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He would always find this drive beautiful. Colorfully painted houses sat alongside stone structures whose age was marked by the moss and vines that clung to their battered, hand-built exteriors. Beautiful arches that stood the test of time, alleyways and roads of cobblestone that split from the newer foundation of pavement his car drove along. Bikers and pedestrians wandered peacefully alongside vehicles and a rare motorcycle, warmed by the sun that was shining overhead, drying the remnants of the rain that sat in the cracks and crevices of new and old streets alike, and nurtured the rows of flowers and ferns that decorated every corner.
It made for a lovely drive into the city.
Though the beauty was clearly lost on his passenger, who seemed personally affronted by the bright afternoon light, hiding from it in the shadows his hair cast across his face, his arms crossed over his chest.
The first thing he had done once in the car was kill the radio and its uplifting cheer, spending the entire drive into the city glowering out the window, nothing and everything a victim to his glinting, blade-like eyes.
"You're moodier than usual," he observes.
The car had been silent save for the light sounds of traffic since they'd left the safehouse, but given his company, Zemo hadn't expected anything less.
He wasn't surprised, either, when his comment was met with an inelegant grunt, the scowl on James' face deepening as he slouched further into the passenger's seat like a disgruntled child, doing nothing to deter his allegations.
Here, in the old heart of the city, the streets they drove surrounded on either side by houses and buildings whose infrastructures felt carved into his very bones, he was reminded of a home long lost. It tugs at a dull ache in his chest shaped like the past, like childhood, and he wonders, not for the first time, what is going on inside James' head as he attempts to look past the scenery.
Part of him is sure he wouldn't want to know, but that only makes the rest of him all the more curious.
There's a bird, a round, lime-sized robin, perched atop the sign they stop behind. With the way James glares at it, like it was solely responsible for every horrible thing that had ever occurred in human-history, he's surprised he doesn't jump out the car to try and eat it.
"Is it because you're sexually deprived and frustrated, or because Samuel turned you down?" He asks in the casually blunt manner he's learned works best when dealing with people such as James, who had zero appreciation for an incremental, natural build towards and into a topic. Beating around the bush became a waste of time with a man who would much rather rip his way through the foliage.
He signals then turns while James goes deathly still in the passenger seat, like a panther caught in a car’s high beams. Zemo doesn't bother hiding his smile, "Ah, a combination of the two then."
"How do you know about that?" Questions James, voice deliberately level.
He wasn't certain if James was referring to Samuel's rejection or his lackluster sex life, but he didn't specify, and there was something undeniably entertaining in how easy it was to prod at James’ impetuous temper.
"While my hearing may not be as sharp as yours, your bed shares a wall with mine, and you're not as quiet as you think."
He's heard him everyday they've spent together under the same roof, it was one of the first things he registered once he was awake, the sounds coming from James' room.
He could hear him, sometimes before he'd awoken from whatever pleasant dream he was having, humping his mattress like some horny teenager hard enough that the bedsprings cried in protest and his headboard knocked into their shared wall. He could hear the deep, breathy groans he made when he came in his sleep, or the confused murmurs turned galling when he woke up. He'd heard him swear when, after minutes of listening to the slick sounds of his hand racing over himself, his quiet panting, he still hadn't fallen over the edge and resorted to his toy. The hum of it, the way his breath picked up within seconds until he was gasping and all that was audible was the incessant sound of the toy and the whirr of his arm recalibrating, until he breathed out sharp and sudden, the bedsprings creaking as he collapsed back onto the mattress and the buzzing finally stopped.
He hadn't tried to pry, he had better things to do with his time than stoop so low, one of which happened to be keeping his home clean for his ungrateful guests and switching out their sheets. He hadn't meant to find the toy, but it wasn't like James had hid it all that well either, leaving it readily accessible under a pillow. It was about the length and width of his thumb, a sleek, dark purple with a single button at one end. James must of used one of the higher settings among the impressive pulse selection for it to be loud enough to be heard through the wall.
"And Sam?" He questioned after a long moment, voice tight.
Zemo spares him a glance as they come to a stop, and, to his pleasant surprise, finds a fine dusting of red across James’ cheeks and a mortified gleam in his wide eyes.
It was understandable given the situation to be embarrassed, most would be downright humiliated, but it was still an odd look to find on James’ typically glowering face. The man was rarely surprised, never happy unless it was soaked in sarcasm, and Zemo can't ever recall seeing him flustered.
The color looked good on him.
"I overheard the two of you talking in the hall," he informs him, turning back to the road. He hadn't heard much of what either of them were saying, but the dejected look James quickly hid behind stoic barricades and the way he flinched away from the apologetic hand Samuel sat on his shoulder was more than enough to surmise.
James’ face twists into an expression he was more accustomed to, something bitter and sardonic.
"Thanks for the privacy," he bites.
"I didn't eavesdrop," he promises, "I went to the kitchen to start on dinner as soon as I understood it was a private conversation. But you've been avoiding Samuel and he has become extra, one might say, 'buddy-buddy' with all the 'man's' and 'dude's' and punching shoulders since your chat." He explains, before chuckling. "Besides, you jumped at the opportunity to be alone with me. It was not difficult to come to the conclusion I have. Thank you, for confirming by the way."
"Happy to help."
Silence falls over the cab once more, it's heavier than the previous one, and the irritation that had been radiating off of James earlier took on a new note, one that left him tense, one he couldn't properly identify.
After a handful of minutes, Zemo says, "If you're sexually frustrated, you have a plethora of options, you do not have to settle for Samuel."
James groans and pinches the bridge of his nose.
"I'm not settling for–fuck." He curses, dropping his hand to send him a nasty, askance look before grumbling, "What do you mean, options?"
"You are a very attractive man, you could stop into any bar and walk out with a man or woman of your choosing hanging off your arms." He hums, “One on each if you really wanted.”
"Thanks?"
For a moment it seems as though the conversation would die there, buried and drowned below a new wave of quiet, but in a surprising turn of events James lets out a begrudging sigh and outstretched an olive branch, crossing his arms.
"I can't trust a stranger to–they wouldn't be able to give me what I need. I–" He lets out a frustrated noise, tipping his head back against the car seat as he curses under his breath in a language he vaugly recognized. "Why the fuck am I talking to you about this?" He mutters.
"Why can't you trust them?"
James fixes him with a scowl. "You know why.”
Zemo frowns, rolling the different reasons he could think of over in his mind.
James was rarely recognized outside of his uniform, he was a master of hiding his arm and blending into the crowds when he didn't want to talk, and was equally as good at striking up a conversation with most anyone on the rare occasions he felt social. So he doubted James was worried about being recognized out at the bars or that he lacked the charisma he needed to flirt, and he took Zemo for a man who wouldn't care to simply undo his belt and pull whatever head or hand he wanted to past his fly, so worrying about the arm didn't strike him as the problem either.
