I’m Going To Write Another (possibly Last?) WalkerBaron Story Soon, This One Set 5 Years After The

War of Hearts

Stay with me A little longer I will wait for you Shadows creep And want grows stronger Deeper than the truth

Zemo helps John Walker put on his combat gear for an upcoming mission.

John stretches out the taut piece of fabric. It’s inlaid with kevlar (even a supersoldier goes down when they take a bullet), slightly thinner than usual for mobility’s sake. He turns to Zemo, raising an eyebrow. The man in question was tugging a pair of boots from the trunk where his uniform was.

“It will do the job, but the bullet will still hurt.” Zemo remarks. Often, when shot, the pain will not register fast enough. John had experienced it before. He would feel a blinding fire in his gut, and his feet would still be moving even when his body crumpled and folded under the hit. And lying there, in shock, he had thought- I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot. Over and over, blood spilling out of him, before it registered that he’s been hit again by another bullet. 

“Just don’t freeze,” Zemo reminds him again.

“It’ll hurt just as much as being shot normally, just that the bullet won’t penetrate. You’re betting that I can handle the pain?” John knows he could, but it’s fun to rile Zemo up.

“You will handle it.”

“And if I come back with a shit ton of internal bleeding because of your negligence?”

Before he knew it, Zemo was centimeters away from him, gloved hand digging viciously into a blackened bruise on his torse. John grits his teeth to prevent himself from making any sound. Zemo leans in, close enough that John could feel the heat of his breath and inhale the delicate scent of cherry blossom tea. “Then take it as your punishment, and don’t be so foolishly careless again.”

Zemo takes a step back from him, fixes him with a searching gaze. John inhales slowly, recognising these moments as the eye of the storm, the silence and bated breath before thunder cracks the sky. He has learnt to treasure them. “And- I will not be negligent around you,” Zemo says, voice catching in his throat. Then he says, a faint sterness in his voice that told John it was a reminder- “Not in anything I do.”

The words what do you mean are on the tip of his tongue, but John presses his lips into a tight line. He doesn’t want Zemo to spell out the obvious for him- attachment is negligence as well.

Zemo seems to be pleased by whatever minuscule reaction (or lack of) that he showed. The man nods to himself, satisfied, as he turns away and reaches for John’s shield.

John puts on his suit with quick, practiced tugs. Then he buckles the buttons, alternating red and black, one by one in a slanted line down his chest; he squats down, yanking on his sleek combat boots. When he looks up, Zemo is observing him silently, head cocked to one side. John freezes, wondering if Zemo had been standing there the whole time, motionless, looking at his every movement. He reaches for his laces by the side table, but Zemo’s hands find his. 

Oh. when had he taken off his gloves?

Wordlessly, Zemo lifts him from the floor. John could smell the leather still lingering on his bare fingers, and the softness of his touch, calloused only on the middle finger where a stylus rests. These are hands that hold heavy gold chalices and silver letter-openers, sharp as a knife. And they stamp royal carvings into hot wax, sealing letters that will decide the fates of millions.

John’s blood turns molten all of a sudden, pumping hard and fast under his skin. He wanted to spill blood all over those dainty fingers, and knowing Zemo, it could be golden ichor. He imagined it crusted into fingernails, could nearly taste it hot on his tongue, war paint befitting of royalty. 

He lifts Zemo’s hand, holding that wild gaze, and plants a chaste kiss on the back, chapped lips sliding against soft skin. “Baron,” he says, reveling in the shaky inhale that he hears.

Zemo’s eyes are wide, pupils dilated. His hand hovers over where John’s heart is. After a few seconds Zemo retracts his hand as if burnt and glances away, with the expression that John has come to associate with cornered and run. But he does not take a step back, doesn’t even make up some bullshit excuse to run away. 

John knows that neither shock nor fear can make Zemo come to a standstill. So here, there is something inexplicably different that has pinned him to place like a dried butterfly to a corkboard.

“Hold still.”

He watches, mesmerised, as Zemo sinks to his knees and begins to lace up his boots, fingers working deftly to thread string through metal rings.

When the job is done, Zemo straightens again and looks at him square in the eyes. Fully clothed and ready for combat, something deeply calm has settled into John, reducing the world around him to a gentle hum. “US Agent,” Zemo says. His expression is not loving or warm, but his brows are furrowed in worry and John knows it’s the closest thing to kindness he’ll get.

