Walkerbaron - Blog Posts
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.
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! ❤️🍀🍀🍀
My Tunnels Are Long and Dark These Days
Featuring snapshots of the three most important road trips in Zemo and John's journey of working together.
To love is to pretend, don't try to love yourself again That is the worst kind of pain We're not those kinds of freaks, amen We're a different sort of breed of men
KARAKORAM HIGHWAY, CHINA-PAKISTAN
Zemo sat slouching in his seat, one hand hanging out the window of the truck, another draped on the steering wheel. The road stretched out in front of them, disappearing into the shadows of the mountains and forests. The sun was not up yet, it was early morning. 5AM, where no one rose out of bed but the office workers, the labourers, the soldiers coming out of their blanket shells. And where no one entered into slumber but the gravediggers, the night-shifters, the soldiers retreating into their blanket shells. The truck had been trotting along the road for hours, a small brown beetle with its headlights shining pale yellow, framing the one-meter radius ahead of it. Twenty-four hours ago had been when they first kicked the ignition into its churn in the region of Kashgar (a former trading town along the Silk Road), and when the prospects of a proper ceramic toilet had bit the dust. Twenty-four hours come and gone, with Zemo quietly helming the operation.
From Kashgar, they had traveled to Karakul under the cover of night, a journey that had taken them six hours. There had been no scenery of note but white moonlight glinting off the peaks of the two tall snowy mountains, Muztagh Ata and Mount Kongur. The shimmering scales of the Karakul lake had enraptured Zemo for hours, greeting him whenever a sharp jolt in the road woke him from his slumber.
And now, after resting a few hours at a local abode, they continued on to Tashkurgan, where from there they would go right into the borders of Pakistan.
A small muffled sound came from the lump beside him. “What’s the situation?” John mumbled blearily, poking his head through the covers. Zemo cast him a sideline glance, frowning at his sleep-mussed hair and squinted eyes. “It’s not your turn yet.”
With a snort, John closed his eyes again and rolled over, facing away from Zemo. He settled into another deep sleep.
A big, military-looking truck drove by them, momentarily blinding Zemo with its headlights. Heartbeat quickened in his chest, Zemo sat up straighter and observed the truck through the rearview mirror, hoping for its retreat. He glanced quickly towards his small driving compartment, doing a mental catalog of the materials there: a driver’s license, a forged visa to pass the border customs, fake passports with cover identities for himself and Walker… good, very good. All according to plan. Zemo rolled down the windows of his truck slightly, listening intently. The roar of the military truck did not fade into a distant hum. Instead, there was the screech of tires and the sudden whirring which indicated only one thing- Walker had better practiced the cover story that Zemo told him to, or the ensuing events would be catastrophic.
The urgent, piercing honking behind them startled John into wakefulness. He bolted up, then as if realizing that there was nowhere to go, settled back gingerly into his seat. “Zemo…”
Zemo tightened his grip on the wheels. Flexed his knuckles once, twice. Gently, as if petting a startled cat, rolled the ball of his foot over the brakes. “Anderson, don’t panic,” he says with practiced calm. “Remember what we rehearsed?”
“Yeah, Niki,” John replies. Though his face was carefully composed, the telltale twitching of his leg told Zemo otherwise.
All John had to do as Anderson was play the part of a slightly confused USA diplomat, heading from China to Pakistan over some matters of a proposed trade deal. Niki was to be his driver and translator, a man who had been an exchange student in China briefly where he picked up some basic Mandarin. Zemo had learned barely enough to get the both of them through a ten, fifteen-minute exchange. For the rest of his persuasion, he’d have to rely on the forged documents and the facade of confidence. If all went well, they would be sent on their merry way very quickly, and deliver all eight billion dollars worth of SHIELD information straight into the hands of Contessa. Of course, Zemo had taken an innocent, ‘accidental’ look at the confidential information, and deemed it useless enough to give to the woman. If it were anything that he found potentially dangerous, he would dispose of it immediately. Dry kindling could turn into a wildfire in Contessa’s hands, and that was the kind of risk he would never take.
“Stay calm. I will settle it quickly. The officers don’t want to make a big deal out of this either- we will be on our way soon,” he hissed to John as soon as he heard the crunch of boots on the tarmac.
Zemo rolled his window down to the silhouette of a heavily-clad soldier, who was covered head to toe in military gear. His eyes seemed to be narrowed, whether it was from suspicion or simply fatigue.
“有签证吗？” (Do you have a visa?)
“有。” (Yes.) Zemo reached into the compartment and retrieved the documents. The soldier took a quick look at them via the torchlight and passed it back to him. Then, tipping his chin at John- “他是你的朋友？” (Is he your friend?)
