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It still didn’t matter what Zemo did. Nothing happened between his legs except in those oh-so-vivid nightmares he had every night.
Zemo assured him it was okay, that if it never happened, that would be fine. Zemo understood more about Bucky than any other living person; it wasn’t fair that Bucky had kept this secret from him for so long… that Zemo had only discovered it by accident.
Bucky stared into the mirror. The Winter Soldier stared back. Greasy hair hung around his face, and hollow-eyed blues surrounded by circles so dark he might as well be wearing make-up again. The lack of sleep showed in the thinning of his cheeks, his skin pale. He lowered his head, putting his vibranium hand over his lower face and nose like a mask.
In desperation, he grabbed the hair clippers and put the second shortest guard on them.
Zemo thrust into him, again, and Bucky wrapped his arms and legs around him, pulling him close. He couldn’t keep staring into those eyes, the eyes he betrayed every night as he dreamt of another. A demon that haunted him nightly, an incubus that stole his energy and life. Despite Zemo’s undeniable skill, a skill he had honed with almost a year of practice learning what could get Bucky to half-mast, his cock lay dormant between his legs.
Was it fair? If he cut his hair now, Zemo might get the wrong idea. That Bucky didn’t want to be with him, didn’t want to feel…
He needed to cut his hair. He couldn’t stand the look of it.
If Zemo hadn’t known, then he was testing the waters again. The way he’d fisted his hand in Bucky’s long hair and yanked, cursing softly in English, telling him how good he felt, whispering into his ear, and Bucky had gotten fully hard under him -
And gone tense.
Zemo, bless him, (or curse him, Bucky wasn’t sure,) had stopped. Zemo checked on him, but that wasn’t what Bucky needed, and his erection had flagged.
But not before Zemo had seen it. He switched to the longest guard he owned.
“My dear, sweet, slutty boy, so open and ready for me,” Zemo whispered into Bucky’s ear as Bucky deliberately squeezed around him, fisting his hand in the hair at the back of his head and pulling with his next thrust. “Fuck!” Bucky didn’t care about the pinch of hair that had loosed from his scalp with the pull, not when his body had roared into life. Zemo smiled at the sound of the moan that had torn its way from Bucky’s throat, as Bucky rutted under him for a moment.
You might need the pain to get off with him, but what you really need is me.
“You feel so good, so-” Zemo stilled suddenly, realizing Bucky’d stopped breathing, that he’d gone perfectly still, and looked down, between them. His eyes had filled with a mixture of elation and concern, the latter of which was in his voice, cautiously asking, “James…?”
Hair fell to the floor. If he was going to look like a past version of himself, it would be one where he was in control of himself.
Zemo looked up from his book as James came out of the bathroom. He’d cleaned the bed, put on new sheets, and set a glass of water on James’ side of the bed. He’d gotten himself a glass of Louis XIII Cognac. Not his preferred brand, but it was the most expensive brand he dared keep around James with his temper. It was only four thousand dollars, and he could afford to replace it if James threw a tantrum.
James had been breathtaking at full hardness. Zemo was ready to never see it again if it also meant never seeing that look of sheer fear and pain in his eyes. James had been almost panicked, despite gently detangling his hand from his hair, and he’d been in the bathroom for at least ninety minutes.
Zemo couldn’t focus on his book. He flipped pages almost idly, something to do with his hands, but none of the words absorbed as he waited. When James came out, his hair was cut much shorter. Not so short that Zemo couldn’t still grab it, but short enough.
Message received.
“I have to talk to you,” James said softly, and left the room.
Zemo closed his book, confused, but as he was getting up, James came back into the room with a broom. Ah, that made more sense. He still climbed out of the bed, and padded after James, watching him sweep. This much was common enough, James had trouble talking, and he’d often do other things while he did, as though what he was saying was unimportant.
Zemo had gotten used to it over time. James wasn’t the sit-down-and-talk type, though he’d sit down and listen to Zemo when he needed it, so Zemo didn’t object.
“I’ve been having nightmares nightly about one of my old handlers,” James started, his eyes on his work. “Rumlow. He worked to condition me to him, separate from what HYDRA required. And now that we’re together, the nightmares are getting worse. It’s like he’s haunting me.”
James swept the last strands of hair into the dustpan and scrubbed the sink. Zemo didn’t comment on the blood in it.
“You have to hurt me to get me hard… because you’re not him,” He continued, curling the hand he braced on the counter into a fist, the other scrubbing harder. “I didn’t-I don’t want that for us. I want…” his fist pressed to his eyes and he paused in his scrubbing. “It doesn’t matter what I want. That’s how it is. So. Now you know.” He redoubled his efforts to scrub the blood off the marble.
“You’re going to crack the sink,” Zemo said gently. “The servants will get it tomorrow. Wash your hands and come to bed.” He said, gently. James sighed but did as he was told.