Chapter Text
Buchanan reined in his horse and turned around to survey the village going up in flames. Amidst the burning thatched houses, people ran and screeched as they were put to the torch like so many cheap candles lining the windows of hell. The king had said no mercy, so Buchanan had no reason to spare anyone. Children grew into men, after all, and the men here had taken up arms against his king.
Buchanan would do anything for King Rumlow.
And he could. He was very good at this – obeying orders, and killing anyone who stood in the way of his king’s wishes. Sokovia had to burn? Buchanan would put everyone and everything in it to the torch himself if need be. Thankfully, he had a contingent of soldiers to help the process along, and he gestured at his second in command to wrap up here while he dealt with the treat his king wanted eliminated above all else.
The lord on the hill, hiding away in his castle like a coward.
The sky had darkened to a deep red by the time he reached his destination. Buchanan left his armor with his horse and sent the loyal animal on its way before striding towards the highest wall. He scaled the stones with practised ease. Despite the sword slung across his back and his orders sitting heavily at the forefront of his mind, he was as light as a feather.
He hauled himself over the crenelations and landed in a crouch on the parapet. A servant hurried past him, shouting something unintelligible. Just as Buchanan rose up, the servant whipped around, did a double take, and then rushed him with his iron pan.
Buchanan’s lips twitched. People usually ran the other way upon seeing the one-of-a-kind black leper mask that covered the upper half of his face, but some people just seemed to lose their mind and attacked him instead. They wouldn’t die of leprosy, because Buchanan had never had the disease.
But they would die anyway. They all did, at his hands.
Buchanan decapitated the man with the iron pan on the first try, and sent a servant girl intent on stabbing him off the parapet with one solid kick to the stomach. Buchanan ran two other men through with his sword, barely blinking between kills. The next servant girl had the presence of mind to run instead of engaging him when she appeared around the spiral staircase. Sensing a new presence at his back, he ignored the girl and swirled around, bloodied sword at the ready–
And staggered backwards as another blade met his own, wielded by the very man he’d been sent to kill.
Buchanan didn’t smile. He seldom did, but satisfaction unfurled inside as he traded blows with the owner of the castle.
Lord Zemo didn’t smile either. He was younger than Buchanan had expected, much younger than Buchanan himself, but he struck and slashed like he’d been born with a sword in hand. His eyes were surprisingly cold for a man so young, the coldest Buchanan had seen beside his king’s. Like Buchanan, he only wore a pair of breeches and a tunic, although the latter was quite fancy, and of a color that wouldn’t offer good camouflage.
And just like him, Lord Zemo had no helmet or gorget to protect his head and throat.
It quickly became obvious why. Despite the hint of softness at his cheeks and hips, Lord Zemo was a skilled swordsman. He may eat like all lords did, but he clearly made a point to keep in shape. Buchanan blocked a swift swing with a downward strike, and leaped to the side to counter cut the blade aimed at his heart.
The clanging sound of steel meeting steel over and over again in quick succession caused a flash of heat to sizzle up his spine. It’d been a solid year since he’d faced any challenge out in the field, and he felt genuine pleasure upon receiving his first cut, just under his collarbone, even as his dissatisfaction evolved into rage the longer the duel lasted. Lord Zemo was a threat. He had to die, and the sooner that happened, the sooner Buchanan could bring back the good news to his king.
The sooner he could prove that he was worth something.
Lord Zemo went in for a frontal assault, drawing blood at Buchanan’s hip with a vicious slash. “You should be afraid,” he said, not breathless at all, each sweep of his blade a brutal echo of the rage shining in his eyes.
Buchanan blocked the blade coming at him from the side with a flick of the wrist before leaping forwards, feinting left before striking lightning-fast, dragging the tip of his sword into Lord Zemo’s flank. They danced back and forth like this, striking and parrying, dodging and feinting. To his surprise, Buchanan started to sweat under his tunic.
Lord Zemo was showing signs of effort as well, his brown hair plastered to his brow by sweat, and his reaction time slowing down ever so slightly. Still, he didn’t seem concerned by the thousand cuts on his chest soaking the tatters of his tunic in blood. He was unrelenting, driven by rage and resolve and not a drop of fear, as though defending his own life was secondary to killing the wolf who’d barreled into his castle of sheep.
