Pleasure Remains the Same -Helmut Zemo(eventual winterbaron) x Reader

Untitled Part 1

How the hell did you end up here? Again...

It's a silly, rhetorical question really. You know exactly how and why.

The reason, the answer, whatever you want to call him, is currently making you a drink at the vintage bar cart in the corner of his penthouse loft.

Zemo likes to entertain you first and there is something sweet about his genuine hospitality. While what comes after drinks is always incredible, it's this kinder side of him that makes you return to his place every Friday with a flutter in your stomach.  

It's been a month now, and these "dates" are what get you through the monotony of your week. As soon as you leave you look forward to coming back. Maybe it's the escape from real life, maybe it's the thrill of who you spend that time with. Honestly it's probably both if not more, but for now you just watch him and let the heat of anticipation grow.

"Double?" He asks.

"Yes please" You answer, watching him work.

There's always been something a little sinister in the way Zemo moves. His affection tends to come with a side of danger and you watch the way he drops ice into your glass and imagine that he could just as easily shoot someone with the same elegant reserve used to make you a cocktail.

Now, it probably says a lot about you, but the thought makes you laugh to yourself. He notices and returns the expression, but his smile is half cocked and full of secrets.

Zemo pauses holding the shaker in one hand, tonged ice cube in the other. He looks you over without moving anything but his dark gaze and you wonder what he's thinking.

Does he like that you seem to understand him better than most? Maybe. But there's no denying that whatever there is between the two of you works. It works so well you've come back to his place in High Town tonight wearing the dress he had sent over and the heels that could pay your rent for a year, not to mention the black lace underwear that rests perfectly across your hips and arches over the twin hills of your ass like the outlines of crescent moons.

Bastard. He knows how it makes you feel to be taken care of; to feel safe and secure in the money and yes, in his arms before the night is through.

The funny thing is, you'd be here without the flashy bits. That's not even a part of the deal... there is no deal.

He likes you. And you? Fuck you really like him.

Growing up in Low Town has made you particular to a certain sort of man.

Those bottom feeding thieves and idiot henchmen who throw their weight around have always been so offensive to you. A man with true intellect and drive has been hard to come by in the dark streets you know like the back of your hand.

And then he came around.

How many years ago was it? You can't really remember, you were so young then, still serving at the bar.

He didn't touch you, hell, you're convinced he didn't even see you when you slid the glass of bourbon he'd asked for towards him.

Zemo was there with nothing but vengeance on his mind. But you remember the quiet man with sad eyes and a Sokovian accent who drank in the corner alone, waiting to meet with a weapons dealer.

Something about him struck you then as dangerous, but not in the typical way. There was a purity about his stoic anger that called to you, and you never forgot him.

Eight years later (yes, that was it... eight damn years) and from that hard shell was born this cocksure masked man who showed up, and showed out, making a name for himself with all the right people. You're not sure if everyone is afraid of him or in love with his money but it doesn't matter, he's back and since he's been back, he's kept you close.