#Helmut Zemo & reader

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi! If it’s not too much, could you do spider-man villains responding to an underling hitting reader like you did for the bat-villains? (Idk if you do the spider-man villains or just marvel villains in general so feel free to do that if you’d prefer) You’re really good at getting into characters’ heads it’s really fun to read!

MARVEL COMICS VILLAINS X FEM!READER

One of the underlings hit you and your partner finds out

Characters: Dr. Doom, Bullseye, Taskmaster, Loki, Crossbones, Zemo, Muse, Hela, Green Goblin, Eddie/Venom, Doctor Octopus, Kraven, The Lizard, Carnage, Electro, Kingpin, Scorpion, Hobgoblin, Mysterio, Sandman, Shocker, Chameleon, Mister Negative & Boomerang

Reply to anon: FINALLY some love for Spider-Man villains. The Spider-Man and Batman villain gallery are my favorites. I've done (almost) all of Spider-Boy's most popular villains, I really hope I did the ones you wanted.

Victor von Doom | Doctor Doom

- Doom is not a man prone to outbursts. He does not rage blindly, does not allow emotions to dictate his actions. No, his fury is measured, calculated—and when he sees the mark left on your perfect skin, he does not waste words. He simply turns, his cloak billowing as he leaves. You know better than to stop him. Whatever is about to happen is inevitable. Doom does not tolerate offenses. And this—this was the gravest of all.

- The punishment is not merely death. Death is merciful, death is quick. Doom does not grant mercy to those who defile what is his. The offender is stripped of their name, their purpose, their very existence. Doom ensures they are erased, their presence scoured from the annals of time, their life reduced to a whisper of agony. He does not need to sully his own hands—no, the world itself bends to his will, and his will is retribution.

- When he returns to you, his mask betrays nothing, but you can feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity that lingers. He reaches for you—not to inspect the wound, not to seek forgiveness, but to claim you once more, to remind you that you belong to him, and he to you. "None shall harm you and live," he states, as if it is a fundamental truth of the universe. And perhaps, under his rule, it is.

- His gauntleted fingers ghost over your skin, a contradiction of metal and reverence, of cold steel and burning devotion. "You are under my protection," he murmurs, "and my protection is absolute.” His lips brush against your temple, the touch fleeting, possessive. "They will remember what happens to those who forget."

Lester | Bullseye

- He doesn't get angry. Not at first. He just stares at you, head tilting slightly, the way a predator assesses a kill. And then—he laughs. Not the usual, cocky, self-satisfied kind. No, this one is sharper, colder, something that sends a chill down your spine. "They really put their hands on you?" he asks, his voice edged with something deadly, something thrilled. Because now? Now he gets to play.

- He finds them fast. He doesn’t rush—no, he takes his time. He enjoys watching the moment of realization dawn, the way fear blooms when they understand exactly who they’ve pissed off. And when he strikes, it isn’t just a kill. It’s an art form. He breaks bones with pinpoint accuracy, flays skin with nothing but the flick of a blade. Every hit is personal, every wound a lesson. By the time he’s finished, there’s nothing left but ruin.

- When he comes back, he’s still grinning, like he’s high off the violence. He leans in close, voice dripping with amusement. "Y’know, I was gonna kill ‘em quick, but then I thought—nah, let’s make it memorable." His fingers trace the bruise on your skin, eyes dark with something almost hungry. "Bet they won’t be hittin’ anyone ever again. Hell, they won’t even be breathing."

- Then, just as suddenly, the danger flickers, shifts into something else. His hand curls around the back of your neck, pulling you in, his lips brushing against yours, slow and deliberate. "Next time, babe? Just say the word. I'll tear the whole damn world apart for you."

Tony Masters | Taskmaster

- Tony doesn't ask what happened—he sees it. The way you shift your weight, the slight tension in your jaw, the way your hand lingers over the injury just a second too long. He catches every detail, every weakness, because that’s what he does. And right now? Right now, someone’s weakness is about to become their death sentence.

- He doesn't just kill the bastard. No, that would be easy. He studies them first. Watches their movements, their stance, every tell in their body. And then? Then he dismantles them. Uses their own techniques against them, mirrors their every move just to show them how outmatched they are. By the time he’s done, they don’t just lose. They know they never stood a chance.

- When he returns, there’s no grand declaration, no need for theatrics. He just sits beside you, arms crossed, gaze sharp and assessing. "You alright?" he asks, and it’s almost casual—almost. But there’s a weight to it, an unspoken promise beneath the words. You nod, and he exhales, rolling his shoulders. "Good." A beat. Then, "Don’t let it happen again."

- But later, when the lights are low and his guard is down, his hand drifts to your hip, his thumb brushing slow, idle circles against your skin. "Ain't nobody touches you but me," he mutters, voice rough, possessive. "And I don't do soft." His lips ghost over yours, teasing, taunting. "But for you? Maybe I’ll make an exception."

