THE FINAL PART (Part 3) OF MY WALKERBARON ROADTRIP SERIES WILL BE OUT TOMORROW

Nnngh yes, I would like that as well

The fact that there's no walkerbaron alpha/omega fic 😭 I want a beasty walker railing a young zemo so bad (consensual of course)

I KNOW RIGHT? I would love some Alpha Walker just being all protective over Zemo 24/7 and treating him like a princess and I would die for a flustered Omega Zemo who just cannot help but blush everytime the Alpha praises him

Zemo definetly would be like how is it possible that this man is making me all docile and passive?! He would be SO angry and pissed but at the same time like please, call me pretty again!

Also, I do believe Walker would give everything Zemo asks for, in everyway 😏

He's My Collar

Featuring snapshots of the three most important road trips in Zemo and John's journey of working together.

I take her down to somewhere drab and naughty I clear my system, I don't need no other This is my persona, secret lover (She's my collar)

WARNING. Before you move down any further, there are some disclaimers. The content below contains:

- discussion of cheating, infidelity

- unhealthy/toxic relationships, abusive behavior

- derogatory language, slut-shaming used in an intentionally derogatory manner

- attempted suicide (in slight graphic detail)

I am not advocating for any of John or Zemo's toxic behavior. Please treat your loved ones with kindness and respect. Cheating is unacceptable and should never be condoned. I will always try to explore the psychology that drives people to do different things, but this is not meant to be an accurate representation of reality.

That being said, if you choose to continue, ENJOY <3

JONES GALLOWAY ROAD, AMERICA

“You don’t have to be such a fucking bitch,” John spat. He slammed the car door shut, making the entire car rattle. Crossing over to Zemo’s driver’s seat, he yanked the door open and motioned angrily. “Get out. I’m driving.”

It made Zemo’s skin crawl - usually, John’s displays of violence would leave his spine (and his cock) tingling pleasantly, but now, directed against him, it’s been whittled down to fear. Fear, fear, fear.

“No,” Zemo ground out, unable to hide the contempt in his voice. “What are you afraid of? You’ve hidden us from her, after all.”

John’s eyes widened - Zemo had struck a nerve, and the thought gave him pleasure.

“There’s nothing between us. It’s just sex.”

“Just another word for infidelity."

"Infidelity," John repeated, but Zemo knew that he did not fully understand the implications.

Before he could say anything else, he was gripped harshly around the wrist and dragged out of the driver's seat. John shoved him into the passenger seat on the opposite side with little care, and he bit back a whimper at the sharp jolt of pain that raced up his arm. Just another few ounces of pressure and Zemo's shoulder would probably be dislocated from his body.

John looked as if he wanted to end the conversation right there, his face like thunder, dark and unbridled in a way that a man was when his honor was at stake.

“I love her,” he said.

Zemo laughed, hollow and mocking. “Love is just a four-letter word.”

The long road to John’s house in Michigan was full of splendor, with great yellow rock dunes resembling that of a desert mesa, and a smattering of lichen and bushes coating the land, so green and dense they looked like moss from afar. Zemo watched the landscape drift by, gaze unfocused. What a shame, this beautiful oil painting spoiled by the foulness of their destination.

John spoke, after half an hour of driving. Zemo wasn’t entirely looking at the clock, but the dullness of the sun told him of the time that had elapsed. “It’s pathetic how you pretend to be so morally upstanding when you whore yourself out to a married man. Hypocritical bitch. You’re just as disgusting as I am. Don’t even pretend that you give a shit about fidelity, we both know that’s not why you’re doing this.”

The words stung. It was with the vulgar, careless way that John had said it - that made him feel dirty, used, like a ratted old washcloth wrung out too many times. Zemo carefully kept his face still, so that nothing would give him away. He swallows thickly- “Care to elaborate?”

“I think you’re doing this because it makes you feel better. Because it’s always about you, isn’t it? The moon and sun revolve around Helmut Zemo. I think you’re insecure because you know I’ll always choose her over you. And you think that the fact that I keep secrets from her means that I have more to lose? That gives you power over me? Give me a break. Newsflash - if I stop giving a shit about you, Zemo, there’ll be no one else who wants you. Or will ever want you.” John snarled, his face contorted in anger. Zemo had to turn away, heart trembling in his chest. He felt like he was hyperventilating - with the anger, the fear, the humiliation of having his trust betrayed, his willing intimacy taken and strangled in John’s fists. He brought this upon himself.