Buchanan blocked the next strike and launched forwards, intent on dealing the killing blow. Lord Zemo parried again, and again, but he couldn’t parry forever. He may be good, but Buchanan was better.
With a series of powerful strikes and slashes, Buchanan backed up his opponent against the stone wall, knocked his weapon from his hand, and brought up the sharp edge of his bloodied sword to that carelessly bared throat.
Instead of begging, or cursing, Lord Zemo tilted his head to the side. His expression was devoid of fear even now, the tightening of his aristocratic features the result of unadulterated rage alone. Buchanan pushed the blade a little further, but was careful not to draw blood just yet. King Rumlow approved of him playing with his prey. He’d taught him to do so.
But of all the people he’d been sent to kill, Lord Zemo looked the least like prey to him. And he smiled like he was the one who had his adversary pinned to the mossy stone wall. He smiled fiercely, and there was a dangerous edge to the curve of his mouth, sharper than the blade he’d lost. Buchanan’s breath hitched at the burning sensation in his loins.
“Go on, kill me.” Lord’s Zemo throat bobbed as he spoke, inviting the blade closer. “That’s all you’re good at, isn’t it? Killing on another man’s whim. Killing innocents.”
Buchanan felt torn between pride and anger. “You and your people are hardly innocent.”
Lord Zemo’s nostrils flared. “Is that why you killed the women and children under my care? Were your orders unclear, or are you just that stupid?”
Buchanan stiffened.
“Answer me, soldier!”
Buchanan’s hand spasmed on the pommel of his sword. Something about the mockery and the demand was so similar to King Rumlow’s own speech patterns that he answered without meaning to.
“My orders were clear,” he growled, adding just enough pressure for a faint red line to blossom across Lord Zemo’s throat. “You deserve to die.”
Lord Zemo kept smiling. He leaned forwards into the sword, deepening the cut on his own.
“What are you waiting for, then?” he hissed. “Obey these orders you never question, kill me and run back to your king. What else is there to your life but blind obedience?”
“I live to keep my king safe, and that means protecting him from his enemies,” Buchanan snapped back. Why was he still talking? He stared at the blood trickling down and gathering in the collar of Lord Zemo’s tunic as though he’d never seen blood before. He pulled the blade back an inch, trying to think, to do what was right.
Lord Zemo followed like a lunatic, eyes blazing with fury. “Oh, I am his enemy, and perhaps the only one with the will and the means to stop him. You, however…” His lips curled up in contempt. “You have the skills to bring monsters down to their knees, but instead, you elevate them higher still. You are weak.”
Buchanan wasn’t sure what to make of this little speech, but the last part caused no confusion. He growled in the back of his throat. “I’m not weak.”
Lord Zemo tsked. “Weak are those who kill without distinction, who never think about their orders and what they mean. Weak are those who’ve served a monster for so long they can’t recognize one in the mirror.”
Buchanan’s head pounded. Someone screamed, but it was in his head, a memory from earlier in the day, when he’d stormed the village with his cohort. The scream brought forth the image of a woman holding a little boy. She’d been a fierce creature, handy with a knife – but not good enough. Had she been innocent because of this? Could anyone standing in the way of his king’s will be considered innocent? This wasn’t for him to decide, he knew that. But he couldn’t stop thinking about her courage with Lord Zemo standing in front of him weaponless and yet so fierce–
He shivered all over. “I don’t need to think, only to obey my orders.”
“And do you not wish for better orders?”
Buchanan blinked at the sudden change in tone. He couldn’t place it, but the rage tightening Lord Zemo’s features had shifted to something even more magnetic, the heat wrapped around the words striking Buchanan like one of those slaps King Rumlow liked to give before fucking his throat raw. He lowered his sword with a pounding heart. What was he doing?
“Well done, soldier,” Lord Zemo purred.
The words sent Buchanan to his knees. Lord Zemo didn’t try to take the sword from him, or pick up his own. Instead, he remained standing in front of him, blood dribbling down his ruined clothes, and reached behind Buchanan’s head to untie the leper mask – an act that had been King Rumlow’s prerogative until now. Buchanan shivered hard as sure fingers loosened the laces. Did Lord Zemo know that the mask was but a symbol meant to instill fear, or did he simply not care?