His mind drifts back to how James had reacted after he revealed he'd overheard him masturbating, and it occurs to him that he likely wasn't just embarrassed at being caught like most anyone would be, he was chagrined and uncomfortable because Zemo knew, and in knowing he could make assumptions that others couldn't. He knew exactly what James was doing when he was panting into his pillows, the way his hands would have to move, the way his body would react and look—or at the very least he had a better idea than most. Perhaps that was the issue: James knew that Zemo knew, and James wished that he didn't.
He had never once spoken about it, or even hinted at it, and Zemo had never stopped to consider what the avoidance might imply.
"Ah, I see," he hums. "I suppose it didn't occur to me that you were uncomfortable with your body in that way."
James laughs, a bitter, humorless bark. "It's not like Hydra ever asked my permission to write what they did about it." The bitterness fades into something melancholic and detached, his shoulders slumping as he closes his eyes.
Neither speak for the rest of the drive, and the nostalgic stretch of buildings and light traffic lose its glow. Zemo pulls into a spot across the street from the market and James unclips his belt, moving to slide out.
"Did you have a choice, in becoming James?"
James pauses, considering the question. "I've been James since I was six. 'S why we moved to Brooklyn in the first place." He eventually answers, the hint of an accent peeking through, a distant, reminiscent tone to his voice "Ma got the papers forged so good I couldn't even dodge the draft."
Zemo nods, and a piece of him settles with the knowledge that more of James' life hadn't been forced onto him at the hands of his captors. So much of his mind and body had been stolen and reformed into something indistinguishable from who he'd once been, he didn't need such an integral piece of who he was, the very corporeality of being a man, taken as well.
"Does Samuel know?"
"The whole world knows," he mumbles miserably.
While Project Insight's failure spared the lives of hundreds of thousands, if not millions of people across the globe, the leak of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s data base and Hydra's interwoven infection aired the dirty laundry of just as many, permanently marring their reputations. Most of them deserved to have their sins and atrocities outed to the public, who could rain down their deserving punishments, but a select few were caught in the crossfires of the necessary evil, leaving the worst moments of their lives, the torture they had been subjected to, the most personal information stolen from them, shared between blogs, message boards, and news stations.
Among the files released were a handful of medical reports, dating back to the 1940's and 50's, detailing James' initial exam upon his recovery from the bottom of a ravine, and a telling operation.
Another factor and its impact on James he had never considered before.
Hydra's files left no part of James untouched, and as quick as Stark and his team were in getting the files taken down, as convincing as the narrative that they had been falsified to begin with in an attempt to further divide public opinion on James and distract from his suffering was, they hadn’t been able to completely erase the ‘theory’. Zemo had seen one or two news broadcasts float the reveal, though Stark and his lawyers had been able to shut them down and convince them that they had been misled. With the help of a rather hefty legal threat. There were multiple forum boards that continued to discuss the topic, however, and the things that he had read, the way these people had talked about James, the things they called him and the things they openly described doing to him, disgusted him.
Some were not aiming to be harmful, people who wanted James to represent them, but in doing so pressed their own feelings, comforts, and desires onto him without considering his own, turning what they had intended to be good into a genital objectification, but most of them aimed for harm from the beginning. They were mostly men, a mixture of those who didn’t care if the rumor was true or not and fetishize his body and what could be done to it regardless, and those who believed they could ‘fix’ him, put him in his place and remind him who he was supposed to be with the magical penis they believed to possess.
They were the perfect proof that so many people were poisoned by their own rotted marrow, leaking virulent spores into their blood. The amount of people who were so willing to expose their own wicked minds and gutted interiors would always astound him; Zemo detested them, he hated that they lived and breathed the air that those who truly deserved the oxygen no longer could.
"If it is of any consolation, Stark and his team did a thorough job of erasing any documents containing your medical records within hours of their leak. There are no digital copies available."
"You found them," he says.
"The original physical documents kept by Colonel Karpov–" James' fist clenches against his thigh at the name, "I burned them after I read them. There are no existing copies left, digital or physical."
"That–that does help, some," he reluctantly admits. “Sam knows. I don’t know if he knew before but I–I told him.” He crosses his arms across his chest, hiding in the bulk of them, sulking. “Why do you think he turned me down?”
“I'm sorry, James–”
"Don't. Don’t do that," He snaps, before he deflates, resting the side of his head against the window. "Can't blame 'im, like what'cha like and all that happy horseshit. Besides, I'd'ave been too much for 'im. I just need to get over it."
"You're difficult to please when it comes to sex, then?"
James freezes like a rendering frame.
"What?"
"You said earlier that you couldn't trust a stranger, and that they couldn't give you what you need. I'm reading between the lines again, and–"
"Well stop," He snarls, throwing open the door and jumping out in one move, slamming it hard enough behind him to shake the car.
He doesn't wait, marching towards the entrance to the market the same way he strode into battle and with just as much black leather, the intimidating figure he cut making more than a few people step out of his way, clearing a path through the crowd he quickly disappeared into.
"My apologies," he says to the empty cab, before he climbs out to save the poor vendors from the wrath he'd helped release.
▪︎$♤◇♤$▪︎
They don’t spend as much time at the market as he would have had he been alone, but James’ sour mood and towering presence beside him did lead to various price reductions, so he wasn’t too bothered. With all of their supplies loaded into the car, they hit a fast food drive-through, and they’re barely a few blocks down the road when James finishes his first bag and tucks into the other.
“I'm not difficult to please,” James mumbles around a mouthful of fries. “I just … I'm fucked up.” He professes.
Zemo waits, drumming his fingers on the wheel to a nonexistent tune. A quick glance James’ way and he can see the man is clearly uncomfortable, by the subject matter itself or how unperturbed Zemo was by the whole thing, he wasn't certain, either way, James tries his best to hide his unease around another fistful of food.
It was unusual to see James so taken by any emotion that didn't push him over into rage or strip him of his reactions entirely, leaving him the blank slate that was so easily malleable once upon a time.
Despite the odd, obviously reticent behavior, James continues after a moment, hesitant.
“Ever since Hydra I-what I want, what I need to get off with someone else is so much … meaner.” He whispers, avoiding his eyes.
There are many things that James could mean by that, but the one that makes the most sense to him, the one more reasonable with the decades of abuse he'd been subjected to, settles like copper on his tongue.
“You like pain?” He clarifies.