Loki Laufeyson

- He does not react at first. He simply observes. Fingers steepled, expression unreadable, eyes too calm. And that? That is far more terrifying than rage. Because Loki is not a creature of impulse. He is a creature of calculated destruction. And this? This offense against you? It will be answered with something far worse than death.

- The punishment is poetic. He does not simply kill the offender—he undoes them. Twists their mind until they are unmade, until they do not know their own name, their own face. They become a whisper, a tragedy, a thing lost to the very fabric of reality itself. And Loki? Loki watches, amused, as they break. "Oh, dear," he muses. "It seems you have forgotten yourself. Allow me to help." And with a flick of his fingers, they are gone.

- When he returns to you, there is a smirk curling at his lips, something self-satisfied in his gaze. "It is done," he says simply, as if he has merely handled a small inconvenience. And perhaps, to him, that’s all it was. But then, his expression shifts—just slightly. His fingers ghost over your wrist, featherlight, careful, as if you are something fragile, something to be preserved. "They will not bother you again," he murmurs, "nor will anyone else."

- His arms encircle you, drawing you against him, and for a moment, there is no trickery, no illusion—just him, real and solid. His lips graze your ear, a whisper of silk and steel. "You are mine," he breathes, and there is something almost reverent in the way he says it. "And I do not share."

Brock Rumlow | Crossbones

- The moment he sees the bruise on your skin, something inside him snaps. There’s no slow burn, no measured response—just instant, blistering rage. Brock doesn’t ask who did it. He already knows. He doesn’t ask why. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the fact that someone was stupid enough to lay a hand on you, and now? Now they have to pay.

- He doesn’t just kill them—he annihilates them. There’s no finesse, no mercy, just raw, unfiltered violence. The crack of bone, the wet sound of flesh giving way—he takes his time, makes it hurt. He wants them to understand what they’ve done. Wants them to feel every ounce of pain they dared to bring upon you. By the time he’s done, they’re nothing more than a broken, unrecognizable mess on the floor.

- When he comes back to you, his knuckles are split, his breathing heavy, his hands still trembling with the aftershock of violence. But when his eyes meet yours, the fury melts into something else. Something dark, something possessive. He reaches for you, fingers rough as they trace over your injury, his touch lingering, slow. "Ain't nobody touches what’s mine," he mutters, voice like gravel, low and sharp with promise. "Nobody."

- And then his grip tightens, just enough to remind you, just enough to claim. His lips brush against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Next time?" His voice drops to a whisper, deadly and sweet. "I won’t just kill ‘em. I’ll make sure they beg for it first."

Helmut Zemo

- Zemo is silent when he sees the mark on you. Too silent. The kind of quiet that is far more dangerous than any outburst, far more lethal than raised voices or shattered glass. His fingers ghost over the injury with a gentleness that feels almost deceptive, his expression unreadable, his mind already working, already planning.

- His revenge is not messy. It is not violent. It is precise. He does not grant them the dignity of an immediate death—no, he dismantles them. Strips them of their status, their power, their very identity. He orchestrates their downfall with the patience of a man who thrives on the long game, ensuring they lose everything before he grants them the release of death. By the time he is finished, they are nothing more than a ghost.

- When he returns to you, his movements are slow, deliberate. He cups your face, tilting it up so you can see the satisfaction glinting in his eyes. "It is done," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek with something almost reverent. "They will never so much as whisper your name again."

- Then, his lips graze your temple, lingering there, soft but unshakable. "No one lays a hand on you and lives," he breathes against your skin. "Not while I still draw breath."

Muse

- He doesn’t react at first. No flicker of emotion, no shift in expression—just a slow, almost languid turn of his head as he processes the fact that someone dared to harm you. And then, after a moment of silence, he smiles. It’s not warm, not reassuring—it’s something else. Something wrong. Something that should send chills down your spine.

- The underling doesn’t just die. No, Muse creates with them. He turns them into something grotesque, something artful. He strips them of their humanity in the most literal sense, carving into their flesh with the same care a sculptor takes to marble. When he’s finished, they are unrecognizable, their body a message, a masterpiece. Something for the world to witness.

- When he returns, his hands are still wet with blood, his smile still stretching a little too wide. He steps closer, tilting his head as he looks at you, as if seeing you for the first time. "You make me feel things I do not understand," he murmurs, his voice lilting, almost dreamlike. "And yet, I do not mind."

- His fingers trail over your bruised skin, slow, thoughtful. "You are mine," he hums, as if tasting the words. "And I do not take kindly to those who ruin my muse."

Hela

- Her rage is not loud. It does not explode. It devours. A slow, insidious thing that coils around her like smoke, seething just beneath the surface. She does not speak when she sees the mark on your skin. She does not need to. The air itself seems to grow heavy, the very shadows bending toward her as if they fear what is to come.

- She does not simply kill the one responsible—she eradicates them. Their soul is hers now, ripped from their body, condemned to an eternity of suffering in her grasp. She ensures their torment is endless, their agony woven into the very fabric of Hel itself. They will know true despair. They will beg for release, and she will deny them.

