Imagine Zemo helping you shave. (Male!Reader)
You scowled at the mirror as you rubbed the pads of your fingers over your jaw. You were overdue for a shave. You rummaged around the bathroom and only succeeded in finding a straight razor. You had never used one before and you didn’t feel like accidentally cutting up your face in the attempt. You opened the door to see Zemo sitting in the living room. “Is there somewhere I can run to nearby to pick up a razor?” you asked. In your haste to prepare for the mission, you’d forgotten to pack your own.
Zemo looked up from his book and his sharp gaze appraised you for a long moment, taking in your still damp from the shower hair and loose jeans before he answered. “There is a razor in there.”
You felt your ears go warm. You couldn’t tell if it was because of the casual way he stared at you or simply your embarrassment at admitting you didn’t know something. “Believe it or not, not every person is well-versed in the use of straight razors.”
“Do you require assistance?” His dark eyes held your gaze steadily, his book still open in his lap.
“You don’t have to- I can just go buy a disposable one,” the words seemed to get stuck on each other, your ears going from warm to hot at his casual offer.
Zemo set his book aside and stood to meet you, “I will not harm you.” As though he could sense your lingering doubts, and knowing him he probably could, he added, “Besides, I doubt your companions would take kindly to you leaving me to my own devices.“
You let out a sigh through your nose, “Fine. Lead the way.” You pushed your damp hair back from your forehead as Zemo busied himself in the bathroom, sitting yourself down on the edge of the substantial bathtub.
“You’re sure you know what you’re doing?” you asked as you rubbed some oil he had given you over your jaw.
Zemo raised an eyebrow, glancing over his shoulder at you. “I said I would not harm you.” His words did little to calm the jump in your heartbeat as he approached you with the straight razor in hand, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You told yourself it was because a dangerous man was approaching you with something he could use to slit your throat if he wanted to, though you couldn’t deny the almost imperceptible hitch in your breath as he nudged his way to stand between your legs and gently tilted your chin up towards him. You guessed by the way that he paused that he hadn’t missed it either. He spread the shaving cream across your jaw and you tried to ignore the heat you could feel coming off of him at this proximity. You could smell his cologne and you wondered if he could smell the scent of shampoo and soap that lingered on your own skin. Your hands were folded loosely by your lap but every so often when he moved you could feel him brush against you, and your grip on your own fingers would tighten.
“Are you nervous?” he asked in a low voice, his eyes briefly flicking from his task to meet your gaze. If you had had your way, you would have tried to stare past him at the wall but standing before you, he took up almost the entirety of your vision. The razor met your cheek, his other hand gently but firmly angling your jaw as he saw fit. A small swath of shaving cream came away and he swirled the blade in a cup of hot water to clean it. His movements were precise, as you expected, though the gentleness took you by some surprise.
You swallowed as he came back to your face again. Your own voice was low, barely more than a murmur, not wanting to move too quickly lest he cut you. “Not used to having someone else do this,” you admitted. It felt like the safest answer, given the circumstances. There was something so casually intimate about his hands on your face, your throat bared to him while he stood between your legs, it made it difficult to think straight. Despite your better judgement, there was something intoxicating about Zemo that you couldn’t quite ignore no matter how hard you tried.
He arched a brow ever so slightly at your response. “That’s not an answer.” Another smooth, steady drag of the razor down your cheek. You could feel his breath wafting over the newly exposed skin along your jaw, smelling faintly of whiskey. You suppressed a shudder.
“Close enough,” you murmured, briefly meeting his gaze.
Zemo let out a small huff of a breath, a muted chuckle. You decided you liked the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled. Neither of you seemed entirely willing to break the spell of quiet that had fallen over the bathroom. Another few minutes passed, the silence broken only by the gentle sounds of the razor running over your skin or the bubbling of the basin as he rinsed the foam off the blade, before he spoke again. “Hold still.”
His thumb traced over your bottom lip and you sucked in a breath at how tender the touch felt. Zemo’s eyes snapped to yours, his face hovering only a few inches above yours. There was an intensity to his expression that made you want to look away until your stomach stopped being filled with butterflies, but you were frozen in place. Zemo simply blinked at you, his head tilting ever so slightly to one side. Then he broke the eye contact to resume his task, his thumb gently pressing against your lip as he dragged the razor over your chin. You were almost certain he could hear your heart pounding in your chest. He tilted your head again and you felt his fingers linger as they brushed over your pulse point. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to whimper or pin the man against the wall.
Leave it to Zemo to reduce you to a barely contained mess over something as simple as a shave.
He reached past you to rinse the razor again, his face drifting impossibly close to yours, and you decided you couldn’t take it anymore. If he wanted to play games then you were going to give as good as you could get. You surged upwards, hands coming up to hold his face as your lips met in a desperate kiss, pushing Zemo until his back met the wall. Judging by the speed by which one of his hands went to grip the back of your head to hold you there, while the other snaked around your waist, you guessed that he’d been anticipating your actions. He tasted of expensive whiskey and mint. He tugged at the hair at the nape of your neck as your teeth grazed his lower lip. His stubble scratched against your palm as you moved to tangle your fingers in his neatly arranged hair. His hand at your waist snuck under the hem of your shirt to explore, his fingers cool enough to raise goosebumps across your searing skin.
At last, you pulled away for air, your cheeks flushed and still smeared with the odd bit of shaving cream as you blinked at him, trying to process what you had just done. Zemo was smirking at you. Some of his hair had fallen across his forehead but even pinned against the wall, he still managed to look maddeningly unruffled.
“You wanted this,” you breathed out.
His tongue darted out to wet his lips and the hand that had been at your hip hooked itself into your belt, pulling you closer as Zemo leaned forward. His breath was hot against your throat and his lips brushed against your ear, his voice barely more than a whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “Apparently I wasn’t the only one.”