“Yeah,” He grunts, eyes slipping shut as he tipped sideways against the window. He wondered if the cool glass stung, or caressed his flushed skin like a soothing balm. “Like it to hurt. Don't want to think, just go where I'm put and do what I'm told. I like–” he breathes out, slow and deliberate, the tip of his tongue wetting his lips, “Want ‘em to hurt me and degrade me and praise me and make me take it until I can't. Push my limits. Take control of my pleasure. It just feels–right. And when it's my turn, I like to fuck ‘em til they cry, until I‘m the only thing keeping ‘em up ‘n all they know is what I give ‘em.” He swallows hard, shuffling in his seat and turning away, practically nuzzling his forehead into the glass.
Zemo feels the words reach inside him, stirring at something deep in his gut.
He was used to resistance when it came to James taking orders, but he knew when there was no better course of action, when he had come to the same conclusion before anyone else had, and would cave with minimal complaints. Irritated not at the plan, but who had given it to him. What would he look like without that push back? How young would that worn face become when he was given a command and sank into action without any thought or hesitance?
He can picture it, the willing ease with which James would fall to his knees and empty his head. The fog that would roll over his storming eyes as he begged.
His fingers flex against the wheel.
“Hard to find someone willing to take care’a me like that.” James mumbles, opening his eyes just to scowl at his reflection, the softness of his edges turning sharp and brittle in an instant. “What the fuck am I doing? Forget everything I said, just–fuckin’ hell. Don't talk to me for the rest'a the drive.”
Zemo respects his request, and they don't say another word for the rest of the drive.
He doesn't mind; it gives him plenty of time to think.
▪︎$♤◇♤$▪︎
When they arrive back at the safehouse, they find a note on the table signed by Samuel, explaining that he found a lead and would be gone most of the night following up on it. They considered a call to check up on him, but given his history with his phone during missions and the explicit warning not to follow him, they settled for monitoring his location instead.
James busied himself with putting away their supplies, and when Zemo's offered help was brushed away with a grunt, he left him to doff his coat and pour himself a glass of scotch. The corner of the couch gives him a perfect view of the soldier puttering around his kitchen, and Zemo doesn't even attempt to hide his staring as he sinks into it.
James looks less like a wet, angry cat than he had in the car, but just barely, and while he didn't look his way, Zemo knows he's aware he's being watched.
He's done in minutes, and he doesn't so much as look Zemo's way as he walks past.
“Headin’ to bed,” he gruffs.
“Come sit with me, James.”
He nearly laughs, “Hard pass.”
“Sit.”
James freezes instantly, his turned back allowing Zemo to see how every muscle below his fitted shirt has gone rigid. He tilts his head, dragging his eyes over James’ stiff figure; he doesn't breathe, so still he hardly looks human.
Interesting.
“Turn around, it's rude to turn your back to someone when they're speaking to you.”
Something dangerous crackles in the air between them, a brittle flint edge that could easily tip one way or the other, crumbling apart into razor-sharp shards, or casting the first sparks of something else.
A full minute passes before James turns to look at him. He's still stiff, a guarded silver shield over his eyes and a blank, expressionless look on his face. Neither smile.
“Come, sit.” He says with a pat to his thigh, peering at him over the crystal rim of his glass. “Before I change my mind.”
James swallows as he takes a sip, the liquid burns on its way down, leaving behind a heat that simultaneously fuels the fire under his skin and soothes any of his worries. James’ face doesn't change for a long time, and Zemo continues to look him over, unbothered.
He conceals his delight when James’ shoulders lose some of their tension and he takes a hesitant, half-step forward, followed by another full step, and another, until he's crossed the room and slowly lowering himself onto the couch, climbing into Zemo's lap. Zemo moves his arms to the side, keeping his drink clear of James’ limbs, leaving him free to move where he wanted.
James hovers over him, gripping the back of the couch like a lifeline.
Zemo's lips tug into a smile.
“Good boy.” He praises under his breath, and the tension drains from James’ body like a severed tendon. His shoulders slumping as he sinks down onto him, the space between them disappearing, and tucks his nose into Zemo's hair while his free hand smooths up his back. A shiver racks James’ body at the contact.
“What're you doing?” He whispers, near silent. He chuckles, and James’ thighs flex against his as he scratches up his back.
“Giving you what you need.” He tips his head back and offers James an easy, knowing smile. “Do you want me to stop?”
James avoids his eyes, gulping before he wets his lips and shifts in his lap again, hesitantly sliding a hand down to rest on his shoulder. Zemo can feel the restless energy buzzing just below his skin.
“That's what I figured.”
He sips insouciantly while he touches James, his pulse thundering beneath the hand Zemo drags over his ribs. They don't speak, James’ shuddering breaths and the click of his throat as he swallows the only sound between them. Zemo trails his fingers over the knobs of his spine, smoothing his palm down the dip until he's sliding his hand into the back pocket of James’ jeans.
James splays his hands over Zemo's shoulders and ducks to nuzzle into his temple, gingerly rocking into his touch.
Zemo moves his hands to down the last of his scotch, and James makes the tiniest sound of dismay at the loss.
“Set this aside for me, would you, James?” He says, forcing the glass into his chest. He leans back enough for Zemo to see how lax his face has gone, the tension and anger that's always lain in the lines of his features smoothed away.
He blinks down at the glass, looking half awake, but does as he's told.
Zemo holds his hips as he twists and leans back in his lap, setting the glass somewhere on the coffee table behind him. He turns back, but doesn't fold over him again, keeping himself stretched out instead, balancing himself with his hands on Zemo’s knees. He can't help but smile at him, making a show of dragging his eyes slowly up and down the display of his body.
“How could anyone not want you?” He muses, sneaking a hand below his shirt and running it up warm skin. James’ eyes flutter shut and his lips part, his breathing picking up.
Zemo pushes the hem of his shirt further up his torso to appreciate the view, his eyes zeroing in on the sparse trail of hair below his navel.
“Take this off for me.” He says, and meets no hesitation as James shifts and pulls the fabric up and over his head, tossing it onto the couch.
He was gorgeous like this, not as large as he was when they'd first met, but still bulging with muscle accentuated by pale, taut skin. The angle did wonders for him, showing off how his wide shoulders and impressive lats taper down into his slimmer waist, before widening once again at the thick thighs parted around Zemo’s hips. Leaning back on his arms pushes his muscular chest out even more, already at his eye level and framed deliciously with a dusting of body hair, absent everywhere else except the thin trail that crept down the middle of his abs and thickened as it dipped below his waistband. Pastel pink nipples peaked out at him from chestnut hair, already tight and peaked, and he wondered what kind of noises he could pull out of James by introducing them to his tongue.
He wants so badly to find out, to map the cartography of every dip and line with his mouth, but first, he meets his eyes.
The alertness that made him so deadly was still there, but duller, the barest hint of a sheen softening slate blue-gray irises. He was searching Zemo’s face for a reaction, expectant and hopeful, but nervous all the same.
“Much better,” he purrs, and follows the pinks creeping down his body with his hands.