Buchanan didn’t know, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d killed countless people with his bare hands, come up on top under worse circumstances, and yet he felt powerless now.
Vulnerable, kneeling in front of a man he should and could still kill.
When Lord Zemo removed the half mask, his smile disappeared, and his eyes widened in shock. Had he expected the upper half of Buchanan’s face to be marked by the disease, after all? Why didn’t he say anything? A lifetime of punishment kept Buchanan very still as he anticipated a blow. Maybe that would trigger an appropriate reaction from him. Shake him out of his trance, at last. He didn’t need a blade to kill the lord, he could just–
When a callused hand touched his face, it wasn’t with violence. Lord Zemo cupped his jaw and tilted his chin up with so delicate a pressure the gesture was more akin to a caress. Buchanan followed the motion, breath catching as the lord’s little finger brushed his bared throat.
“I can give you something else. Something you need, but have lost the will to seek.”
Buchanan bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. He shouldn’t ask, he shouldn’t be so very disobedient, but he couldn’t muster any more aggressivity. Not with this brand of gentleness burning the very fabric of his soul. He fumbled for words. “And what…” He licked his lips. “What is it I seek?”
The hand on his jaw shifted, Lord Zemo’s thumb coming to rest at the corner of his mouth. “A purpose beyond mindless bloodshed,” he said in the tone of a troubadour delivering poetry.
Buchanan’s shoulders slumped, like Lord Zemo had just cut the invisible ropes keeping him upright. The callused thumb at the corner of his mouth traced his bottom lip.
This was the softest touch to ever have been bestowed upon him.
It shouldn’t make any difference with the kind of life he led, it really shouldn’t rip his orders to tatters, but it did. When Lord Zemo’s thumb moved to his upper lip, just as gentle and mesmerizing, Buchanan’s eyelids fluttered shut.
That night, in a castle he barely knew, he dreamed of Lord Zemo’s mouth exploring his lips, too.
*
Serving a man he’d been sent to kill was strange.
Stranger still was how easy it was to settle into his new role. He had no idea how to be anything but a killer, but the lord of the castle – who’d turned out to be the very opposite of a coward – figured it all out for him.
For the first week, Buchanan was tasked with training twenty men and women in the lord’s service. They were all good fighters already, even the women.
None of them knew who he was, without the leper mask. Lord Zemo forbade him to tell them, and Buchanan complied easily. After all, what would be the point of having his pupils scatter in fear? With his face visible and none of his past deeds obvious, he got to show them what he’s spent a lifetime perfecting, and watch their skills improve.
He especially enjoyed the women’s cunning. They were more vicious than the man, and on one memorable session, one of them – the smallest, youngest one – came up with such a good distraction that she drew blood on his cheek. His smile was sudden, genuine, and surprised them both. He took pride in his teaching.
He took pride in Lord Zemo’s approval. That concise ‘good’ made him feel all warm inside… and he felt warmer still as Lord Zemo washed that cut himself, bringing that dream back to the surface and strengthening a desire Buchanan had no idea how to handle.
The land outside the castle walls was off-limits to him, but Buchanan didn’t mind. He also didn’t mind the change in pace. All he’d ever known was his missions, and killing. It was… nice, to see people smile at him rather than recoil in fear.
Every day, he looked at himself in the mirror in his room. His reflection never changed all that much, but over time, he came to notice something different. A glow of sorts, that had nothing to do with the sun outside. He traced the lines of his eyes, his mouth, and wondered if this was still the face of a monster.
He dreamed of Lord Zemo, again and again, and wondered why he didn’t feel more guilt for defecting from King Rumlow’s army.
*
For someone who’d been threatened within an inch of his life, Lord Zemo was inexplicably generous with him.
Buchanan had his own room, enough food to never go hungry, access to a tube for his own personal use – more freedom than he knew how to use. He couldn’t read, so he never took Lord Zemo up on his offer to visit the solar, but he often stalked the corridor leading to it around sunset, leaning against the door left ajar and listening with bated breath to the lord reading to the children of the castle.