“You’ll save her life over mine?” He’s addicted to pain the same way he can’t stop chewing on an ulcer or pinching a bruise.

“Won’t you do the same for your wife?” John countered.

Zemo did not answer, instead buried himself in deep thought, recalling Heike’s beautiful ideas and soulfulness, her supernal form of love that could knock Goliath to its feet. Soon, he had no more bitter recrimination left in him. John sat beside him in morose silence, anger dampened by Zemo’s tepidness.

After a while, the urge to speak became too great, “If she and I were held at gunpoint, who would you save?” The question was childish. Zemo asked with the tenuous expectation of someone who couldn’t quite accept what they had heard and doubled back to demand a different answer.

“I’ll save you both.”

“You can only save one.”

“Then I’ll save her since you’re experienced enough to get yourself out of the situation.”

“We’re both unconscious.”

“I can’t answer this question in a way that makes you happy, Zemo.”

The hardness in John’s eyes made Zemo pause and bite down everything that he had wanted to say. There would be no more discussion here.

“I know,” he confessed, feeling oddly magnanimous. “That’s why I asked.”

John Walker couldn’t be fully trusted to protect him - this fact Zemo understood from the very beginning. John Walker had been a tool to be used, playing the part of shield and sword to perfection.

Trust is quixotic in nature. John still had dangerous attachments to others in his life, attachments that could put Zemo’s life in peril. The convenient removal of Lemar sent the already untethered man afloat, spiralling further into his orbit, and if he managed to put a bigger schism between John and his wife...

Zemo itched to crawl over John, rip those clothes off him and wrap his legs around his hips, burying his nails into skin and muscle. He laid his palm on the warm glass of the car window, imagining it to be all around him, just staying there forever in the soft afterglow. Just like that one night in a Pakistan motel, where they made love over the rough sheets, uncaring of the chill or the consequences of their actions - single-mindedly sating their bloodthirst and hunger and nothing else. John had fallen asleep holding him close, one hand circling the column of his throat, another splayed across his soft belly, as if at any second Zemo could fall off the face of the earth.

He fell asleep to a nightmare that showed him: once those hands were lifted, his intestines would spill out from his stomach, the blood would bubble like a geyser from his slashed throat.

And when morning came, he wished that he could fall into a dreamless sleep forever. As if in a daze, he had reached for the gun in the bedside drawer, only to be pulled back into a cocoon of warmth.

“Stay,” John had said, voice muffled from burying his face into Zemo’s hair. His exhales were warm, lulling Zemo back to sleep like the gentle rumbling of a steam engine.

John Walker was strong enough to save him from himself, and that made him valuable - Zemo wished he had the foresight to see this from the very beginning.

There’ll be no one else who wants you. Or will ever want you.

That’s why you’re mine. Mine, mine, mine. I will always have a pound of your flesh.

Before he knew it, the sky was falling grey. They were passing under a big storm cloud. The wind whipped up the powdery dirt around them, whooshing and wailing like phantoms in a blossoming sandstorm, only to be struck down by the fat raindrops that pelted down from the sky. John slowed the car down and heaved a sigh, drumming his fingers on the dashboard as they plowed through the muddied road.

From the squelching beneath them, Zemo could not tell how many microscopic life forms or frogs or snails that they had rolled over, leaving a trail of destruction.

“Fuck!” John cursed loudly when the car spluttered to an abrupt stop, causing Zemo to jump in his seat. He sat still and silent as John ran out into the downpour, and simply watched the water droplets on the window gather in mass, congregating, then roll down the glass. If he were to glance outside at the hazy cliff edges, his vision would go fuzzy with the mad frenzy at which rain was pelting down - so many that they stayed suspended in his vision as one thunderous shower of water, changing in direction as the wind blew. With the rest of the world tuned out to a soft hum, he was left alone with his thoughts.

Zemo hadn’t realized that he drifted off until a loud groaning of metal made him jolt, followed by John’s groan. “Jesus fucking Christ. Now, of all places.”