“他是我的老板。” (He's my boss.) Zemo struggled to recall the words for a moment. “我帮他翻译。” (I help him to translate.)
“对于游客来说，这时间挺早的。你们从卡拉库尔来的？” (This time of day is quite early for a tourist to be travelling. Are you coming from Karakul?)
Zemo blinked, processing the words. “可以…重复吗？” (Can you... repeat that?)
The guard sighed, then said slowly- “你们从，卡拉库尔，来? ” (You came, from, Karakul?)
The pieces slot into place in his head. 卡拉库尔 - Karakul. You… from… you came from Karakul.
“对，对。抱歉，我的华文不好。” (Yes, yes. Apologies, my mandarin isn't good.)
The guard laughed, but there was no condescension or meanness in it. “对于老外来说，发音挺好。” (For a foreigner, your pronunciation is pretty good.)
He continues, “好，好，谢谢。打扰你了。不多说了，你们走吧。” (Yes, yes, thank you. Sorry for the disturbance, you can go.)
Zemo, displaying the kindest smile he could, nodded and bade the man farewell. He turned off the lights in the car and smirked, knowing John could see it- This is how a professional works.
Another voice rang out, different from the one earlier. “先别走。” (Don't go yet.)
Zemo’s foot froze at the pedal. John’s expression was one of pure confusion and panic, his calmness now barely held together. Through the conversation earlier, Zemo had already sensed him vibrating with stagnant energy, and now it was manifesting in dangerous, careless ways. Zemo quickly reached out to touch John shoulder and calm him down- he's learnt that the other man responded best to physical contact, something he himself detested.
John’s wild gaze lifted to a point above his shoulder and lingered there.
The sharp rapping at the glass behind him are like bullets to his ears.
Zemo turns around, “为何…” (Why...)
His voice died in his throat. Standing there outside the car, equally shocked- Karlen Constantine.
Zemo could recognize that face anywhere. The rounded jaw, the brittle mouth, and that hateful, hateful look in his eyes.
The same look he gave when Zemo framed him for murder and left a two-million-dollar bounty on his head in Madripoor. Eight years ago.
Zemo takes quick stock of the situation. Judging by Constantine’s badges- high ranking. Heavily armed. A long, long road ahead of them. Walker has no shield, not yet. That was still in the process of being manufactured in Romania. Car chases weren’t an option. Evasion wasn’t an option. Anything other than negotiation would lead to their death. Zemo swallowed the saliva that rested heavily on his tongue.
“Karlen, please,” he says. John inhaled loudly behind him, he ignored it.
“You son of a bitch,” Karlen laughed gleefully. “Oh, this has made my day. I’m going to enjoy this.”
“What the fuck is going on, Zemo?” John snarled, ditching the pseudonym. He knew the game was up, the only question was how they were going to get out of this situation.
“Karlen, I’m invaluable to you,” Zemo continues carefully. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest, and it’s taking every iota of energy in him to keep his voice steady, to prevent the wave of panic from engulfing his mind. Any wrong word, any wrong move, and he would be dead within minutes. The car was bulletproof, but at such close range… with a shotgun, no less… Zemo knew the specs of the glass well, but he loathed taking risks. “I can-”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Karlen screamed, spittle hitting the glass. “Both of you, get the fuck out. Hands where I can see them. Slowly. Fucking do it slowly, or I’ll blow a hole in your leg.”
With steady breaths, Zemo complied. He could feel the adrenaline rushing up to his brain, reducing everything to a frantic pulsing in his muscles, the instinctual urge to run or fight. He got out of the car, hands raised to his shoulders, holding John’s gaze steady- don’t do anything rash. Follow my lead. And surprisingly, John did. He followed without a single word of protest, even though Zemo knew he was aching to throw a punch, to smash his fist into someone’s temple, or feel the satisfying recoil of a gun vibrating against his bones.
Zemo felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed between his eyes, at the same time that John jolted forward and cried, “No!”
“Don’t FUCKING move!” Karlen roared again, clicking off the safety. “Stay where you are or I’ll fucking kill him. Zemo, he answers to you, right? Tell him.”
Zemo glanced away to catch John’s horrified stare before his head was painfully yanked back by the roots of his hair. “Hey. Eyes on me. What did I say?”
“John, don’t move,” Zemo said slowly, grimacing as Karlen’s grip tightened.
“Now kneel.”