- When she returns to you, she does not ask if you are alright. She knows you are. You are strong. But still, her touch is almost gentle as she brushes a gloved hand over your bruised skin, as if assessing the damage, as if reminding herself that you are here. "They are nothing now," she murmurs, voice like velvet over steel. "They will never touch you again."

- Then, she cups your chin, tilting your face up to meet her gaze. Her lips curve into a smirk, dark, knowing. "You are mine," she breathes, her voice a silken promise. "And what is mine is untouchable."

Norman Osborn | The Green Goblin

- He is not a man known for softness. The world has felt the wrath of his intellect, his madness, his power—but never his kindness. Yet, in his own way, you are an exception. An obsession that burrowed into his mind and refused to leave. You were his, a claim as absolute as the empire he built with blood and fire. And when one of his men struck you, something terrible and ruinous cracked open within him. Norman does not react with immediate fury. No, his rage is patient, a slow-moving thing with sharpened teeth, and it festers in silence as he watches you, as his gloved hand ghosts over the mark left behind. His voice is eerily calm. "Who?" is all he asks, and though you know what will come, you do not stop him.

- He does not waste time. The moment the name is given, the air shifts, heavy with the weight of his impending vengeance. He could kill the man outright—could rip him apart with his hands and laugh as he did it—but Norman is nothing if not poetic. There is no need for theatrics, no need for a Goblin’s grin. He strips away his mask and handles the matter as Osborn, the man, the king, the ruthless god in a businessman’s skin. His underlings learn a lesson that night: a punishment that stretches long, a display of control so profound that even those loyal to him shudder at the sight. Norman does not simply kill; he dismantles.

- He returns to you in the aftermath, his fingers still stained with evidence of his wrath. There is no apology, no soft words meant to soothe. He does not think you need them. He takes your face in his hands, holds you as if committing the shape of you to memory, and leans in, his forehead resting against yours. "You are not to be touched," he murmurs, his voice laced with something dark, something final. "Not by them. Not by anyone. Only me." His mouth finds yours, claiming and bruising, a reminder of who you belong to, of who would set the world ablaze before letting another lay a hand on you.

- In the days that follow, his men become more careful, their eyes lowering whenever you pass. He revels in it, in their fear, in the knowledge that you are untouchable. But more than that, Norman basks in the way you still stand at his side, still allow his hands on your skin, still whisper his name in the quiet of night. He does not say it aloud, but he knows it in the marrow of his bones: he would burn everything for you.

Eddie Brock | Venom

- The moment Venom senses it, the moment the bruising scent of pain clings to you, Eddie is already moving. His body tenses like a predator scenting blood, fists curling, jaw tightening, and before you can say anything, a voice darker than night slithers out, a guttural growl vibrating in his chest. "Who hurt you?" The question is not for you to answer. Venom already knows.

- There is no reasoning with Eddie when his rage is ignited, no space for rational thought. He is a man of fury, of primal justice, and there is no justice more absolute than the one he will deliver. Venom is delighted, saliva dripping from his fanged mouth as he urges Eddie forward. "We eat them." But Eddie is not in the mood for quick endings. No, this calls for something more intimate. He corners the man, fists colliding with flesh, with bone, and with each hit, his breath comes harsher, his mind consumed by the vision of you hurt, of someone daring to lay a hand on what is his.

- When he returns to you, his knuckles are bloody, his breathing uneven, but his eyes—his eyes are the most dangerous part of him. "It won’t happen again," he says, and Venom’s voice purrs in agreement, curling around the words like a promise. You reach for him, fingers tracing over the remnants of his anger, and for a moment, his fury falters. His grip tightens around you, desperate, possessive, as if anchoring himself in your warmth. "I don’t share," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your skin, the rough scrape of his stubble sending a shiver down your spine. "I don’t forgive, either."

- The city speaks in whispers after that. The man who struck you is nowhere to be found, his existence erased with the efficiency of something monstrous. Eddie doesn’t care. Venom doesn’t care. They are satisfied only in the way you still let them near, in the way your fingers tangle in Eddie’s hair as he presses against you, breathing in your scent like a man who has only ever known hunger.

Otto Octavius | Doctor Octopus

- He is a man of brilliance, of intellect, of control. But all of it fractures when he sees the mark on your skin. His metal limbs twitch, their claws clicking in restless anticipation, and his grip on his own restraint becomes tenuous. He prides himself on logic, on the ability to calculate his moves, but rage has always been an old friend, and tonight, it whispers to him with venomous sweetness. He cups your chin, his touch unexpectedly gentle despite the storm brewing in his gaze. "Tell me," he says, his voice like silk stretched over steel.