He rolled down the windows slightly - “What’s going on?”

John soon emerged into view, his hair and clothes soaked and plastered to his skin. “Get out. Car broke down, so we’re walking.”

Zemo wrinkled his nose, but complied nonetheless, knowing that John was in a foul mood, one that meant he should be best left alone. He left his coat in the car, not wanting the extra weight or the soggy feeling of it. The rain trickled into his hair, drawing a wet, cold line down his scalp. His cheek stung, giving the phantom feeling of being slapped, even though he knew it was just from the raindrops. Trying his best to ignore the discomfort of his clothes steadily getting wetter, he went to the trunk and helped John retrieve the essentials - the vibranium shield and Zemo’s important documents stored in a waterproof bag.

“How long will this take?” He risked a question.

“An hour.”

They began walking, and with the water dripping down into his shoes, his pants turning wet and stiff, Zemo’s initial indifference was starting to sour. He resisted the urge to kick away a stray pebble, not wishing to devolve into the same brand of childishness that John retired to once all options were exhausted.

Zemo was starting to shiver. “We should have stayed in the car,” he thought aloud.

“Go back if you want,” John said with cold indifference.

“Walker,” Zemo moved even before meaning to, fisting John’s shirt in his hands. “I’d advise you to watch your tone.”

John cocked his head. “You’re the one who started it.”

“If I recall, earlier, you said that I was whoring myself out,” Zemo said each word delicately, dragging it out with excruciating slowness and waiting for each one to sink in.

“You never had a problem with it in bed,” John laughed. The sound tore through Zemo like a bullet. If it were anything else he could have stayed indifferent. But this was his naked body being pinned down like a butterfly specimen in a dissection class, exposed for everyone to see. He let John touch him, degrade him, under the unspoken condition that what went on behind closed doors stayed there. He had never expected this. If John said these things now, what would he let slip in front of Contessa? Hammer? Starr? In a fit of fury, he might announce everything that they did together. Or perhaps he already had, in a conspiratorial voice- guess what I found out about Zemo? Perhaps Zemo had been the butt of the joke the entire time, unaware as the rest of the Thunderbolts stole glances at him and pictured him on his knees.

John took a step forward, uncaring that they would collide, and Zemo’s feet shuffled back involuntarily to keep the distance between them. In terror, he tried to pull his hand away, but John had a vice grip on his wrist. He reached out for Zemo’s throat with his other hand, snarling- “You can’t do anything to me.”

It all happened in a blur after that.

His palm stung. John was stumbling away, broken out of his violent stupor, one hand on his reddening cheek. The relief poured into Zemo, filling his lungs with oxygen.

“Oh god,” John sobbed. He curled in on himself, a wretched, broken thing. The rainwater was still running down his face, so it was only when he covered his face with his hands that Zemo realized he was crying. “Oh my god, I… ”

“Stay away from me,” Zemo said. His own voice was hazy and far away. Almost mechanically, he pulled a knife from his boot and pressed it to his wrist. Droplets of blood beaded up on the surface of his skin, a thin bracelet of ruby crystals. “Don’t move closer.” What the hell am I doing?

“Stop!” John wailed, his voice nearly unrecognizable in its desperation. “Please, please, I won’t move so stop!”

Zemo was so tempted then, to tear the knife down his arm anyway, just to demonstrate to John the price of broken promises, of fractured trust. He gritted his teeth in preparation for it, but… oh, fate, godforsaken fate, had the blade slip from trembling fingers. And life had a way of creating its comedy, because staring at the dirty knife on the ground, Zemo felt too tired to pick it up again.

Saved by a fucking tremor.

“John,” he called weakly, and let himself fall. The impact never came.

---

When he came to, he was somewhere warm and dry, dressed in a clean cotton bathrobe. The fireplace crackled away merrily in the corner of the room.

“This is a small inn. I took a detour from our route,” John said. He approached Zemo cautiously, waiting for silent permission before offering a glass of water.

“I’m sorry,” John said again, his voice small. “I really am. I shouldn’t have said those things. They weren’t true. I’ve never, ever thought of you that way. And I lost control of my strength and my temper...”

“Did you tell anyone?”

John looked up, startled.