There was something peaceful about Lord Zemo’s accented voice, a soothing quality to the stories he shared, even the ones about war and death. He never chastised the children for interrupting him, seemingly eager to answer all of their questions, no matter how uncomfortable.
There was something fascinating about watching him hard at work in the kitchens, his callused hands covered in flour rather than blood. King Rumlow would never have deigned to lend a hand to the servants, but Lord Zemo could embrace any role at the drop of a helmet. He was involved in everything, knew everyone by name, and that, somehow, struck Buchanan as a display of power more impressive than burning down a thousand villages on the way to glory.
Every night, he expected Lord Zemo to slip into the bed he’d offered him and plunge a knife between his ribs.
Every night, he lay awake wondering if his own mind would ever make sense again, so he could kill Lord Zemo like he’d been tasked.
There was never any visitor at night, and Buchanan’s compunction to wrap up his last mission for King Rumlow became nothing more than a distant dream.
*
One day on the cusp of winter, the first dream he’d had about Lord Zemo became reality.
Buchanan had spent the evening in the kitchen, learning to make the bread he liked so much. Afterwards, he exited the castle to wander the grounds within the bailey. He knelt by the pond there and was about to splash some water on his face when something about his hands stopped him.
There was no crusty blood beneath his fingernails, and all he could smell was flour.
All recent memories involved people’s smiles, and the hunger gnawing at him was for something other than all the food sitting in his belly.
It started to rain, but he didn’t feel the wetness, or the cold. He stayed there kneeling by the pond, with his face as distorted on the surface as his perception of himself.
If he wasn’t a soldier, what was he?
“Vojak?”
Lord Zemo’s booted feet appeared in his field of vision. Buchanan blinked away raindrops, his chest constricted and his throat burning. The callused hand that landed on his shoulder and squeezed made everything worse – better.
“Come with me, vojak.”
To Buchanan’s surprise, he was led down a corridor that had always been off limits to him. The room he walked in was the most lavish of the castle, the proportions that of a king’s, with gilded drapes hanging off the stone walls and a bed so massive it could have fitted an entire family. A fire roared in the hearth, but that wasn’t why Buchanan felt like he was burning inside.
“Is this–” His voice broke as Lord Zemo’s hands helped him out of his soaked tunic. “Milord, should I–”
“Shh. Your clothes are wet, you will be much more comfortable without them.”
The lord’s hands moved to his breeches next, and Buchanan exhaled sharply. His face burned, but he didn’t feel embarrassed about his erection, which sprang free as those clever, callused hands worked his soaked breeches down his thighs.
He couldn’t be embarrassed about anything with Lord Zemo leaning into him with a low chuckle, mouth teasing his jawline before capturing his lips into a deep, possessive kiss.
Months after that dream, Buchanan finally got to taste Zemo’s mouth. And it tasted good, like the bread he’d learned to bake and the life he tried to lead, like a taunt and an offer but nothing like a demand. He ached deeply as those battle-hardened fingers brushed down his sides, gentle over the scars left from flogging and past fights, admiring in the way they lingered. He arched with a low moan at the first touch to his cock. He was so hard it hurt, and he let out a pitiful whine as their mouths parted, bracing himself for mockery. It was nothing else than what he deserved.
But Lord Zemo didn’t mock him – he caressed his length with purpose and sucked a bruise on his throat like they shared this mysterious hunger that couldn’t be quenched with food or murder.
“Firsts are always memorable,” the lord purred into his neck.
Buchanan watched Lord Zemo strip down fast and efficient, exposing scars of his own, and a freckled belly that Buchanan wanted to bury his face in. He didn’t correct the lord. He’d been kissed before, but never quite like this. He’d also had his ass played with and fucked before, many times, but never like this either: like his own pleasure mattered. He arched his back at the sensation of two slick fingers curling up inside him, and almost came right here and then. When the fingers withdrew, his thighs started to shake.
“I- I want you,” he rasped, tearing through the sheets. He meant so much more than the thick cockhead rubbing at his hole.
Lord Zemo knew. He may be just shy of twenty-two, but he always seemed to know what Buchanan wanted, what he needed, even when Buchanan, who’d lived twice as long, didn’t have the faintest idea.