He touches James until he's trembling, and when he dips his fingers under his waistband to tease the wiry hairs below his breath hitches and he bites his lip, his hands tightening on Zemo's knees as his hips rock forward. James whines, and suddenly he's hit with a strong and musky smell that makes his mouth water, tugging at a memory.
He doesn't recognize it until James turns heavy, pleading eyes on him, and he sees just how desperate he is, shifting in his lap. He looks like an entirely different man.
So, this is what he meant by ‘take care’ of him.
He's soft when he cups the bulge in James’ sinfully tight jeans, but his hips stutter, rolling languidly. He sighs agaisnt his cheek when he squeezes, and Zemo can only imagine the mess black denim was concealing. How much stronger the scent would be without them.
“Let's get you to bed. Wouldn't you like that, sweet boy? To be laid out all for me across my sheets?” He whispers into the hollow of his throat.
It startles a quiet moan from James, who rocks down harder into his hand and lap, his chest rising and falling in quick succession. He opens his mouth, but stops, licking his lips, before he eventually says in a broken whisper.
“Yes.”
》☆¤☆《
This is stupid.
This is so fucking stupid.
But Bucky climbs out of Zemo's lap and follows him to his room regardless of how bat shit insane it is. He wastes no time crawling onto the bed and settling across the sheets, their touch cool to his heated skin. And they would feel so much better soon enough, if things were going where he thought—and hoped—they were.
He's never thought of fucking Zemo, and yet he's harder than he's been in years, energy buzzing under his skin. He can't remember the last time he'd wanted something so bad, and that should scare him, it does scare him, but here he was, half naked and damn near squirming for a man he loathed with every breath in his lungs.
He really needs to get laid.
Zemo doesn't so much as glance at him once he's locked the door—something that would unnerve him if he didn't know just how easily he could kick it down—paying him no mind as he walks around the bed to his side table.
He shifts through its drawer, and blood rushes through his ears and down south when he starts placing items on the table top.
There's a mostly full bottle of lube, a smaller, unmarked blue tube, handcuffs—which are cute, but ultimately ineffective on him, unless they were vibranium, which wouldn't surprise him—a few gel packets he doesn't recognize, a knobbed silicone cock ring, and–
“You don't need that,” he mutters, and Zemo finally acknowledges him with a glance. "Unless you wanna, less mess."
He balls his fists against his thighs under his scrutinizing gaze until he hums, contended, and tucks the condoms back into the drawer.
“Edge of the bed, you haven't earned pillows quite yet.”
Bucky suppresses a gulp, his stomach flipping, and shuffles across the sheets until his legs are hanging over the side of the mattress.
It's hitting him quick and hard, the liberation that comes with doing as he's told, clicking into the role of commander or commanded, his mind detaching from his body and his thoughts melting out of his ears while static fills that newly empty space in his head.
He's never pictured this before, leaning back on his hands and spreading his legs wide enough for Zemo to slot between them, never thought how good the weight of his hands resting on his hips would feel, how he'd throb when he used the hold to pull Bucky closer. But he looks good standing over him, Bucky feels good everywhere they're touching. And for once the stupidly elegant and pompous way Zemo holds himself isn't grating his already flayed nerves, and that patronizing voice of his wasn't making him marginally homicidal, they were setting him on fire.
Yeah. Fuck, it's been way too long. He should have let that crazy lady at Sharon's party return the favor like she offered.
His cock is throbbing along to his pulse, getting the slightest amount of friction trapped under his packer and skinny jeans.
It was still leagues better than a sock.
He shivers as Zemo dips his fingers under the waistband of his boxers, ducking to meet Bucky's gaze with dark, heavy eyes that leave him aching paired with a small, pleased smile. His hands are big, strong, and he trembles as they seep warmth into his hips, goosebumps erupting wherever his fingers teasingly stroke, just barely brushing over his thighs and yet his breaths are still coming in short.
“Eager, dearest James?” He croons, that antagonizing smile on his face.
But he couldn't deny it, he's more turned on than he should be given how little Zemo's actually touched him. He has to be staining his boxers, the scent of himself in his nose was so strong he could taste it.
Zemo reaches to unbutton and unzip his jeans and Bucky bites his lip, eyes fluttering shut at the tiny spark of pleasurable friction. He fists the sheets but helpfully lifts his hips when Zemo's fingers slide completely under his waistband and start to pull.
He instinctively covers himself and feels his cock, harder than it's been in months, twitch against his palm, opening his eyes just in time to see Zemo kneel between his knees.
The air catches in his lungs, and he stares wide-eyed as the Baron dips his head and trails his hands and mouth over newly exposed skin. He's been staring at Bucky like he wanted to devour him, but this, the lingering kisses to the sides of each knee, the way he was caressing his calves and ankles as he slid his clothes completely off, it was something too akin to worship for him to handle.
Zemo nips at his shin and he nearly whines. He's never whined before.
Well, not genuinely.
He leaves Bucky alone on the sheets, naked as the day he was born, while he crosses the room and folds his clothes, setting them on a dresser. He's overwhelmed already, the seconds of contact he's gotten only stoking the flame after he's been left to wait for so long. He feels more desperate now than he had been fully clothed.
Speaking of fully clothed. Zemo returns without removing a stitch, and the difference, Bucky hot and naked and itching for something, anything to Zemo’s multi-layered and seemingly bored has arousal burning low between his legs, lapping at his bones.
Zemo steps back between his knees, running warm hands up his thighs while his eyes drink him in. He tries to close his legs, anxiety whispering in the back of his skull, but Zemo tisks and digs his nails in. The hint of pain makes him shiver.
"Every inch of you is perfection." He reassures, settling his hands on his waist, pushing closer until the tent in his dress pants met the backs of Bucky's hands.
He's weeping precome down his fingers and the crack of his ass, slicking his hand with it.
"Zemo," he hardly recognizes himself. The Baron hums, his thumbs scratching over the jut of his hip. It's electric; he hasn't been touched like this in so long, he's missed the feeling of sure hands on his skin. “Do whatever you want to my body, just don't ... don't touch me there, below my dick, not–not the front, not there, please."
It feels wrong to plead with this man, to let him hear the nerves and the hint of fear—slight as it was, it was a fear he couldn't hide, one of the few things that truly scared him—in his request, but he pushes on. He's learned to trust his instincts, and while he doesn't like it—hates it really—and he doesn't understand why, there's something inside of him that says he can trust Zemo with this, that he won't mock the tremor in his voice, or the reason it was there. He doesn't care what the other man does to him, truly he doesn't, just not there, he could take anything he gives him and thank him for it as long as he doesn't touch him there.
The number of atrocities that Hydra had subjected him to were unfathomable, he doubted he remembered even a fraction of the ways they'd hurt him, but he knew, with absolute certainty, that they had never hurt him like that. Their torture had never been sexual.