- When you do, he does not explode. Otto Octavius is not a man of reckless outbursts—he is a man of consequences. The one who hurt you does not suffer immediately. No, Otto drags it out, makes it a lesson, makes it art. His tentacles wrap around the man like a vice, lifting him effortlessly, squeezing just enough to let terror sink in. "Do you know what you’ve done?" he muses, tilting his head in that calculating way of his. "Do you understand the depths of your mistake?" There is no mercy in his eyes, only the cold brilliance of a scientist dissecting his latest subject.

- When he returns, his hands are clean, his composure intact. But there is something different in the way he looks at you, something almost reverent. "No one will touch you again," he says, a quiet promise that rings louder than any scream. His arms coil around you, steel and flesh alike, pressing you into him as if ensuring your safety through sheer proximity. He is not an affectionate man, not in the traditional sense, but this—this is devotion in its truest form.

- The world shifts after that. His subordinates tread carefully, their fear evident, their respect unwavering. Otto does not care for their opinions, only for the knowledge that you are untouchable, that the universe itself would have to shatter before he allowed harm to reach you again. And when he holds you at night, when he feels the warmth of your body against his own, he knows with absolute certainty—he would burn every last one of them for you.

Sergei Kravinoff | Kraven the Hunter

- The air is thick with tension when he finds out. There is no great display of fury, no immediate act of violence—but the shift in him is undeniable. His gaze darkens, his jaw sets, and his muscles coil like a beast moments before the kill. He does not ask you to name the culprit. He does not need to. The hunt is already beginning in his mind, the scent of blood calling to him. "They have wronged you," he murmurs, his accent curling around the words like a snare. "That is all I need to know."

- He does not go after them as a man. He goes as a predator. There is no chance for escape, no hope for mercy. The one who hurt you does not simply die; they are hunted, chased, reduced to nothing more than prey beneath the weight of Sergei’s wrath. And when he returns, there is blood beneath his nails, a satisfied smirk on his lips, and something primal burning in his eyes as they settle on you.

- He takes your face in his hands, his fingers rough yet reverent. "You are mine," he tells you, his voice low, possessive, unshaken. "And no man touches what is mine." There is no hesitation when he kisses you, no gentleness—only the raw, unfiltered hunger of a man who has conquered and claimed.

- After that, there is silence. No one dares cross you, no one even dares look too long. And Sergei—Sergei watches you like the wild thing he is, his need for you carved into his very soul.

Dr. Curt Connors | The Lizard

- There are two versions of the man you love, and both are dangerous in their own ways. Dr. Connors—the brilliant, fractured scientist—sees you as something fragile, something to be protected. The Lizard—the monstrous, primal force—sees you as his, an undeniable part of his territory, a possession no one else is permitted to touch. When he smells the injury, when his reptilian senses detect the slightest irregularity in your scent, his pupils slit into thin lines, and his talons twitch. He does not ask what happened. He does not need to. You can see the change in him, the slow, deliberate way his muscles coil, the predator awakening beneath the man.

- Curt tries to hold back at first, tries to reason with himself, to suppress the darker part of him that howls for blood. But then he sees the mark—small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but a wound on you—and all his restraint shatters. His skin ripples, the transformation taking hold, scales pushing through flesh, bones shifting as something cold-blooded and relentless takes over. The man who hurt you does not get the mercy of a warning. He does not get the chance to run. The Lizard hunts him down with terrifying precision, dragging him into the depths of the sewers, where screams do not reach the surface world.

- He does not return to you as Curt, not yet. The Lizard comes first, his body tense with the aftermath of his fury, his eyes glowing in the dim light. He circles you like an animal, sniffing the air, ensuring no scent of your attacker lingers. When his clawed hands cup your face, they are gentle despite their lethal potential, his rough thumb tracing over the bruise with something close to reverence. "Mine," he hisses, low and guttural, his tail twitching behind him. "No one hurts what belongs to me." His forked tongue flicks out, tasting the air around you, confirming you are safe. Only then does he allow himself to shift back, bones snapping, scales melting away, until it is Curt again—shaken, horrified by his own lack of control, but unrepentant.

- After that night, no one in his employ ever touches you again. They don’t even stand too close. The fear lingers, thick and suffocating, but you do not fear him. Not truly. Not when he presses his forehead against yours in the quiet of your shared sanctuary, his breath still uneven from the monster within him. "I won’t let it happen again," he murmurs, half a promise, half a warning to the world. And you believe him.

Cletus Kasady | Carnage

- Violence has always been Cletus’s language, and love—if he can even call what he feels for you that—is simply an extension of it. His affection is red, dripping, chaotic, something sharp-edged and all-consuming. So when he finds out someone has dared to touch you, to lay their filthy hands on what he claimed, he does not fly into a rage. No, no, no. Rage is too simple. Rage is what lesser men feel. What he feels is a different kind of thrill—something euphoric, something electric. The knowledge that he now has an excuse to indulge himself, to play.