“I will give you what you need.”
Buchanan pressed his face into the soft sheets of the bed while Lord Zemo pressed his cock into him, one inch at a time.
“Good, vojak. Relax for me.”
Buchanan relaxed. He relaxed while Lord Zemo started thrusting into him, and relaxed further as sharp fingernails dug into his back, masking the whipping marks that had long since scarred. But he couldn’t stay relaxed forever, not when his lord’s approving words devolved into groans, and his own body reacted so strongly to all these sounds and sensations.
So he tried to show gratitude. Gasping and moaning, he spread his legs as far as they would go, welcoming that hard cock deeper inside him. Lord Zemo picked up the pace, each thrust so powerful now that the headboard hit the wall. Buchanan’s pleasure built up further. He never thought that penetration could be so enjoyable. With every drag of his lord’s cock, he leaked a little more on the sheets.
“That’s it,” Lord Zemo grunted. “So sensitive... so hungry for me.”
Buchanan fisted his hands in the sheets, the pleasure so strong he wasn’t sure he could hold back. But he had to. Lord Zemo still hadn’t come. Perhaps, if he crushed his balls in his fist, he could stave off his orgasm? “M-Milord,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, I’m so close. If I–”
“Oh, vojak…” Lord Zemo grabbed a handful of hair and yanked, pulling Buchanan up to his knees and back against him. His lips caressed his ear, and without warning, his teeth sank deep into the lobe. “I want you to come apart for me. Do it, right now. Come on my cock.”
Buchanan did – with a scream of his lord’s name, and the kind of gratitude that transcended his own comprehension.
*
It was so easy to follow his lord’s orders inside and out of the bedroom, but as the winter settled in, Buchanan found himself missing killing in a visceral way that no amount of fucking or praising could cure. He thought he could go without, and he had, for months, but murder had been hardwired into him since childhood, and all his dreams turned to nightmares, each one bloodier than the last.
On a cold morning following a bad storm, Lord Zemo told him to meet him in the stables. There, he gave him two bags. The first one was filled with victuals. At the bottom of the second lay a mask he hadn’t seen in almost half a year, wrapped in a blanket.
Lord Zemo handed him the reins of the horse Buchanan had thought he’d lost. “There is something I would like you to do for me.”
Buchanan bent a knee. “What is my mission, Milord?”
Lord Zemo smiled. He was young, but he always looked younger when he was smiling.
*
There was no more village burning, or large-scale killing. Over the years that followed, Buchanan got aimed at targets that were difficult to take down and required careful planning. He got hurt a lot more than he used to, but he relished the praise he got coming back home with the heads he’d been sent to fetch. He learned to crave the next mission, the hard fucking that would follow and the bite marks he would carry, proudly, for days. Over time, he became reluctant to kill the people who simply happened to stand in his way, especially women and children. Lord Zemo had forbidden it, but that wasn’t the only reason.
He kept thinking of the women he’d trained in Lord Zemo’s castle, of the children who enjoyed their lord’s stories.
And sometimes, he dreamed of that fierce woman he’d killed alongside her boy, and of his lord and master calling him a monster.
*
King Rumlow wanted him dead, but Buchanan wasn’t concerned for himself when Lord Zemo sent him after his former master in the spring.
He also didn’t hesitate, or question his orders. Three years ago, he would have done anything for King Rumlow. He would have killed and died for the man who’d taken him under his wing when Buchanan had been but a stable boy with no future. He would have gone straight to hell for him, done the unspeakable to hear his voice once more.
And then, he’d met Lord Zemo. A man Buchanan saw tend to his people’s wounds, a man who cook for his servants and gave more than he took, a man who was everything the King had been and hadn’t, a mystery and a temptation so vast Buchanan failed to wrap his mind around the extent of his loyalty for him. But he never doubted it was there, collaring him more securely than any threat of pain.
And he was reminded of the comforting weight of it whenever Lord Zemo smiled at him.
King Rumlow had never smiled at him, not like he cared.
Maybe if he had, Buchanan would have killed Lord Zemo that day on the parapet, instead of dropping his sword.