“I’m here,” John says. It might have been a trick of the light, or his brain hallucinating some source of comfort, but he could’ve sworn there was a smile on Zemo’s lips just then, for barely a second.

But walking away and out of the equipment room, he hears a soft good luck behind him, and knows there’s no doubt about it.

I can't help but love you Even though I try not to

Holy shit. Holy fudging shit. This is so good and poetic. WTF. Do you have golden fingers because this is amazing. WHAT THE ACTUAL HECK THIS IS SO GOOD? AHHHHHH??!?! Dude i- i just... i... THE WAY YOU USE WORDS IS AMAZING DUDE I WISH I COULD WRITE LIKE YOU

Last Rites. Zemo. Angst. His fate is inevitable; no matter where he goes, he is driven by loss.

Two roads diverge and in one moment, Zemo and the Baron split apart. There’s Zemo on one side of the great divide, watching his whole world crumble around him. There’s the Baron who said fuck the mission and took his family on holiday someplace far away and quiet; he hears the breeze sighing in the long grass and holds his wife just a little closer.

What could’ve been. What could’ve been. What could’ve—

It’s a sigh like a dying curse and Zemo hears it every moment of every day. It flavors his coffee and wraps around his ankles to bind him in his cell. It tells him listen, when she said she felt so scared, what did you say?

(I’ll be home soon)

But there is no home, not anymore, not since he stood on the threshold of the end of — not the world but his world— and saw the ruin of everything. What is a man without a country? What is a man who smiles despite the knife in his gut?

The Baron watches the seasons change across the wasteland and he sees his son grow up. He says all of this is yours, every stone and every blade of grass. He hears about the city’s fall and is somehow unsurprised; Avengers are synonymous with ruin, with trails of destruction left behind while they retreat to their tower and lick their wounds. The Baron says all this is yours, every smear of blood and every shadow; when I die— not if, but when— don’t follow. Build a better world. He says— he says— but all his words are wasted.

Our father, who art the source of malice, gathers every thread and pulls us close. We pray the devils take us, for they at least are honest; they at least have made no promises.

And here comes Zemo with a face like a summer storm, wild and torn by thunder, all his ghosts around him like a mantle and if he smiles it’s only because he senses his nearness to the other side. He walks like a man who has nothing to lose because he doesn’t — his heart is gone, all the bones of his dear ones buried in the earth far from home because the family crypt was crushed and all its many sleeping dead thrown about like so much straw. Here comes Zemo with his gloves and his coat and even if he hides his face his eyes are still there, dark and piercing, every blink an indictment and every tear a curse.

Here comes Zemo, the trinity of ghosts: father, son and spouse; he sees the other side and doesn’t wonder why couldn’t it be that way because there is no time; he sets his plans in motion and shepherds them to the outcome he wants (the outcome he needs; he has the grief of love, of lovers, of someone who’s only ever known violence as a tool, who doesn’t fear death or pain but only the shards of his shattered heart that pierce through him)

Our father, who shows us the back of his hand, who curdles our milk and picks the lashes from our eyelids, our father, who shows us a door that’s locked and barred—

The Baron sees his people scattered, broken; he traces the threads of their dissolution back to the source, which is the Tower; he hears their cries for mercy and for aid and somehow, somehow, he is the last of their royalty, the last one with enough pull to do something (enough money squirreled away, at least, and the implacable cruelty needed to show no mercy). He says I’ll be home soon and goes to carry out his duty. If I let it go, if I let it go,

(We’ll be together)

We will never know peace. We will never know the satisfaction of looking at the stars without wondering who will descend to tear us apart.

When the Baron returns with blood on his hands (how they fought, but cleverness and tech and all the money in the world are no match for the calculated rage of a man who kills to protect, who will ruin angels to tear their prying eyes from those he loves)— when the Baron returns—

(I’m home)

—it’s to a quiet house and blood on the walls; the last of those he loved now dying on the floor and there’s a message. There’s always a message. You couldn’t protect us. So many dead, and when we looked to you, you’d fled. And then you left to chase your dragons, but the wolves slipped through your door. The Baron doesn’t cry. He can’t cry. He buries his dead and closes up his country house; he will find those responsible and share his suffering.