- He finds the man easily. Carnage is not subtle, never has been, and there is no need for stealth when the hunt is half the fun. He takes his time with it, drags it out, makes sure the bastard understands the mistake he made. There are screams, of course. Begging. Pleading. But Cletus only laughs, red tendrils writhing around him like something alive, his grin wide and wicked. He does not just kill. He desecrates. When it is over, he leaves what remains in a place everyone will see, a message written in blood and viscera: SHE’S MINE.

- When he returns to you, he is still drenched in his work, red creeping up his neck like war paint. His fingers are slick when they cup your chin, tilting your head so he can drink in the sight of you, the only thing in this world he won’t destroy. "Ain’t nobody stupid enough to touch you now, doll," he purrs, his grip tightening just enough to make you gasp. "But if they do… well, you know me. I love an excuse to get messy." His lips crash against yours, feverish, unhinged, tasting of copper and chaos, as if marking you from the inside out.

- The city whispers after that. Everyone knows. Everyone fears. No one dares even breathe in your direction without permission. And Cletus—Cletus is delighted. He keeps you close, always touching, always claiming, because you are the only thing in this world worth keeping, worth loving in his own sick, twisted way.

Max Dillon | Electro

- The moment Max finds out, the air around him changes. The temperature rises, the hum of electricity vibrating beneath his skin, flickering in his veins. He does not speak at first. He just stands there, his entire body coiled with tension, eyes burning with a glow that promises something catastrophic. His hands twitch, sparks crackling between his fingers, and when he finally breathes, it comes out ragged, barely contained. "Who?" The question is not a request. It is a demand, static lacing his voice like a storm on the verge of breaking.

- He doesn’t wait for you to answer. He already knows. The circuits in the building whisper their secrets to him, security cameras playing back every movement, every offense. And once he sees it—once he witnesses the insult—there is no saving the man responsible. Max does not go after him in silence. He wants people to see. He wants them to understand. When he finds his target, he doesn’t touch him at first—just lets the lights flicker, lets the air taste of ozone and danger. The fear in the man’s eyes is intoxicating. And then—then—he strikes.

- He does not just kill. He erupts. A violent surge of electricity courses through his victim’s body, lighting up the night in a gruesome spectacle. It is over in seconds, but the aftermath lingers—charred flesh, the stench of burnt skin, a warning that echoes in the city’s power lines. No one touches what belongs to Max Dillon. No one.

- When he returns, his pulse is still thrumming with energy, his hands still tingling with remnants of power. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t need to. He simply cups your face, his touch still buzzing, his breath warm against your lips. "Nobody hurts you," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours, letting the electricity between you crackle softly. "Not while I’m around."

Wilson Fisk | The Kingpin

- There is no explosion of rage when Wilson finds out. No immediate outburst, no reckless display of violence. Instead, there is silence. A heavy, suffocating quiet that settles over the room as he absorbs the information, as he lets the weight of it sink into his bones. He does not ask questions. He does not need to. His mind has already moved past the why and straight into the how.

- The man who struck you is dead before the sun rises. Wilson does not delegate this task. He handles it himself, in the cold, calculated way that only he can. The punishment is not just a beating. It is an education. He ensures that every broken bone, every gasping breath, is a lesson. That by the time it is over, the man understands—truly understands—who you belong to.

- When he returns to you, his suit is pristine, his composure unshaken, but there is something in his eyes—something dark, something possessive. He takes your hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles. "You are mine," he states, as if it is law, as if it is the only truth that matters. "And I will never allow harm to come to what is mine."

- The city learns quickly. No one touches you. No one dares. Because to harm you is to invoke the wrath of a king, and there is no place in this world where his reach does not extend.

Mac Gargan | The Scorpion

- Mac has always been a creature of violence. It sits in his bones, coils in his muscles, waiting for an excuse to strike. But this—this—is different. This is not a bar fight, not some petty vendetta. This is you. His girl. His one good thing in a world that never gave him anything but rage. And someone thought they could lay a hand on you? His fingers curl into fists so tight his knuckles crack, his breath coming out in short, harsh bursts. The suit hums around him, reacting to his anger, tail twitching like a serpent poised to strike.

- He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask. He hunts. The city is a labyrinth of shadows, but Mac is a predator who knows every back alley, every bolt hole. And when he finds the bastard, there’s no warning. No time for apologies, for begging, for mercy that never existed in the first place. He slams the man against a wall hard enough to rattle bones, his tail curling around his throat, lifting him off the ground with slow, deliberate cruelty. "You think you're tough?" His voice is low, venomous, dripping with the promise of pain. "Think you can put your hands on her and walk away?"

- The fight is short, brutal. Mac doesn’t just beat him—he breaks him. Leaves him gasping in the filth of the streets, bruised, bloodied, and barely breathing. He could end it. Should end it. But no, he wants this bastard to live. Wants him to wake up every day knowing he made the worst mistake of his life. That if he so much as breathes in your direction again, Mac will be the last thing he ever sees.

- When he returns to you, his hands are still shaking, but his grip is gentle when he cups your face, tilting your chin up so he can look at you. His expression is dark, possessive, fierce. "Ain’t nobody touching you again," he mutters, his thumb tracing over your skin, as if reassuring himself that you’re real, that you’re his. "Ever."