But King Rumlow hadn’t. So Buchanan rode hard towards the castle he’d once lived in, never pausing to sleep, only to eat a little from his bag. He wasn’t hungry, but the idea that the food his lord had made could go to waste made it possible for his belly to unclench, and the bread and meat to go down. The fruits, too. They were strange little purple balls that fitted into the palm of his hand, very sweet, and feeling the juice running down his chin reminded him of the last night he’d spent in his lord’s bed, of the pleasure they’d shared.
His lord’s food gave him the strength to keep going at full speed through rain and snow alike, lent him wings so he could push past his own exhaustion until the castle, and his past, loomed in the distance.
He didn’t slow down.
The drawbridge was going up as he approached, but not fast enough. Buchanan unsheathed his sword and leaped from the back of his horse, catching the end of the drawbridge with one hand and hauling himself up with a groan, throwing his legs around and sliding down the wooden length.
One of his former comrade-in-arms rushed him as soon as his feet hit the grounds of the castle, but Buchanan was ready, and ran him through with his sword. A dozen of the men who’d once been under his orders awaited him, but they were no challenge for him, and no innocent worthy of his lord’s mercy. He killed them all with ease, and stalked into the castle itself with his bloody sword in hand, his pounding heart making all his shallow cuts bleed a little faster. It would take a lot more than a few wounds to slow him down. King Rumlow must know this, because a lot more men awaited him in the throne room.
Buchanan killed them too, the taste of plums lingering beneath that of blood filling his mouth, anchoring him to his goal and what he’d left behind and wanted to return to. Lord Zemo was his master now. He was the man for whom Buchanan would do everything, for whom he’d kill and die, just like King Rumlow had been years ago. But there was something different about the devotion tightening his insides whenever Lord Zemo looked at or touched him. Something hot and churning that had nothing to do with the ingrained pleasure of serving a man better than him.
He couldn’t tell what it was, but it was there, undeniable. A curse, a blessing.
An urge to cry when Zemo caressed his cheek, whereas all the blows King Rumlow had rained upon him had never even made his eyes sting.
But the King couldn’t hurt him now. When he tried to stab him, Buchanan cut his hand with a flourish and kicked the king to the floor. King Rumlow tried to get back to his feet, but Buchanan pressed a boot slick with blood to his embroidered tunic, shifting all of his weight to it as he brought the tip of his blade to the king’s throat.
Lord Zemo had taught him to show mercy, but monsters didn’t deserve any.
King Rumlow spat at him. “You will regret–”
Buchanan knew of regrets, and he had only one where this man was concerned. With a snarl, he swung his blade and decapitated King Rumlow, watching his head roll on the ground with a sense of accomplishment barely tainted by having knelt for twenty years at the man’s feet.
He returned to Lord Zemo with the excitement of victory and the urge to service him behind closed doors. He hadn’t known how good orders could be. How free it could feel, and how gratifying, to serve a good man instead of a monster.
Lord Zemo was waiting for him, perfectly put together even in the rain. Bloodied from head to toe and famished, Buchanan knelt on the ground, shuddering at the grounding touch on his shoulder. Lord Zemo took off the blood-drenched mask, surveying him with an unreadable expression as he wiped a line of blood off his cheek. Buchanan swallowed around a lump in his throat.
Had he done something wrong? Wasn’t this what his lord had wanted? To have a man he deemed a monster killed, and perhaps also to make sure that Buchanan could never return to his former master?
As if Buchanan ever would. Could Lord Zemo not see it, whenever Buchanan looked at him? There was no one else beside Lord Zemo, no one else Buchanan wished to serve and worship, no other man who inspired such want in him, and a feverish instinct to protect.
Perhaps he should have said the words earlier. He’d needed a whole year to name the intense feeling that had taken root in his heart, and he could never seem to find the right moment to say the words. He wasn’t sure he should. They were two men, after all, and of vastly different stations. He feared he might lose Lord Zemo, if he was too greedy.
But wasn’t love just another form of devotion, and how could he not give Lord Zemo every piece of himself?