Zemo complied, breathing heavily. He could feel the fur of his jacket sticking to the back of his neck, and how hot his entire body felt, alight with energy. The aching of his scalp and knees had faded into a dull buzzing, overtaken by the hyperawareness of Karlen, his every movement, and Walker’s unyielding presence at his back.
As if sensing the same, Walker leaned forward carefully to place himself in Zemo's peripheral vision, discreet enough that Karlen wouldn't notice.
"Three years. Three years, I had to run and run and run. All because you stabbed me in the back, like the fucking coward you are. We were friends, but that didn't mean shit to you, did it? I'm glad your fucking wife and kids died. I hope they suffered. Oh yeah, I hope they screamed. I'm going to make this very painful for you too, Zemo."
Zemo's hands were trembling with the force of keeping them from Karlan's throat. It was taking everything he had to restrain himself. He tipped his chin up, looked straight into the matching pair of hateful eyes, and spat at Karlen's feet. "Fuck you."
It barely sounded like his own voice. The hate was thick sewer sludge, bubbling past the broken glass in his throat. A blinding burst of red splattered across his vision- Zemo flinched from the force at which the rage slammed into his mind. I will kill you. I will peel your skin from your bones, bit by bit. You're going to be screaming like a pig by the time I'm done. Constantine, you'll wish you were dead-
Karlen punched him so hard his entire body collapses to the side. Zemo tasted blood on his tongue, and god, it was pouring out of his nose. It wasn't broken, however- he turned his head just in time to prevent that. The lights look blurry- his eyes were watering.
Another kick connected with his stomach and Zemo cried out in pain, curling up into a ball.
Stop, stop, fucking stop, someone was shouting. When his head finally stopped ringing, he realised that it was John.
"You're friends with this guy?" Karlen laughed. "Oh, come on. He's just going to stab you in the back too. In fact, I'm sure he's already plotted multiple ways to kill you or fuck you up."
"He's tried," John laughed mirthlessly. His voice dropped into a low growl, a voice meant for spilling dirty little secrets- "Many, many times."
"And guess what, I'm still here. You aren't. A word of advice? Don't take yourself so seriously. You don't mean shit to him if you can't keep yourself around," John continued.
Zemo struggled to push himself back up, panting hard. He can't gather enough air to shout, stop talking. Those words laid like a brand against his skin, spelling out the name John Walker, a possessive claim.
I'm special, John Walker practically crowed.
And Zemo hated that he was right.
"If you like him so much, you can join him." Karlen laughed, raised his gun to John Walker, and fired.
He was fast.
John was faster.
The bullet buried itself harmlessly into the ground. The soldiers startle, reaching for their guns. One shot, Karlen's body dropped. The muffled thump launched Zemo's body into action. His fingers found a gun, and without blinking he whirled and pulled the trigger three times.
A few more shots rang out, and two more men are down.
Zemo swayed on his feet, but before he could collapse, there were strong arms around him, leading him to the car. He's shoved into it in a daze. John Walker entered through the other side, at the wheel.
"Shh. Shh. Hey. Hey, princess, look at me." A damp cloth was pressed into his hands, and he instinctively brought it up to his nose to staunch the bleeding. They're both breathing harshly from the fight. Gunpowder blue eyes stared back at him, brows furrowed. Light glanced off the mirror, staining John's hair a warm golden. Zemo was reminded of his vintage brass rulers, the beautiful old smell they had...
Wait. Light? He lifted his head to see the sunrise, then the time on the electronic clock. 6.05 AM. The tourist buses would be moving out soon, which meant-
"Drive," he whispered, and John kicked the car into high gear without a word.
"I'll text Contessa to put a roadblock on both sides and clear up the scene as quickly as possible. Once at Tashkurgan we'll leave the car, take the tourist bus, and blend in with the rest. I will arrange for Contessa to meet us earlier than was planned. When we arrive in Pakistan, we need to get past the border security. Even though we're compromised, this will not be risky. It's broad daylight and there are too many people at the border to cause a scene. The congestion will be in our favour. Clear?"
"Crystal."
"And the next time, I'll tell Contessa that travelling at night is a bad idea."
John frowned. "Hey, don't blame yourself. No one knew this was going to happen."
"We were nearly killed, John."
"Yeah, what's the big deal? Do you know how many times I've nearly been killed, Zemo? More than I could count. And trust me, this does not even come close." John laughs brightly. "We got outta there fine, yeah? Trust me. Not even close. It was a team effort."
Zemo looked down, and saw the slight quivering of his leg that John tried to hide. He dragged his eyes up to John's face, and recognised the tiny, near-imperceptible strain in his eyes... something you would not catch unless you were specifically looking for it.
You can be a really good liar if you tried, John.