Roderick Kingsley | The Hobgoblin

- The first time he sees the mark on your skin, something inside him snaps. Roderick has always been meticulous, always prided himself on being in control, but this—this—is unacceptable. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching for violence, but his face remains eerily composed, the kind of stillness that only comes before a storm. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "Who?" he asks, voice soft, deadly. It’s not a question. It’s a promise.

- Roderick does not make a spectacle of his revenge. He is not like the others—messy, impulsive, obvious. No, he is calculated. He plays the long game, luring the fool into a false sense of security. Then, when the time is right, he strikes. The underling who dared touch you disappears, and for days, no one hears from him. Then, suddenly, his body turns up—dismembered, displayed with sickening artistry, a message written in his own blood. A warning.

- When he returns to you, there is not a single speck of blood on him. He is as immaculate as always, his movements smooth and practiced as he approaches you. His gloved fingers brush over your shoulder, over the place where the injury once was, his touch lingering. "No one will ever lay a hand on you again," he murmurs, voice silken but laced with something darker, something dangerous. "Not unless they have a death wish."

- He tilts your chin up with two fingers, studying you with that sharp, analytical gaze, and then he smiles—slow, lazy, possessive. "You belong to me, darling," he whispers against your lips, a ghost of a threat, a vow wrapped in silk. "And I always take care of what’s mine."

Quentin Beck | Mysterio

- Quentin is a master of illusions, a man who bends reality to his will. But this—this is no illusion. The sight of your injury is real. And that, more than anything, enrages him. He stands utterly still, his fingers twitching at his sides, his mind already spinning through a thousand different ways to fix this. "Someone put their hands on you?" His voice is eerily calm, too calm, like the surface of still water before something drags you under.

- He doesn’t just want revenge—he wants a show. Wants to make an example of the fool who thought they could harm his masterpiece. The man who hurt you wakes up in a nightmare. Shadows twist unnaturally around him, voices whisper from the darkness, and the air itself becomes suffocating. He cannot see. He cannot escape. Quentin lets him feel true fear, lets his mind break apart at the seams. And when he finally steps into the illusion, bathed in eerie green light, his voice is cold, theatrical. "You touched something that belongs to me. Now, let’s see how you like being toyed with."

- By the time the illusion fades, the man is reduced to a shaking, incoherent wreck, his mind so shattered that he will never be the same. Quentin does not need to dirty his hands with blood. He has already won. Fear is the best weapon, after all. And now? Now, no one will ever dare lay a hand on you again.

- When he returns, his touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he cups your face, tracing the curve of your jaw. "I’ve taken care of it," he murmurs, his voice carrying that ever-present theatrical flair, as if this was simply another act in a grand performance. "No one will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m around." And when he presses his lips to yours, it is possessive, a silent claim. You are mine. And I will burn the world before I let it take you from me.

Flint Marko | The Sandman

- Flint has never claimed to be a good man, but there are rules. Lines that even criminals don’t cross. And someone crossing you? That is unforgivable. When he sees the mark on you, the wound left by some lowlife under his command, something dark passes over his expression. His jaw tightens, his fists clench, and for a long moment, he just stares. Then, in a voice too quiet, too steady, he asks, "Who did it?"

- He doesn’t wait for the answer. He already knows. He finds him. And when he does, he doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t make threats. He just acts. His body twists and warps, arms elongating, fists turning into massive clubs of hardened sand. The first hit is brutal, sending the man crashing through a wall. The second is worse. By the time he’s done, the bastard is barely breathing, half-buried in the debris, coughing up blood and dust. Flint leans down, voice low, gravelly, dangerous. "You ever even look at her again, I’ll make sure there ain’t enough of you left to bury."

- When he returns to you, his hands are still rough, still calloused, but they are infinitely careful when they touch you. His fingers ghost over the mark, his brows furrowed in something like guilt, like regret that he wasn’t there when it happened. "I shoulda stopped it before it happened," he mutters, frustration lacing his tone. "Ain’t nobody layin’ a hand on you again. I promise you that."

- He presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your skin, his presence solid, steady, safe. And when he speaks again, his voice is softer, rough with something that sounds almost like devotion. "You’re the only thing in this world I ain’t gonna lose." And somehow, you know he means it.

Herman Schultz | The Shocker

- Violence has always been a means to an end for Herman, never something he enjoyed. He’s not one of those lunatics who relish brutality—he’s just a man trying to make a living. But when he sees the bruise marring your skin, the way you flinch ever so slightly when you move, something inside him curdles. His stomach twists, his fingers flex, and there’s a slow, creeping heat behind his eyes. Somebody hurt you. And that? That’s something he can’t let slide.