There had been one agent, before the dissolution of the USSR, that had tried, only to be thrown into the soldier’s cell while his handlers turned their backs and struck up a conversation over a shared cigarette, letting him tear the man apart with his bare hands while they talked weather, ignoring the insides he was turning out. They'd even complimented the mess he'd made, sending the newer agents in to clean it up, a message they couldn't misinterpret.
He lost no sleep when he remembered what he'd done to that pathetic man. The warm, unsupervised shower they'd let him have afterwards stuck out in his mind more than that mудак.
Hydra had never hurt him like that, so he has nothing to excuse the abuse he craved now. He’d never needed it before, and he doesn't know when exactly it happened, when the wires between pleasure and pain crossed and became so twisted around one another that he couldn't untangle them, that they might as well have been soldered together, but the pleasure was hardly worth it without the pain. It felt empty, he felt cheated.
Steve wouldn't lay his hands on him like that, he refused to hurt him regardless of how much Bucky begged those first few times after they'd come back together. He'd worried that something was wrong, had tried to drag him back to the lab and therapists to fix it, fix him, and it had taken all of his energy to lie and say he was only curious, to drag him back into bed and distract him the best way he could.
Bucky learned that if he riled him up enough Steve would be rougher with him, leaving finger-print shaped bruises on his hips, or sucking marks into his neck and chest and stomach. He’d bite him anywhere he asked because he'd liked it before. He could talk him into it, beg him to make me yours, mark me up so I don't forget. It was manipulative at best, and it only made him feel all the more awful because it was never enough. Making the climb and jumping off the ledge was hardly worth it, but it was good for Steve, he could be good for him. He just hated how quickly he perfected faking that fall.
He felt broken beyond repair.
“Just my dick, and don't call it anything else. Don't call me anything but-”
“The man you are?” Zemo’s expression doesn't change, but something softens around his eyes despite his pertinacious tone. It leaves him feeling fileted, vulnerable, but oddly cared for.
Bucky nods.
One of the hands on his hip disappears, and he sees it, knows where it's heading, but still flinches when knuckles brush over his cheek. It's soft, almost tender, and it makes him tremble for an entirely new reason.
Zemo shakes his head, "I wouldn't dream of it, James.” It's sincere, and the last of Bucky's tension drains away. He takes a shuddering breath, licking suddenly dry lips before removing his hands and leaning back, shivering as cool air rushes over him.
Zemo's eyes immediately fall to his lap, and the heat from before returns as he smirks, licking the pads of two fingers before skimming them over his cockhead. His erection’s flagged in the last few minutes, but the touch has him quickly filling up again. Bucky gasps, trying to rock his hips up, but Zemo pulls away and turns back to the bedside table.
"Close your eyes." He instructs, and Bucky does so without hesitation. It should concern him how easily he's giving in, and it does, but he's been doing half-witted and dangerous things for pleasure since he was a much smaller and more defenseless teen.
Like pulling the back of his jeans down just enough, telling the dock worker fucking him that he didn't need a reach around, stroking himself off as he shoved back into the piston of his hips until he was choking on his cry and coming down his thighs, the older man non the wiser as he spilled into his ass. Or yanking up the skirt of the girl he'd been shagging on and off, pushing aside her panties and pulling open his fly so they could sixty-nine on the fire escape with her family on the other side of the glass, celebrating her older brother's return from college.
He's always been an adrenaline junkie when it comes to sex. And the promise of ecstasy here with Zemo is too much to pass up on.
He jerks when Zemo grabs his thigh, fingers digging in hard as he forces his legs aside.
“Now, tell me if this is too much."
Something smooth presses against the side of his cock, round and flat like a coin, and he barely has time to register the feeling before a sharp, whip-like crack pierces through the air and he shouts, rutting up as stinging pain-pleasure electricity cuts through him.
He knows what it is as soon as the shock subsides. The wand is smaller, shaped differently, and not nearly as intense as the stun batons they would jam into the back of his neck and sides; it hurt and startled him enough that it would have sent him to his knees were he standing, but in this case he'd want to be there. It's a pain he knows, but it's never felt this good before, it hurts and his cock throbs, filling up with blood.
"Again," he pants, and is instantly rewarded with another.
He doesn't have to ask after that. Zemo gives him shock after shock, adjusting the voltage, turning it so high he was keening and lightheaded then dropping it so low it left him panting and aching for more. He moves the disk across his cock, stopping once to take his merry time changing the toy’s head while Bucky whined and twitched and dripped onto the sheets, rocking up into nothing as his body, a live wire, trembled in the absence of anything. The new head is smaller, rounded like the bristleless head of a toothbrush, and focuses the shock more directly.
Zemo slides the head up and down the sides of his prick until it's all he can feel and it's too much. He closes his legs—which only traps the toy and presses it harder against his shaft—and hunches over them as tears drip down his cheek. When they started, he wasn't sure. He's gasping for breath, struggling to open his heavy eyes, his veins singing with the same aftershocks making his muscles twitch uncontrollably. He feels right on the edge, like he's going to pop, his hips grinding into the friction of the toy and his own thighs despite how raw his dick felt.
He wants to come, God he wants to come so fucking bad, but it's going to hurt, he knows it will, he's scared of how its going to hurt but fuck if that doesn't make him want it even more. He wants it to hurt, he can't wait to feel it.
Jesus, he wants to scream with it. Wants it to rush through him and pour out through his tears and jizz.
Zemo slaps him, hardly more than a sharp tap to his cheek with his fingers, but it's so sudden and he's so close it feels like one.
He'd probably come if Zemo properly slapped him.
He looks up at him through the hair already sticking to his forehead. Zemo tilts his head curiously.
“I don't remember telling you to close these.” He says, grabbing both his knees and pulling them back apart.
He could easily resist if he wanted to, he wouldn't even have to try hard to escape, but the thought doesn't cross his mind.
"I–I can't," he whimpers, swallowing down the part of him raging at the sound, at this whole situation, and blinks up at him with wet eyes.
Zemo combs Bucky's hair back, his gaze dark and heavy, a condescending note to his smile.
"You may think that, but I know better. Trust me, James, I'm going to make you feel so, so good. You won't even know what to do with the pleasure I'm about to give you." He husks, following the promise with another slap, but this time it's harder and his fingers are colliding with his dick and Bucky jerks, squeezing his eyes shut with a groan.
He hears Zemo's knees hit the ground again, his heart stuttering between his ribs as his hot breath ghosts over his cock. He doesn't tease him like he had before, caressing his sides and planting a chaste, open-mouthed kiss in the hair just above his prick.
Bucky gasps, "Please."
He reaches for him, but Zemo snags his wrist and pins it to the bed. Bucky blinks his eyes open and finds a sharp, displeased face staring back at him.