"You're special to me, you know." the words came out in a rush, stumbling over one another. It sounded like a confession, and Zemo hated how it made his heart stutter, how his hands tingled, how the pain and the anger faded away into a schoolboy-nervousness.
The entire world, bottled down to a single response.
And he waited for an answer with bated breath, though he was uncertain of the question he had asked, if any at all.
My ending thoughts:
John Walker tells Zemo about love, like how a parent tells their child about the unobservable universe, about the untouched depths of the ocean, as if whispering: don't fear the unknown, for we'll explore it together.
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.
I didn’t really like the previous oneshot that I wrote (Sirene), felt it was a little out of character. To re-orient myself I’m going to go back and continue writing my main fic for a while.
Hm... I’ve seen someone else do it and it looked fun, so you can drop a 🧠 in my asks and I’ll post a sentence from my fic. (Not too much of course, can’t spoil the story)
BTW
Daniel Bruhl’s character in Kings Man is such a rich bitch. I mean just- he either looks like a rich politician’s trophy wife or someone else’s sugar daddy. I’m convinced Daniel’s character wears so many layers of clothing just so we can strip him out of it sensually. There are stars in my eyes. You can’t see them but. They’re there.
Also Wyatt Russel in Overlord is so hot- SO HOT. I just wanna urghhhhhhhh I just wanna see Walker bend Zemo over and rail him is that too much to ask for? (Unfortunately I can’t write smut for the life of me so I guess it’s gonna be ‘fade to black’ with every sex scene)
Holy shit I sound insane. I sound maniacal.
Time to continue writing.
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.
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
Daddy Issues
Zemo, as a young man, is frequently neglected by his father. When he grows up, he is extremely receptive towards approval from men older than him and subconsciously chases after their stray bits of affection.
---
Helmut finds that he converses more easily with adults. He leaves his peers behind, waits for them to leave the classroom before he goes up to the podium where his professor was arranging his papers. He tiptoes up to rest his elbows there, tips his chin up to smile at the man. The professor, Mr Weber, looks down at him curiously.
"Helmut, is there anything you'd like to ask me?"
Hearing his own name, a slow curl of warmth settles into his belly. Helmut resisted the urge to giggle- it would be unprofessional. This was already toeing the line as it is, he shouldn't try his luck. Instead, he handed Mr Weber his worksheet.
"This question, I don't understand it," he said softly as one does when they are savouring a moment. Here, he didn't have to be loud to be heard, didn't have to shout halfway across the manor to match his father's booming voice, didn't have to entertain any guests.
Mr Weber takes the worksheet, looks carefully through Helmut's calculations. His eyebrows are scrunched up in concentration, a single strand of hair slips out from where he's tucked it behind his ear. Helmut breathes out slowly, matching the rise and fall of Mr Weber's shoulders.
His professor frowns. "Helmut, we went through this in class yesterday," he chides. But there's no disapproval in his voice, no harsh rebuke, and Helmut preens under the tone like a flower facing the sun. He shuffles a little on his tiptoes, rubbing one foot on the other, wringing his hands. Sheepishly, he asks if Mr Weber could go through the question again, and his teacher complies with a fond sigh.
"Come a little closer," Mr Weber says, and Zemo complies. Standing almost side-by-side, his teacher is taller than him by a head, maybe even more. Helmut looks up in blinding adoration, but his eyes dart back to the worksheet shyly as Mr Weber starts explaining with that calming, instructional voice.
You could tell me to do whatever and I'll do it, Helmut thinks breathlessly.
He tries to understand the best he can, and gets it quite quickly when he actually listens. Mr Weber had taken him under his wing and taken a liking to him, as Helmut slowly worked his way down to one of the assistance-required and remedial-required students. He liked it, to be honest- it was a guilty pleasure to know that his teacher would take care of him, would give special attention to help him. He'd find himself leaving little careless mistakes on the paper every now and then, just so that he could hear those words - Helmut, you'd do so well if you would just check. Be more careful next time, alright?
At home, he must be tall and proud and stick out his chest. His voice must be like a bull's roar, it must be like rolling thunder. His father expects him to be a man, when all he wants to do is stay a boy.
But here, with someone else, that is what he can be.
He can be short. If he didn't wear high-heeled shoes, he would receive pats on the head from other men tall enough to rest their elbow on his shoulders.
Here, he can be stupid and dumb and slow on the uptake. If he wasn't manipulative or cunning, he would be confided with the small little trinkets of their secrets and feel oh so warm on the inside.
Zemo smiles easily at older men, for they give what his father denied him.