Our father, who maketh us to lie in green fields, who draws the stars down to drive them through our flesh. Our father, who pulls fate’s threads and cuts them free. Our father, king of filth and decadence.

Zemo lets his beard grow and thinks about what could have been. It’s a petty, weak indulgence and it makes him ache; it makes his hands twitch with the need to hold a gun again, to act, to move. He reads, he listens to the radio, he waits. He pushes the sleeves of his hoodie up and leans against the bars.

Zemo has a visitor. He sees his way out and he smiles his crooked smile.

Our father.

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.

Dude, your words flow really well, and the tone of this is perfect! I love the last paragraph, especially. John being wary of thunder, his mind running on overdrive, Zemo calming him down- AHHHH so cute and tender

The fact that he’s questioning himself... I sense that there’s something more to it 🥺 (people do tend to doubt themselves a lot when they’re around Zemo, that’s something I’ve noticed. He somehow has the ability to turn against everything you’ve ever known.)

I love it, wanna read more of your writing!🤩 I think you can definitely bring something awesome and new every time you do a revision/edit.

🍀🍀🍀

Vulnerable.

a Walkerbaron excerpt from one of my Wips.

it's past midnight, I have no idea what this is.

Their bodies laid softly as the rainy day comes as invitation to rest, to relax, to let the ever steady moment expand into dreamy poetic wonderings. It was still early when the clouds gave of their rain to the grass and trees, when the road became alive with more splashes than the eyes could appreciate. Yet the rain drops they brought such a soothing sound, a natural melody every bit as beautiful as a mother's soulful hum.

Even if he wanted to be at peace, his treacherous mind does not stop tormenting him, making him jump with every thunder, telling him that why he lowered his guard, that he's in danger.

John sinks into it, when the rain drops hit the windows he breathes, and time seems to stop, he feel it.

And no, he doesn't mean the fingers brushig his hair slowly, with such a beautifully tenderness, he means the feeling that those fingers provoke in him.

He feels vulnerable.

But was it right? He didn’t feel like it wasn’t, it didn’t feel wrong, so was he supposed to be worried about it?

What was the worst? The feeling of being vulnerable or knowing it wasn’t wrong?

Desolation tragedy, but was it meant to be?

“John, be quiet,” was whispered in his ear, he felt the man’s chest rumble as he spoke.

John frowned in silence, confused, did he say something?

“I didn’t say anything?” he says, but it sounds like an ask.

“Your mind, my love—” Zemo’s fingers moved to his forehead, and with little touches he says: “— is to loud and heavy for you, hush it.”

“How?” John genuily asks, he doesn’t know what to do, how to be in peace, calm.

“I want you to focus on my heartbeat,” he said, and looked down at his lover, “Could you do that?” Zemo’s voice is so sweet John swears it taste like honey when he speaks.

He nods, and moves to put his ear over Zemo's heart, his chest rises and falls gently, and the fabric of his sweater is soft; "cashmere wool", Zemo had told him before when he asked, greedy bastard.

Zemo's gentle caresses on his hair were still present, only this time his fingers reached to his face, drawing the lines of John's forehead, as if he wanted to calm that brow at all costs, which John felt appeased to do, letting his features relax underneath those gentle touches.

Bro this needs more attention, SO CUTE

Sirene

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

Le notti a cercare buone stelle

Ritrovarsi in mezzo a strane sorti

Quanto siamo storti

HARKANSA PASS, ROMANIA

John loosened his grip on the steering wheel, leaned back into the leather-clad seat with a sigh. He took his eyes off the road briefly to look at Zemo from his peripheral vision. The wind was whipping through the man's hair, throwing it up into a wild brown halo, strands nearly shining golden where it was struck by the sun. Zemo's face had regained some color since their trip started two hours ago. The shadows had faded from his cheekbones and under his eyes, leaving the barely noticeable smattering of freckles behind. He had started slouching slightly in his seat like a cat, squinting against the setting sun.

The trees were whizzing past them, behind them, in front of them. John had wanted to track some of them down with his eyes, a stray bird there, an oddly shaped trunk there, but they sped away as soon as they came, leaving him disoriented and dizzy.

He asked if Zemo was comfortable, and that seemed to rouse the man out of some daydream, who had to blink several times to get the dazed look out of his eyes and process John's question, before nodding. Zemo seemed to struggle with himself, lips opening and closing wordlessly a few times, then came a hesitant question after a while, torn away by the wind, "Do you need me to take over?"