"Hands behind your back. You will take what I give you when I give it to you, understood?"
Bucky’s eyes go wide, and for an electric moment neither one of them moves, studying the other. They're standing on a precipice, he realizes, and he has the choice to take a step back, to retreat from the unknown drop and take his walk of shame back to his room, or he can step forward and trust to land on the hidden ledge Zemo's offering, a promised salvation.
He's survived hitting the ground before, and he has even less to lose now if he misses.
Bucky moves his hands behind his back, grabbing his elbows and locking them there.
"Understood."
And when Zemo leans in, his wet tongue like a balm, soothing the burn his instruments had left behind on his weeping cock, and an apology, bringing him pleasure to forgive any lingering pain, the air leaves him in a rush and he lets go completely.
The relief is immediate.
This was gonna hurt so fucking beautifully.
▪︎$♤◇♤$▪︎
James is gorgeous when he gives himself over.
He's seen just what he can do when someone else takes the reins, but it’s different here, when the power over James’ body has been willingly handed over instead of forcibly taken.
Zemo laves his tongue over his swollen cock, switching between heavy drags that have James moaning and rolling his hips, and sealing his lips around him to suckle, swirling the tip of his tongue around his head until James curses and is coming up off the bed, pressing into the suction. He pulls off and smacks a kiss to his twitching cock, James groans, then gasps, biting his lip as he starts lapping at him again, his whole body contorting into a beautiful arch when he starts to flick his tongue, quick and light, over his glands. James trembles like a leaf under his hands and mouth, struggling for breath and making the softest sounds of pleasure that shoot straight to the erection in his slacks.
The sounds are only made all the more sweet by how hard he was trying to hold them in.
His hands explore James’ body as his tongue recites the alphabet, and when they reach his chest, thumbs enticing his nipples into perfect little peaks, he pushes into the touch and spreads his legs wider, gasping out a whiny,
“Fuh-hu-k.”
He drops a hand to his ass, hauling him closer with a punishing grip and sucking him into his mouth again.
“Don't stop.” James whispers, rolling his hips up, pulling back just enough for the suction to tug at his cock. Zemo sucks harder and he gasps.
“How long,” he starts, his breaths over wet skin making James shiver, “has it been since someone treated you the way you need? The way you deserve?”
When James doesn't answer he digs his nails into his pec and pinches him hard, skimming his teeth over his glands. James startles, gasping as his hips cant up into the touch instead of away from it, like the closet masochist he so clearly was.
“So long,” he cries. “T-too long. N-not like … not like this, though.”
“No?” James shakes his head. “When was the last time someone touched you because you wanted to be touched?” He asks, rubbing his thumb in circles over James’ foreskin.
“Wakanda.” He hangs his head, swallowing before he quietly admits. “He wouldn't touch me like this, though. Wouldn't hurt me.”
He doesn't need to explain to Zemo who he was, he'd seen the reports, had read between the lines in all the history books. He'd watched, on recovered street footage, how the Captain had stood, frozen in place and ready to take a bullet between the eyes rather than finish the fight, he'd witnessed first hand how quickly he turned on all his friends for James.
All saying his name would do is tear open a wound still weeping.
That didn't mean he couldn't prod at it a little.
“But you wanted him to, you needed him too. Didn't you?”
James nods, “Yes.” It's hardly audible, dripping in reluctance and guilt.
“And he let you down.” James chokes on a tiny sob. “Poor thing,” he coos. “Don't worry, I'm here now. I'll give you exactly what you need, pet. Hurt you in whatever ways I want.”
He spits onto James’ cock to slick the slide of his thumb and he jumps, moaning like a broken whore.
“Thank you.”
James breathing picks up just before he comes, his body shaking, hips unable to stay still despite the nails Zemo digs in in warning, thrusting unrhythmically against his tongue as he chases his release. He chokes on a moan when he catches it, his back curving into a sharp arch as he holds his breath, head rolling back as he locked up and shook for a long moment, riding the wave.
His cock throbs against his tongue, but he doesn't stop, and a litany of mewled ah’s spill from James like the tears down his cheeks as he struggles to suck in air while Zemo pushes him through his orgasm.
But James doesn't tell him to stop, doesn't try to push him away, even when he picks the violet wand up again.
Electricity buzzes through his tongue while he laps at one side of his head and shocks the other. He sucks him into his mouth, dragging the wand and his free hand up his stomach and over his nipples, shocking and twisting them into hard buds. James rocks harder onto his tongue and pushes into the pain.
He's surprised he hears it before James, the sound of the door clicking shut and keys landing on the kitchen counter, but what surprises him even more is how James freezes when he does, a look of fear flickering across his face before it's washed away with pleasure as he comes again, silent save for a tiny, startled whimper.
He looks equally as surprised as Zemo.
Perhaps, he shouldn't be. He could see how a man who enjoyed pain might like this as well, how that feeling of your stomach dropping out of fear might morph into arousal, that thrill of doing something, or someone, you shouldn't. Zemo had been a soldier, he knew what it was like to go so long without the touch of another that you feared you would go crazy. When the need to relieve oneself outweighed any fear of being caught, and while James' service was decades before his own, he couldn't imagine that particular experience differed too much.
But James hadn't been alone for all his time in Europe. Had he done this? Bit his lip and closed his eyes and simply took whatever he was given while his teammates moved about on the other side of a thin tent, none the wiser to the anguished pleasure their fearless Captain was subjecting on their stoic Sergeant.
Did James even wait that long?
If so, Zemo needed to show James who could fuck him better. He wasn't a betting man, but he would put money on his oral skills far surpassing anyone else James has had.
Footsteps echo down the hall and he doubles his efforts on James’ cock, tossing aside the wand.
He paws at James’ chest and his mouth falls open, silently panting as Zemo pinches his nipples and swirls his tongue, trembling under his touch. Even with the wet sounds of his mouth, he can hear Samuel moving just beyond the wall, walking up and down the hall before his footsteps come to a stop outside the door.
There's a knock on the wood; James thrusts so hard he rutts against his nose.
“Hey, Zemo, you in there?” Samuel calls, and he takes a minute to push James’ foreskin back with the tip of his tongue, noting how James bows over and bites down hard on his tongue, tears falling into his hair, before he sits back on his heels.
James’s gaze drops to his undoubtedly swollen mouth, and further to the saliva and slick wetting his chin. He smiles, all teeth, and James shivers, his wet and dripping cock twitching. “Is there anything I can help you with, Samuel?” He asks, voice steady.
“Have you seen Bucky? I need to talk to him, but he’s not in his room.” James shuffles at the sound of his name, angling his hips to try and grind into his thigh. His eyes don't move from Zemo's lips, an invitation if he's ever seen one.