---
When he joins EKO Scorpion, he takes a shine to one of the older, more compassionate commanders, a man of 6 foot of solid muscle. Commander Muller. But now, twenty-three years old, it is time to be a man... even though he's never really received the nurturing love that would guide him out of childhood.
---
Helmut is a Baron, after all. He joins the political ring, plays coy games with a foreign ambassador twelve years older than him. Mr Lanto, he remembers. It makes the conferences bearable. He must be cold, cunning, ruthless. He speaks into the microphone with a sharp growl that makes the speakers tremble. But under the table, one of his gloved hands is clasped over the other, drawing slow circles on his wrist in the parody of a grounding touch.
---
Helmut marries. His wife is sweet and kind, her skin smells like flowers. She wants to have two children. He wants to be a better man than his father.
But sometimes, it's not what you want, it's what you know.
And when his first child is born, a beautiful boy with his wife's eyes, he panics. Helmut leaves to rejoin the military and EKO Scorpion, goes back to the days where he can stop thinking, where there are only barked orders that he needed to follow. The innocent, starved flower within him had erupted into a raging inferno, an animalistic craving.
Helmut stays faithful. But when he returns from the civil war, he brings back a determination that has doubled. This time, he gives his son the love that his own father denied him. He makes sure that his precious boy would never have to seek out warmth in the arms of another older man.
---
Sokovia comes and goes.
---
Helmut is broken out of the Raft by a group called the Thunderbolts. John Walker has broad shoulders and hands that can crush a man's skull. He is attentive and instructional when he points at the map and lays out their plans of attack. He challenges and provokes, so much so that Helmut gets dizzy trying to keep up.
The moment he realizes is on one winter day- when John drapes an arm over his neck, and he could feel the warmth of the man burning at his side like a furnace. Helmut's breath hitches, but John doesn't seem to notice.
The boy in him rears his head for the first time in years, and Helmut thinks- oh god.
I suddenly just did a double take and reconsidered my life choices. Why do I even ship John walker and Zemo? They’ve only interacted once, and here I am thinking they’d be perfectly, perversely compatible, enough to write a fic about it.
What the fuck-
Actually, this reminds me of something my sis once told me:
“You ship a bad person with another bad person because then they can hurt each other.”
And I think that’s so true for this case. I mean, mutually assured destruction is pretty hot, amirite? I think John would pretty much wreck Zemo (and in more ways than one 😜), make him question everything he’s ever known about his own morals and ideals. And Zemo would of course return that favour twofold. The push and pull between them would really be interesting, truly an unstoppable force meets immovable object.
Plus, there’s a heavy dose of sin there as well. John has a wife (oh sweet jesus no), Zemo had a wife, and it would be amusing to see them try and justify their own attraction towards each other.
Then there’s the concept of moving on, avenging, both of them trying to find their own goals in life and realizing that their paths inexplicably cross along the way.
If I ever do get my fic out one day I hope it’s a gateway drug for future WalkerBaron shippers...
Also my blog might turn nsfw real quick real soon 🥴cos oooooooh baby you know I’m like a man slugging thru the desert and daniel is my fountain
If in Thunderbolts, Zemo and Walker team up (WalkerBaron), I’m headcanonising:
- Walker calling Zemo a ‘lil bitch’ on the daily
- Walker raising his shield to protect the both of them from falling debris and Zemo just standing under the shade in mild wonder
- Zemo bitch slapping Walker
- Walker pours Zemo’s finest wine into a cut to ‘disinfect’ it, Zemo letting out an unholy screech, and downing the entire bottle in response
- Zemo bitch slapping Walker again
- Walker trying to undermine Zemo’s authority by looming over him, Zemo responds by purposely walking in front of him and suddenly stopping just to make John crash into him
- Zemo calling Walker ‘Agent’ instead of ‘US Agent’ out of spite
- Zemo sidestepping John’s advances like siiiiiike we gotta be pRoFfEsSiOnAl
Then later justifying their relationship by saying “It’s a mutually beneficial exchange.”
- Zemo always trying to discreetly keep John in his peripheral vision, because that man was his temporary protection and lifeline
Bonus:
Zemo tries to guide Walker down a bad path to justify killing him eventually. Walker takes the bait. But little does Zemo know, the man drags Zemo down alongside him, topples Zemo’s little moral pedestal right into the depths of depravity.
Now that’s a relationship I’d love to explore.
I ship WalkerBaron so hard it’s not even funny. I don’t even know why or how. Some part of me started headcanoning how they’d work together in Thunderbolts and it was all a spiral after that.
Someone save me from this fresh hell
😭🤧🤡