- He doesn’t go in guns blazing. He’s smarter than that. He finds out who did it first, who was stupid enough to lay hands on his girl. And when he does? He makes sure the message is clear. The vibrations from his gauntlets don’t just break bones—they shatter them. There’s no warning, no grand speech, just a quick, brutal demonstration of what happens when you cross him. The air trembles with every hit, and by the time he’s finished, there’s nothing left but wreckage and regret.

- When he comes back to you, he’s quieter than usual. There’s no bravado, no cocky grin—just a lingering tension in his shoulders, a ghost of something dark in his eyes. He hesitates before reaching for you, before brushing his knuckles ever so gently over the bruise. "Didn’t mean for you to get caught up in this," he mutters, voice low, rough with something close to guilt. "But I swear—it ain’t happenin’ again."

- And then, finally, his hands settle on your waist, pulling you against him, grounding himself in you. He presses his forehead to yours, exhales slow, deliberate. "You’re my girl," he murmurs, his voice softer now, steadier. "And I protect what’s mine."

Dmitri Smerdyakov | The Chameleon

- Dmitri is a man of masks, of deception, of control. And yet, when he sees the mark on your skin, all of that precision shatters. His breath slows, his body stills, and for the first time in a long time, something genuine flickers behind his ever-changing eyes. Fury. Not the theatrical kind, not the controlled, manufactured type—this is something raw, something visceral. Someone thought they could touch you and get away with it.

- He does not act in haste. No, he is patient, methodical. He waits. He studies his prey, slipping into their world, wearing faces they trust, whispering secrets that lead them straight to their downfall. By the time they realize what’s happening, it’s far, far too late. One night, they close their eyes—and when they wake, they are not where they were before. A cold, dimly lit room. A voice, smooth as silk, drips from the darkness. "Did you think I would not find you?"

- By the time he returns to you, there is not a single trace of blood on him. No evidence, no mess—only the ghost of a smirk, the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He steps close, fingers trailing over your wrist, up your arm, as if ensuring you are whole, untouched. "No one will ever hurt you again," he whispers, and it is not just a promise. It is fact.

- His lips brush against the shell of your ear, his voice a soft murmur, intimate, possessive. "You are mine, моя любовь. And I do not share what is mine."

Martin Li | Mister Negative

- There are two sides to Martin—light and shadow, kindness and wrath. But when he sees the evidence of someone else's violence on you, there is no kindness left. His breath catches, his fingers tighten into fists, and something in his expression shifts—something dangerous. He touches the injury gently, as if the very act of acknowledging it might taint you further. And then, quietly, almost too softly, he asks, "Who did this to you?"

- When he finds them, there is no shouting, no theatrics—only inevitability. The underling barely has time to register their mistake before Martin unleashes the darkness within. The corruption devours them, twisting their very essence, making them feel every ounce of pain they have inflicted—tenfold. They scream, but there is no one to save them. And Martin watches, calm, composed, as their own sins consume them from the inside out.

- When he returns to you, his hands are cool when they cup your face, his expression eerily serene. There is no need to speak of what he has done—you already know. Instead, his thumb brushes over your cheek, his touch reverent, careful. "I will not allow harm to come to you again," he says simply, as if it is law, as if the very world itself bends to his decree.

- And then, softly, with all the tenderness in the world, he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering, his breath warm against your skin. "You are precious to me," he whispers, and beneath the gentleness, there is an edge of something darker, something absolute. "And I do not lose what is mine."

Fred Myers | Boomerang

- Fred has never been the serious type. Always laughing, always running his mouth, always playing things off like nothing really matters. But when he sees what happened to you? When he sees the proof that someone put their hands on you? The easygoing grin vanishes. His whole body goes still. And then, with a quiet, almost chilling sort of calm, he says, "Tell me who did it."

- He tracks the bastard down himself, no hired muscle, no goons—just him. And when he finds them, all the jokes, all the charm, all the bullshit he usually hides behind is gone. He’s fast, brutal, efficient—sharp knuckles, steel-toed boots, the snap of a ribcage giving way under pressure. He doesn’t need his boomerangs for this. No, this? This is personal.

- When he comes back, there’s blood on his hands—his own, maybe, but mostly theirs. And for the first time in a long time, he actually looks serious. No jokes, no smug quips—just that sharp, assessing gaze as he steps closer, fingers brushing over your wrist. "They won’t bother you again," he says, and his voice is rougher than usual, lower. "Nobody’s gonna touch you. Not while I’m around."

- And then, as if realizing how intense he sounds, he exhales, shakes his head, lets that familiar smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. "Damn," he murmurs, tilting your chin up, eyes dark with something dangerous. "Didn’t know I had it in me to get all protective." His grin widens, teasing, but his grip on you is firm, steady. "Guess you bring out the worst in me, sweetheart. Or maybe the best.”