“About your outing?”
“Among things, yeah.”
He presses his palm against James’ throbbing cock, moving it in quick circles. It’s harsh, rougher than necessary and his palm is dry, but James’ eyes flutter and his toes curl regardless, arching desperately into the hand still on his chest while his hips rock, all taught muscle and flushed skin. He reminds him of the génie du mal from this angle, a smooth, perfect composition of chiseled marble juxtaposed by obsidian sharp lines, restrained by his own coalition, gorgeously debauched and wholly unholy.
He was going to enjoy defiling him.
"I'm afraid you just missed him. James left for a walk a few minutes ago, he said he may be gone for some time."
He removes his hand and leans in again, looking up to meet James’ eyes as he rapidly flicks his tongue over him. He’s quickly rewarded with James squeezing his eyes shut, yanking his hand to his mouth and biting into his thumb, silencing himself as he grinds hard against his tongue and comes, tears streaming down his cheeks. He's more animated this time around, arching and shaking and grabbing a fistful of his own hair, head falling back as he shook, the muscles in his stomach trembling.
The thought of punishing him for moving his arms filters through his mind, but he doubts there's anything he could do that he wouldn’t enjoy, other than stopping, and he has no intentions of doing that.
Zemo grins, his jaw pleasantly sore, and trails his lips down to lick at the mess dripping from James, keeping his tongue broad and flat, watching for any signs of discomfort. And when James’ thighs twitch ever so slightly closed, face twisting up, he turns to mouth instead at the come smeared across his thighs.
He wants to hurt him, but not like that.
On the other side of the door, Samuel mumbles something he can’t hear, likely a curse, and sighs, “Alright, thanks.”
"Of course, sleep well." He speaks from James’ thigh, admiring the bruises he’d left.
"Uh, yeah, you too man." He mumbles, footsteps retreating.
The door down the hall closes, and when Zemo leans back to check on him, James looks gone. Eyes half-open and hazy like mist over a blue pine forest, his cheeks shiny and wet with tears that cut through his pink skin, lips parted in an inaudible pant.
He was gorgeous when he cried.
"On the bed, back to where you were. I think you've earned your pillows." He gently commands.
James is slower to comply this time around, but he still does as he's told, leaving a damp patch behind on the edge of the bed as he settles himself back against the pillows, raising his arms above his head and gripping the headboard unprompted. His legs fall open and with them so does the last of his resistance. Zemo takes his place between them.
He uses his thumb to play with James’ foreskin, already drawn back and exposing his dark pink cockhead, almost red with how full and engorged it was, but he slid it back and forth regardless, reveling in the whimper James couldn't quite hold back. With his other hand he grips his thigh, digging his thumb into the bruises he'd left there until James was shaking. He cants his hips up and keeps them there, a testament to the serum in his veins considering the various orgasms he's had. Zemo strokes him faster while he struggles to speak.
“What is it, darling?” He asks, finally letting up so he could run both hands up to James’ chest, scratching his way back down. “Tell me what you want.”
“Finger me,” he gasps, his head lolling back on the pillows, blinking glazed, desperate eyes up at him. “Want your–in me, in my ass. Please. Need it. Want it, please.”
He grins, “Such good manners.”
He rewards him with his mouth on his chest, tongue and teeth teasing and bruising as he saw fit while he uncapped the lube. For anyone else he’d have taken the time to warm it, but he doesn't do that for James.
He coats three fingers and squirts a fresh dollop on them that he wipes directly over his hole, smearing lube between his cheeks. James gasps at the cold, then hisses as he presses two fingers in without preamble, sinking them down to his knuckles in one forceful slide. He doesn't give James a breather before he's thrusting them in and out of him, crooking and spreading them, prying him open fast and brutally.
He leaves a trail of bruises up his throat, whispering filth into his ear that has him whining and writhing on his fingers, while he runs his free hand across every inch of James. He gropes his chest as he tugs at his earlobe, scratches over his nipples, grabs handfuls of muscular yet pillowy thighs, pinches his dick cruelly while he bites his chin hard enough that he cries out in pain and adds more slick to the fingers buried in his ass.
When he wraps his hand around his throat, more of a weighted presence than a proper hold, he shoves a third finger inside him, so it takes a minute for him to notice just how it affects him. He squeezes, fitting his palm over the jut of his adams apple and shoves and James chokes and sinks deeper, slipping further away from reality and melting into the painful pleasure. He looks so much like the young, charming man he's seen photographs of, the one who hadn't yet been touched by war.
He's enraptured by the sight.
“You should see yourself, James,” he husks, relaxing his hold and watching how James shudders. “Dick drunk without even touching mine yet. Stupid for everything I give you.” James moans and bares his throat, begging without words for more.
He could do that for him.
He makes quick work of his belt and fly, his cock bobbing between the part in his slacks when he pulls himself free. It's the first time he's touched himself, and the relief is torturous. He rutts into the crease of James’ thigh, slicking himself up with the multiple releases coating his skin, before slotting their hips together and grinding down against his cock. It's not as smooth a slide as it could be, but that was a problem for James, the friction was delicious for him, sending pleasure zipping up his spine.
It punches a groan from James, his arms flexing above his head, chin pressing into his sternum as he looks down between them with hooded, dazed eyes. Zemo can't help but look as well.
James, stripped of everything, trapped under his smaller, fully clothed form, his belt buckle and zipper digging into his skin and tugging at body hair with every roll of his hips. It sent a surge of power and lust through him, to see James so taken apart and vulnerable under his hands, moaning, hips rolling with him. The picture of desperation. Zemo's cock dwarfed his, only about the size of his thumb, but just as hard, sliding against his shaft while his drooling slit smears through James’ pubic hair.
He keeps fingering him despite the awkward angle, matching the thrusts of his fingers to that of his hips, sliding a thumb in James’ slack mouth that he suckles happily at, until he shoved his head roughly back and wrapped his hand around his throat again. It wasn't difficult to reduce him to a panting, trembling wreck.
“Please,” croaks James, in the aftermath of another, seemingly painful orgasm, “Please.”
“Tell me what you want, James."
He looks lightyears away from this bed and his body, overcome and flushed with agonizing pleasure. “Kiss me,” he breaths, staring at his mouth, "Wanna kiss you. Wanna come again. W-ant your cock in my mouth. Please, make me choke on it." They spill out of him along with fresh tears, leaving him gasping and Zemo closing his eyes to try and steady himself.
He’d wanted to know what James looked like when he finally broke, and the beautiful reality has him smiling.
Fond eyes find James staring up at him in revenant awe, like he would drop to his knees and pray if he had the brainpower left to do so, like he was a being worthy of worship. His savior.
He could be that for him.
He would let James worship him, but not now, he had other ideas for the man tonight.