“Milord,” he rasped, “I l–”
Lord Zemo hauled him up with impressive strength, and kissed him with such fire Buchanan almost forgot what he’d meant to say. He dragged Buchanan to the stables and pushed him against the wall, tearing down his breeches to get at his ass. The sound of him spitting into his hand scattered his thoughts further, but when a spit-slick finger was pressed into his hole none-too-gently, Buchanan tried again.
“Milord, there’s something–”
“Quiet, môj vojak.” Lord Zemo hissed, and it sounded so pained that when a hand came to cover his mouth, Buchanan didn’t protest, only moaned, back arching with the desire to please. “Nerob to ťažšie.”
Lord Zemo usually took some time preparing him, but not today. Buchanan gasped into his lord’s callused hand at the burning sensation of being speared open. Still, he rocked his hips back as best he could with his limited freedom of motion, welcoming the hard fuck with an approximation of the words he couldn’t say. The harsh drag of his lord’s cock hurt, but not nearly as much as the faint sound of his crying in between grunts of pleasure. He tried to turn around, but Lord Zemo pushed him harder against the wall, almost smashing his nose into the wood.
Buchanan felt something tear inside him on the next thrust. The pain was excruciating, but nothing he hadn’t experienced before, although it had been a long time ago. The pleasure returned promptly, and with it, the words begged to be freed. He hoped Lord Zemo would allow him to talk later, keep him at his side for a little longer. Drag him to his bed, maybe, and fill him up all over again. He had the stamina of youth, and Buchanan wanted to overflow with his lord’s seed, wanted his touch deeper than anyone else’s had ever been…
“Tak dobre...” Lord Zemo panted, driving his cock deep and hard, each thrust painful and wonderful. “Poď po mňa.”
Buchanan knew these words very well by now, and submitted to Lord Zemo’s wish at once: he climaxed with a wordless scream, painting the wooden walls of the stables with his seed.
Instead of following suit, his lord slowed down his thrusts. He was growing soft, Buchanan realized with not a small degree of confusion. But Lord Zemo didn’t pull back, his hands on Buchanan’s hips tightening, nails almost breaking the skin as they dug deep. He kissed Buchanan’s nape with a hiss, as though he was the one in pain, and this act of possession and reunion was hurting him.
Buchanan’s mind spun. He still had no idea what was going on beyond the obvious, but he needed Lord Zemo to know how grateful and devoted he was to him still. He had to make it clear that no matter what happened, he would never leave him.
He belonged to him for all eternity.
The instant Lord Zemo uncovered his mouth, Buchanan gasped.
“Milord… I lo–”
Something cold and sharp dug into his throat, drowning the rest of his words in a wet gurgle. Pain exploded in Buchanan’s throat and spread to the rest of him like wildfire.
What had just happened?
His knees gave from under him, and Lord Zemo collapsed with him, his soft cock still buried to the hilt. From far, far away came the clicking sound of metal hitting stone. A blade? It matched the sensation he’d felt, but explained nothing else.
He let out a pained noise of pain and confusion as more blood rushed out of the wound at his throat.
“I– I don’t know anymore which is the greatest sin I’ve committed.”
Lord Zemo’s voice seemed to come from far away too. It was strangled, wet, like he was crying after all. His hand dug into Buchanan’s throat, closing over the wound. It shook. Unless that was him shaking? Buchanan didn’t have any control over his body anymore. A finger slipped into the wound and pressed against bone, but it didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt anymore, except the incomprehension. The loss. Why, he wanted to ask, but that privilege was denied to him.
I love you, he thought.
Was it bad, that he still wanted to say those words?
Lord Zemo’s voice was but a small whisper as his lips caressed his ear, as difficult to catch as any dream. “Prepáč, že mi to trvalo tak dlho, vojak. Nenávidieť ťa je ťažšie, ako som čakal.”
Buchanan didn’t know enough of the beautiful language to know what this meant. Lord Zemo could be explaining what had just happened.
He could be saying ‘I love you’.
Buchanan couldn’t ask. He couldn’t speak, and soon, he couldn’t feel anything except that feeling he couldn’t name anymore now wrapped up in ice.
Dying was not as peaceful as he’d been made to believe, but he didn’t mind too much, despite the confusion and pain.
How could he, when Lord Zemo held him until the very end?