s head bob in his lap and his lips stretched wide around his cock. His tongue presses up against the underside of his cock, the head of his cock hitting the tip with every pass in a way that has him shaking. He could happily sit here forever, Zemo’s hot, wet mouth around his cock just like this as the heat builds low in his stomach.
Every other dip of his head, Zemo goes lower and takes more of him until his cockhead bumps up against the very back of Zemo’s palate. His thighs quiver and flex as he tries to keep himself from thrusting that final inch of his cock into Zemo’s throat.
His nails dig into the skin of his palms when he clenches his fists behind his back and briefly meets Zemo’s steady, half-lidded gaze. Zemo’s warm hands stroke and pet his thighs for a moment and then Torres’s watches Zemo swallow him down completely, into the tight clench of his throat.
A high-pitched moan is punched out from his lungs at the wet push of Zemo’s tongue and the tight throat around his cock. He desperately wants to see the outline of his cock against the walls of Zemo’s throat, maybe put his hand around his neck and feel it.
The chain of the handcuffs rattle and stretch and he realises that Zemo has wrapped the chain around the metal piece holding up the soft backrest of the office chair. Momentarily distracted, he pulls the chain taut until the metal around his wrists dig into the flesh. A quick glance to the desk also informs him that the keys are no longer there.
In the back of his head, a small voice is telling him what a bad idea this is but it’s firmly quieted by the rush of pleasure as Zemo swallows around him again, his nose brushing against Torres’s skin at the base of his cock with every bob of his head. A hand slides up his thigh and under the rucked up shirt. His fingers are dry and cool against Torres’s feverish, clammy skin as they dig into his side in a firm, bruising grip.
His hips pump uselessly against Zemo’s hold, the heat in his lower abdomen building as Zemo swallows around him. His legs shake at the strain of his tired muscles after keeping himself in line for so long and he moans hoarsely. Zemo keeps sucking him down, tonguing at the underside of his cock without any hesitation as Torrres comes down his throat.
His legs finally give out under him and his feet slide, bonelessly across the floor on either side of Zemo. He melts into the chair, head back and white spots dancing across his eyes. Zemo stirs below him, still holding Torres’s oversensitive cock in his mouth. He blinks down at him, searching for anything to say at all while his mind blanks out completely.
Zemo pulls himself off his cock, the length sliding wetly out between his rubbed raw lips. Torres whimpers at the light stimulation of his spent cock and watches Zemo smirk as he slowly licks his lips, catching any trace of come from his bruised lips.
Zemo gets to his feet in a single, smooth motion and Torres hazily follows him with his eyes. He can’t look away from the wetness on Zemo’s chin or the slight flush to his cheeks and he fuzzily thinks it might be nice to pull him closer and let Zemo tell him what he can do to please him in return. He’s hard too from taking Torres in his mouth, his cock thick and promising in his trousers.
Zemo pulls a paper napkin from the stack that Sam picked up on his last coffee run and wipes away most of the mess. He catches Torres staring at his cock and the little smirk is back when he discards the napkin.
“Do you want to return the favour?”
Torres nods, silent and eager. He struggles briefly to right himself in the chair when Zemo steps closer again, standing in between his legs. Zemo unzips his trousers and gets his hands on his cock, giving himself a few strokes. Like this, Torres’s is just at the right height to watch Zemo’s hand move over the heavy, fat length, spreading precome over it to ease the way.
Torres finds himself leaning forward, his mouth open and his arms straining behind him to get his mouth on Zemo’s cock. Zemo chuckles and cups Torres’s cheek lightly with his right hand, this thumb pressing against the raw flesh of his lower lip where he’s bit himself. But instead of pulling him closer, Zemo slides his thumb over the flat of his tongue, pressing down slightly until Torres’s mouth falls open fully and he feels saliva gather in his mouth.
Like this, he just gets to watch Zemo jerk himself off over him, dark eyes watching him impassively as Torres’s tongue twitches against the meat of his thumb. It feels less like reciprocating than Torres sitting nicely while Zemo does what he wants but he can’t find himself to mind much when he gets to hear Zemo’s breath hitch just a little and his hand move faster across his cock.
He comes with a sigh, his swollen, red lips open just a little. Hot streaks of come hit Torres’s face and neck, running down his cheekbones and lips. Come dribbles into his mouth, mingling with the saliva pooling there and coating his stretched out tongue. Zemo’s thumb slides through the mess inside his mouth before he rubs the pad of his thumb over Torres’s lips, making them wet and slick with it.
When Zemo finally pulls away, Torres closes his mouth, feeling the stiffness in his jaw from keeping his mouth open for so long. He swallows down the saliva and come in his mouth and his tongue slips out automatically to catch the sticky mess on his lips, slick and slightly bitter on his tongue.
Zemo reaches into his pocket and fishes out the keys to the handcuffs. Torres tries to sit up a little, and spins the chair around a little to give Zemo better access. After a few seconds of nothing, however, he looks over his shoulder to Zemo.
Zemo doesn’t make a move to get to the handcuffs, or even spin him around to get to them. Instead the keys dangle from his hand while Zemo rakes his eyes over Torres in the chair, from the top of his head where his hair stands on end, over the cooling come on his face and down to his boneless sprawl in the chair, his spent cock laying limp against his inner thigh.
Zemo’s lips curl into a small smirk and the keys to the cuffs jingle as he puts them on the desk next to Torres. They’re not out of reach, technically, if Torres had his hands free, but just close enough for him to watch them while he was helplessly tied to the chair.
Zemo brushes some dust off the padded knees on his trousers and reaches for his coat and gloves. He folds the coat over his arm and Torres is just about to open his mouth to say something when Zemo looks back at him again.
“Give my regards to Sam and James.”
Torres can’t do anything but watch Zemo walk out the door into the afternoon sunlight, briefly blinding after so long stuck inside. The door clicks shut behind him and it’s only then that the sinking, heavy feeling of shame and failure really sets in. With his cheeks hot and eyes stinging, he twists around in the chair to try to get his arms over the backrest. The chair slides across the floor and he starts to spin before he manages to plant his feet on the ground again to stop it.
The clock on the far wall is counting down the minutes until he can expect Sam and Sergeant Barnes to return. If he could just get his arms out from the back of the chair, he might be able to get to the keys and … break his wrists trying to get out of the handcuffs.
Under the quickly drying come on his cheeks, his face feels hot and his heart beats painfully in his chest – a sharp stabbing pain of shame because he's going to have to tell two of the people he respects most in this world that he lost a dangerous criminal. And he's going to have to do it with his dick out and come all over his face.
Through stinging eyes, he glares at the small silver keys on the desk.
Forty minutes later, Torres is panting and sweating in the chair when Sam and Sergeant Barnes return, stepping through the same door Zemo slipped out of. In that time, all he’s managed to do is knock the keys off the desk and onto the floor and made himself dizzy by spinning the chair trying to wrangle his arms free.
“Oh come on! Again?” Barnes doesn’t sound surprised, mostly annoyed at the sight of Torres’s red, miserable face.
“How does he keep doing this, man?” Sam mutters, ducking down to get the keys off the floor.
“Bucky, check the other rooms; he might just be playing games. And you,” he yanks Torres up and out of the chair, “Go get cleaned up.”