He pets James’ cheek with his knuckles. "How could I say no to that? You asked so pretty, such a good, pretty boy, James." He coos, grinning when his chest hitches in a tiny cry.
His lips are chapped when Zemo kisses them, but glides easily against his, pliant to his tongue and teeth. James moans into his mouth, their lips sliding and smacking as he thrusts his fingers harder and grinds his hips in faster, tighter circles. He can tell that James is normally skilled here, and any other time his lips would be pillowy soft and moving against his with the same seamless flow he fought with. But now he tries his best to keep up, the kiss quickly becoming one-sided as he gives in, taking what Zemo gives him with cries, but no resistance.
He crooks his fingers and slams them forward hard enough that it rocks James’ body, and he chokes on his tongue, coming so hard he sobs, tears slipping steadily down his cheeks as he hiccups out tiny, pathetic pleas to stop.
He doesn't, not until his cries drown out the obscene sound of his fingers fucking into him. And when he does, he sits back to admire his work.
James is covered in sweat, his entire body shaking uncontrollably, his skin flushed and splotchy, cheeks tear-stained and his hips and thighs shining with his own release. The front of his slacks are damp with it, Zemo's precome smeared throughout the well-trimmed hair from James’ navel down to his cock. He cradles his jaw and rubs his thumb over his lower lip, swollen from his teeth, and James opens for it without question, his eyes fluttering shut, hiccups fading as he pressed down on his tongue.
He lets him have that, let's him suckle and lap at the pad for a moment to ground himself. He blinks up at the ceiling when he pulls away, eyes unfocused, brows furrowed as he makes a confused, upset noise at the loss.
Zemo smiles, razor sharp, “Up.” He helps James up on wobbling legs more akin to jello, patient as a saint as he guides him where he wants.
His release clings to his thighs, connecting them together in thick, arching webs. He can't help but swipe his fingers across slick skin and pull until the strands snap, licking it off his fingers and into James’ mouth. He moans at the taste, sucking on his tongue.
He seems confused until Zemo’s replaced him against the pillows, leaning into the headboard, legs spread with James on all fours between them, his cock pointed towards him as he lazily tugs at it.
He tosses a pillow to him, “Put it under your hips.”
James does so, slowly lowering himself onto his stomach, the pillow shoved under him and his face pressed into the crease of his thigh, his belt buckle digging into his cheek. He rocks his hips down and groans. It's too pliant to give him the friction he’d need to come again, especially as they grew more painful and difficult to reach.
He couldn't wait to watch him squirm.
He curls a hand in James’ hair and smacks his shaft against his cheek until he turns into it, mouth open and tongue out. James curls his lips over his teeth as he slips into his willing mouth, cockhead sliding across his palate until he was pressing at the back of his throat. James shudders, tracing a vein on the underside of his shaft with the tip of his tongue.
“Breathe through your nose, James,” he encourages as he pushes deeper, doing as James asked of him and shoving his head down until his nose was buried in his pubic hair and he choked, his throat constricting around him. "Ah, see? I knew you could do it,” Zemo grunts, holding him there for a moment while he collects himself, sweat beading at his temple.
James’ throat flutters around him, squeezing his glands rhythmically, and he trembles when Zemo brushes his fingers gently through his hair. “Can you taste yourself?” He asks.
James moans, the vibrations ripping through him, and his hips stutter into the pillow, tears clumping his eyelashes together. Zemo groans, rocking up into the clench of his throat and relishing in his gag. He guides James back off his shaft until he can fill his lungs, then pushes him slowly down, repeating it over and over again.
He isn't as young as he used to be, and he's denied himself for too long, so when he feels the end approaching he races to meet it. He grabs both sides of James’ head, holding him in place as he plants his feet and fucks up fast and hard into his mouth, molten heat licking at his spine with every wet, clicking ‘gluck’ his throat makes. He yanks him off hard just in time to come across his face and into his open mouth, both of them gasping for air.
He can't remember the last time he'd come that hard.
"Good boy, James. Such a good boy for me." He praises when he can, stroking his head. James whines, lapping at his softening cock and grinding into the pillow. “Yes, that's it. Go on, милая штучка, take your pleasure.” He combs his fingers through his hair, the gentlest touch he's given James since they began. "Can you do that for me, James? Spill all over my pillow like some horny teen. Did you ever do that, when you were young, hmm? Dirty up your sheets? Or was someone kind enough to give you a leg to hump?"
James doesn't seem capable of answering, shaking with oversensitivity even as his hips speed up and he begins to properly fuck the pillow.
Zemo chuckles callously.
“Is this what you do when you wake up? When I hear you making all these pretty noises on the other side of the wall? Are you fucking your pillows? My pillows?” James tips forward, tries to bury his face in Zemo's thigh, but he grabs him by the jaw and shoves him back. "Uh uh uh," he tsks. "How selfish. You're already making a mess of my bedclothes, and now you want to dirty up my pants even more? Ungrateful."
He plants his foot on the back of James’ head, forcibly shoving his face into the sheets and holding him there, the only point of contact between them. James groans like he had when he took an I-beam to the temple, and turns his face so Zemo can see it, trapping his cheeks between the bed and his heel.
It puts obvious strain on his neck, but James doesn't try to get away, seems to like the discomfort, so he leaves it there and watches as he tries to come again. He bundles the pillow under his hips, switching between bunching and folding it and shoving his hand beneath to give himself something solid to thrust into. He's curling in on himself, shoving both of his arms under him to hold the pillow in place clamped between his thighs, face pinched and cheeks wet as he panted, desperate and frustrated with the lack of friction.
Zemo sees it, the second he's found the right angle. His white-streaked face red with exertion twisting up, mouth falling open as his body convulses and he sobs out a breathy, feeble groan, as he finally spills.
He shakes, then collapses like a Marionette who's strings have been cut, and it's then, as he trembles through the aftershocks, that he finally makes noise, groaning with every panted breath.
Zemo lifts his foot and James sucks in a deeper breath.
He prods at his shoulder, and James lazily turns, blinking bleary, misty eyes up at him. He looks completely enervated, and the reality that he'd tired out this man with so little effort fills him with pride.
James doesn't move when he rises, and he doesn't resist when Zemo rolls him onto his back and yanks him towards the edge of the bed by his hips. James is a large man and entirely dead weight at the moment, so he tugs and pulls until he's where he wants, his legs dangling over the bedside and spread enough to step between.
He reaches down and pinches James’ cock, swooping down to swallow his sound of alarm, drinking in all his hitching cries as he licks into his soft and willing mouth. He shows him mercy, running his hand up his furred body until he could grab him by the jaw and give him a little shake.
James kisses him back, trembling. “Thank you,” he croaks.
Lechery drips like venom from his grin, “It was my pleasure, my sweet boy.”