“Did you tell anyone else that you and I - that I was a-” The word, meant to mock, lodged painfully in his throat. Zemo looked away, unwilling to let John see his weakness.

“No. Never. I have never told anyone else about us. I know that after today, you probably won’t believe me again. But please just… take my word for it that I have never told a single soul. And I may have complained about you to others, but never like that. I never used that against you, never will.”

John let out a pained sigh. “God, I sound like such an asshole right now. We can stop this arrangement, I mean it. I understand if you don’t want to do it anymore.”

“Look at you, being so serious, trying so hard.” Zemo murmured, trying to relieve his gnawing discomfort. “Are you forgetting? It’s just sex.”

John didn’t respond. He reached for Zemo's wrist, stroking the bandaged skin tenderly, and when he looked up, Zemo was shocked to see that his blue eyes were wet with unshed tears.

John’s touch burned, searing his bare skin. Zemo squirmed and trembled from his ministrations, his body vibrating like a plucked violin string. “Don’t. Don’t try to be... better for me. Save that effort for the woman you love.” I don’t deserve it.

He leaned forward to lick the tears off John’s lips as they started to spill over, letting the salt hit the back of his throat like a whisky shot. “Hurt me. I can take it.”

No guilt.

No strings attached.

That’s the reason you keep coming back to me, and not anything else.

Don’t spoil what we have, John. If you tire of me and run away, who will be there to save me from myself?

You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you’ve never had the courage to commit.

“Don’t apologize to me. I hold no grudges against you for what you did. We merely exploited each other. Selflessness is not in our nature unless it’s to those who we truly love. For them, we can do anything.”

“Yeah.”

“Olivia, do you truly love her?”

“I do.”

Zemo could read John like a book by this point, and he knew that it was the truth. His chest felt light from the hope of seeing young love flourish, and he smiled a genuine smile that made John flush red in embarrassment. Yet it felt like a needle had been plunged into his heart. It was a reminder of things that he could never possess.

“Heike was just like that. We two can only hurt each other, but people like them will always make you a better version of yourself.”

“You know, I feel that Olivia fell in love with a version of me. A version that’s no longer there, or buried so deep that I can’t dig it out. I'm just an imposter. And now…”

“Now you don’t feel worthy?”

John’s eyes widened. “Yes,” he said breathlessly. “Yeah, how did you know?”

Because I once felt the same way. And I wasted my time trying to figure out the answer, while death stole her away from me.

“Give her that best version of you.” Zemo pressed a kiss to the shell of his ear. “Your home is not a battlefield, leave the violence here with me. And when I’m gone, take it to your grave.”

---

“Zemo, I’ve been thinking...” John lit a cigarette. “...Is it really just sex?”

Zemo turned the question over and over in his mind. “It’s codependency,” he said carefully.

“That’s a big term that I don't understand.”

“A man can’t part from his preferred choice of drug, for the withdrawal will destroy him. That’s what we are.”

“Addiction, you mean.” John took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke slowly. Zemo watched the way his throat bobbed, mouth feeling dry all of a sudden.

“Something like that.”

“You know, an asthmatic guy can’t part from his inhaler either.”

“In this metaphor, are we the asthma or the inhaler?”

“Hey, I tried my hand at being philosophical. It’s more of your thing. It's because you’re a smartass who likes showing off, and you’re also a bitch,” John retorted without any real heat.

“I think the word you’re looking for is an affliction.”

“Like I said, smartass.” John put the cigarette out, leaned forward, and gave his forehead a playful little flick.

---

John left in the middle of the night. Zemo heard his footsteps down the stairs and saw from his window a car pulling out of the driveway. Tomorrow John will greet his wife on the porch, and inform her that unfortunately, his colleague couldn’t make it.

When the roar of the engine had finally faded away, Zemo allowed himself to cry - deep, rattling sobs muffled into whimpers.

He cannot bring himself to hate a woman whom John loves.

He cannot bear to separate them.

From midnight into the morning, he laid there paralyzed, cold and alone, clawing at the cut in his wrist until it bled, wishing there were strong arms around him.