"At the next stop," John replied. The next stop would be a few hours away, but Zemo didn't need to know that. For good measure, he reached over and gave Zemo a little pinch on the back of the neck just to see the man squirm. "Thanks for asking."

"... Likewise."

John tilted his head slightly to make sure Zemo could see his smile.

The road around them was wide enough only for two cars, and that was enough since not many cars came around this road. The sun was setting, the clouds were low. They were paper-thin wisps in the distance, but dark sinking little pieces of debris above his head that looked like concrete rubble. They were so solid and impenetrable that the sunlight clung to their edges, never sinking in, making them a beautiful red. John thought beautiful, beautiful, beautiful over and over again till he thought he would pass out with the wonder of it all, the landscapes he imagined as a child.

In front of them, the mountains were falling away, the sides of the high cliffs were fading, the layers and layers of dirt and rock giving away. John found himself almost missing what had gone, the stupid little yellow trees perched on the side of cliffs, or the huge huge walls beside him as he drove, like they were carving a path through, and how the rays would slip out from the peaks of the cliffs, would splatter the hood of the car in yellow, and they would play with him, mischievous, slipping away into complete grey one second, and blinding him like a laser the next.

Yellow, yellow, like autumn, stretching up and up so high and high that if he lifted his head up all the way to see the tops, he would lose sight of the road. And he'd be so enraptured and hypnotized, eyes held up to the sky, not paying attention to their direction anymore, maybe not even caring.

The road swerved left and right in staccato in front of him.

"It's odd, John, to choose a road like this..." Zemo says.

"It's odd?"

"Not many roads are like this one. Not many roads, especially not roads to deliver vibranium..." Zemo murmured, trailing off. For a moment, the illusion was shattered and John was reminded of the six kilograms of vibranium in their trunk, his soon-to-be shield.

"Maybe odd wouldn't be the right word for it," The other man rectified. He was smiling. "Magnificent is a more apt description."

So the walls were falling now. Beside him, Zemo sits up a bit straighter, leans forward in anticipation. The moment their view clears, beside him, he hears a shaky gasp of wonder- beautiful, echoing his own thoughts.

Zemo looked like a child seeing fireworks for the first time.

It took a few seconds for him to realize that he had forgotten to revel in his own wonder and joy, or throw up his own love to the light, that first experience, the wonder and mystery beyond every singing of it, as your world opened up and drew you in; one gate closing and one gate opening, in a little bubble, a snow globe. He had missed it. He had missed the half-second that would lift the air from his lungs in a roar.

It wasn't the splendid view that imprinted itself into his retinas, it was another man's joy.

He tastes something bittersweet at the back of his throat.

He put his gaze back to the road, continuing to drive, but then Zemo tugged at him insistently. "Stop, stop," Zemo whispered. So he pressed on the brakes, the car rumbled to a slow stop. Zemo reached over, turns the ignition off, and without any other words he opened the car door and steps out.

The crunch of boots on a rock-and-asphalt road was a welcome relief to the hum of the engine. He moved out of the car, went to stand beside Zemo. And that was when he hears.

Everything was silent. Pure silence. Then it began. The wind started to pick up into a howl over the hills, darting through the trees and bushes, and all the around them there was such a loud overwhelming rush of leaves, the groaning and creaking of trunks, that John felt that the world was nearly trembling apart in his hands. The two of them were so minuscule in the large expanse of landscape, yet he felt completely in control.

And in front of him stretched mountains long and unending and ceaseless, fading away into the clouds, and at the closer slope of the valley, winding down roads, the sides were painted with trees, tall towering spikes of green shooting through the land like needles through a needle cushion, so tall that even in the distance they appeared huge, and if you were to stand under one of them you could not raise your head high enough to see the top, the trunks that you could not wrap your arms around, everywhere you looked half your vision would be smothered by wood and bark and pine needles.

They were the most beautiful brilliant shade of hunter green, like oil paint, a stark contrast to the yellow-green of the soft meadows below. That shade of yellow-green was like if he looked at a grass field of canola flowers and backed away far enough until everything blended together. Down in the winding roads, there was a small little farmhouse, red and dainty, its shadow cast long against the ground by the sun's rays. John was reminded, and he looked back, at his own shadow, both of their shadows. A little smile played on his lips as he realized that their height difference was made more apparent by the sunset.