My ending thoughts: Is it really just sex? (Hint: It's not)

This is the official end of the three-part road trip series. Thank you all for staying till the end. I will be uploading all 3 parts to AO3 for easier access as well :)

Inspiration and images were taken from:

Zion National Park, United States (Utah)

Black Canyon of the Gunnison, United States (Colorado)

Trollstigen, Norway

Transfăgărășan road, Romania

Karakoram Highway, China-Pakistan

Images were taken from Google, not owned by me.

Me just looking at all the posts that are going ‘WHERE ARE THE FANFICS???? I want to read the fics ’

And just sobbing because I’m writing a long ass fic that I can’t upload anywhere because the ship is just too illicit

In memory of Sokovia

A little oneshot I thought about while writing Zemo- I’ve decided to put it here.

Zemo tells an audience of children all about Sokovia, how the earth there was rich and matted, and all around them tall grass would spin out crackling sounds.

That if you walk far enough into the rising mountains, till you could only see the tops of the low terrace houses and the smoke spiraling up lazily from your house chimney, and you closed your eyes: you’d hear the rise and fall of hissing grass, they’d turn in huge ocean waves as the wind blew.

He would name all the mountain ridges, from the snowy peaks, all the way to the parts where the ice melted and trickled down into streams, gathering into cold rivers and bubbling springs. The water would be a pale green from afar, and a hazy yellow up close, reflecting the small brown rocks that lined the bottom.

He’d tell them that where the river mouth was, the water was flowing clear and crisp, and children used to drink from it and catch tadpoles. A kilometer down, where the bustle of the town was, the river would be sun-warmed and algae infested, swirling lazily around and releasing the deep grassy perfume of the hills, saturating the air. In summer this was even more so.

When the plum and apple trees were ripe you could pick the fruits as they came bobbing down the river. The children would stand at the banks and fish them out with long nets, and even those that were partially rotten would be taken back home.

When the sun rose you could hear the song of the Stieglitz- the goldfinches, all across the valley. And the Gimplel with their red bellies and the Blaumeise, the rotund little scoundrels with their small beaks.

There’d be roads of crunching gravel and houses built on hills, stacked up like a mound of uneven books, the steps and rooftops cascading down into flatland where the bridge crosses the river and meets land.

You could harvest berries from the mountains, any berry was the right one, all were ripe and burst into sugary water in your mouth. You could pluck them straight from the stems, collect bunches and bunches, eating and spitting out the seeds as you went.

When the apple flowers bloomed he would wear crowns of them in his hair, spun by the maids that worked for his mother and father. They smelt delicate and sweet, like roses but without the dampness, and just a hint of fresh apple skins. When he was young he had thought they were cherry blossoms, for they looked so much alike. And he would tell the children in a conspiratorial whisper, that these were better than cherry blossoms, for they flourished for months and months instead of a mere week.

And then the children, in wonder and amazement, would tug at his sleeves, asking him to point out his country on the map. Zemo’s gaze would drift away, his face would settle into the mould of its suffering... Sokovia was gone from the maps, would only exist in his memory.

Slowly, the children would see that he was drifting away, they would lose interest and run away to play together, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Sitting alone, Zemo thinks of fires burning and towns flying, snow melting under tremendous heat. He remembers water evaporating, berries and flowers crushed under stampeding feet, and the smell of smoke. The grass is no more, the roads and the rooftops are no more, they’ve been covered by wet concrete.

Lmao I was laughing nervously in the theatre because I was like- guys, that was a CHOICE 👁👁

I saw someone pointing this out....(sorry I didn't know who you are anymore if you saw this please notify me) this must be part of Simu Liu's fault too because he literally can't take his eyes off of Tony Leung on set he was so star struck 🤣. Simu HE is your dad in the movie please.

I’m going to write another (possibly last?) WalkerBaron story soon, this one set 5 years after the events of He’s My Collar.

First chapter of my Shang Chi/Wenwu fic is on AO3.

Uhhhhhhh if you ship, check it out.

If you don’t, don’t come for me.

Oh boy it’s a slow burn and it’s gonna be a long one.

There are many who have the same motivations as Zemo. His family probably wasn’t the only one hurt by the avengers. What sets him apart is that he chose violence.

There are many who also have the same motivations as Karli. After all, displaced people are all over the world. What sets her apart as well, is that she chose violence.

Bruh, yes

if Bucky calls Zemo doll, then John calls him princess, send tweet.