In the distance, the mountains were the pale shade of blue cast over by the clouds. Blue and golden mixed in with the sunlight. Ah. Maybe he had an epiphany then, for John thought, blue. It was blue that he was smelling, blue and golden in the air all around them. He looked to Zemo again. There was the hazy swirl of pollen in the air, settling on his eyelashes and his nose, blown from the flowers down the valley. He was coated with it, that invisible perfume.

John laughed. "Pretty," he said.

"More than pretty," Zemo said. "It's magnificent."

John smiled wider and wordlessly turns to the horizon again.

The sun touched his skin, his face, leaving his back cold. It was just a saturated red bloom across the horizon line now, fading into the mountains. And it became dark so quickly, so soon, that John was surprised when he looked at Zemo once again and saw that the other man's pupils were black and dilated like a cat's. The trees seemed to grow taller in the darkness, stretched by their shadow. The grass shined wet and oily with the moonlight. The world became a lot bigger, as the blackness of earth merged into the blackness of the sky, spiraling into galaxies and constellations above them.

He pointed to Zemo the Big Dipper, the Cassiopeia, and finds Polaris, the true North. They were stars that he'd trace in the war zones, above the sound of gunfire, to get him home. Then the Orion, and to Mintaka, the first star to rise in the constellation. Through all this, Zemo listened silently, occasionally nodding or asking questions.

He draped a blanket over Zemo's shoulders. He let his hands linger there, tracing the edge of the fabric, then slipped one hand under his purple turtleneck, resting at Zemo's trembling hips. There were bruises there, in the shape of his fingers. Some yellow and fading, some new. This was more intimate than usual, tonight, a new game that Zemo wasn't used to. But it would be back to normal in the morning, and John would remember that there was nothing gentle about Zemo, nothing redeemable for all his cruelty and vengeance and loathing. And Zemo would hurt him, over and over, taking him apart bit by bit, only to lie in bed shaking and shuddering, screaming John's name as he came, snarling hurt me, make me feel it, in a twisted form of self-punishment.

But for now, he could savor the moment. Those pretty eyes hold his own, nearly black in the darkness. John knew they were the true shade of brown, pools of honey in the light.

Maybe poison or aphrodisiac would be more accurate, for who he really was.

He couldn't resist - "Pretty."

John didn't need gentle. He's learned that gentleness is only a disguise for something more insidious. He needed madness and sin. Zemo was both in spades, and pretty as a striking cobra.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Zemo laughed hoarsely, but pulled him down into a kiss nonetheless.

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. Harkansa Pass is not a real location.

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

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

ITS THE SADDEST INSTALLMENT YET

STAY TUNED FOR HURT PEOPLE HURTING EACH OTHER

The next one will have a LOTTTTT of disclaimers and warnings so uhhh watch out

@nervous-disaster I hope you enjoy! Thanks for bringing the hype to my writing! ❤️🍀🍀🍀

Awesome, nuanced analysis of Sokovia and Zemo’s character!

Been thinking a bit about Zemo’s character arc & tragic backstory.

As a member of Sokovian nobility, he was ostensibly raised to be proud of his country and heritage. He joined the army out of patriotic duty (it’s not like he needed the money). He could trace his lineage back generations; his son was going to be his future legacy.

And then all the things he loved or fought for in his life turn to dust.

His entire family dies, and his homeland gets smashed to bits and absorbed by neighboring countries. Suddenly, he’s a dying breed - there won't even be Sokovians in a generation or two, as ethnic Sokovians get acculturated in the diaspora. The language and unique customs will probably die out. It’s only been a few years since the Ultron catastrophe, and nobody even visits the memorial to Sokovian dead. The world is moving on.

At first he latched onto revenge, targeting the Avengers… and then what? Where does all that energy go now? He’s got nothing left to live for, but he’s always been a very disciplined man, so he’s still planning, plotting, calculating. He might as well start some shit. Revel in the chaos.

And if it kills him in the process, so be it. He thinks he should have died years ago, anyway.

I’ve been waiting for someone to say this for a long ass time

When Daniel Brühl's hair does that thing where one slightly curly bang falls out of place and on his forehead reblog if you agree