[nxtaliaistyping]

Need Baron Zemo to fuck me with the mask on :(

Authors note: omg i'm not really into the mcu anymore, but nothing can stop me thinking about this man I need him so badddddd (and daniel bruhl in general tbh)

18+ nsfw, villain kink, mask kink, fingering, rough sex, brief mention of killing

Thinking about being his girl, his pretty thing that sits in his lap while he drinks the most expensive wine in his expensive penthouse (just because he's on the run, doesn't mean he can't be in style)

You know who he is, the things he's done, but you just don't care. Not when he caresses you so gently, cooing soft words in your ear of how beautiful and enchanting he finds you, how much you fill the empty void left within him after Sokovia fell and everyone he loved was wiped out.

And if anything, he's too gentle. Not wanting to frighten you, the poor little lamb that you were, cuddling up to such a dangerous man every night. So he attempts to shield things from you, what he's done and what he's capable of.

But that changes one day, you feel the compulsive need to find out more about your lover, or at least see what he's like when he's the ruthless and strategic criminal that you've been told about. This leads you to following him, not an easy task, but you see how readily he is able to get his hands dirty. Tracking down some old HYDRA agent that has information that is useful to him, and you watch in slight horror and slight awe how he interrogates the man.

Although you have to look away at certain parts, hearing presumably the agent's body hitting the cold ground with a soft thud. While you try and leave quietly, you underestimated how much planning had went into his operation, because on your attempted escape you feel a large hand grab your upper arm, yanking you towards him with force and the start of a threat before he stops.

"dragă? what are you doing here?" he asks, his tone still slightly deeper than usual as you stare into his brown eyes; the only facial features visible while he wears the dark purple mask.

As you stumble over your words, telling him that you wanted to see the real him, he can't help but notice the slight flush of your skin, the way your chest rises and your lips part. In that moment he finally understands.

"Oh...I think I understand now. My little girl likes that i'm so dangerous, hm?" he asks, and you can hear the smirk behind his teasing lilt, his head cocked to one side as you nod, embarassed.

Soon enough, he has you pinned to the wall, hand stuffed between your thighs as he fingers your tight cunt from under your skirt. You whimper and whine at his treatment, and he revels in the fact you're so depraved, so naughty, and all for him.

"Do you like this, hm sreco? I was going to take this mask off, but I have a feeling that isn't what you desire." he rasps against your ear, and you nod breathlessly at how right his assumption was. All you can do is look up at him, clenching and making a mess around his fingers as you whine.

When he pulls his fingers away, he doesn't give you time to recover before you find yourself bent over a wooden crate and his cock is forcing its way in your pussy. He's never treated you as roughly as this before, but something about his girl loving how ruthless he is, wanting him to keep his goddamn mask on, flipped a switch in him as he starts a rough pace. The echoes of his hips slamming into your ass make you flush with embarrassment, gripping the edges of the surface for dear life, pretty nails he paid for digging into the wood.

"So filthy for me, my little girl is nothing but a slut." he groans out, squeezing your ass before giving it a harsh spank. The rhythm of his cock railing you has your eyes nearly crossing, as you try not to think about the fact you're fucking an older man after he's literally just killed someone.

When he cums, he buries himself to the hilt inside of you, feeling the way you tighten around him and squeeze every last drop out. As his breathing returns to normal, so too does his headspace as he rips the mask off quickly, pulling out to shush you gently and hold you in his arms.

"There we are dragă i'm here, i'm right here. I'm sorry for being so rough."

Taking you home, he'd spoil his good girl with a bath and food, but in the back of his mind he's already planning out how he can fuck you like that again.

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:·

[averagewriter-inthedark]

Fluffy Headcanons 🩶 | Hemut Zemo

Marvel Masterlist

Being in a relationship with Zemo would look like:

The man spoils you, to the point it's kinda suffocating. Considering this man is rich you can expect extravagant gifts on birthdays, anniversaries, and whenever he sees something and thinks of you. It doesn't have to be an occasion for Zemo to spend his bottomless pit of coin on you. 

Date night involving a dinner doesn't exactly mean you guys have to go out. This man can cook. He'll present you with the most gourmet meal you've ever seen, paired with a wine likely the cost of your life insurance plan, with candles lit and music flowing from the record player. "You've out done yourself once again, Helmut. It seems like I'm saying that every time we have dinner." "Well, darling, I only ensure the best for my love."

Zemo has several homes throughout the damn planet, so if you're ever feeling a change of scenery all you have to do is pick where you want to go. Paris, England, Rio, Sydney, Moscow, Los Angeles, Morocco, etc. You name it, Zemo has property there. You'll stay for weeks, maybe months, and sometimes if you like one more than the others, you'll live there for a few years and then move when the time feels right.....or when Zemo breaks the law again and now, you're on the run. 

You're the type of couple people stop and stare at. Zemo wouldn't consider himself a fashionista, but he likes to dress nice for any occasion--even grocery shopping--and that rubbed off on you. Often you'll be walking down the street and notice in your peripheral vision people pointing you out to their friends and admiring you guys from afar. "People are staring again." "Of course they are. They cannot believe they are seeing a living God/Goddess among them." 

If you have animals, it'll probably be a cat. Zemo gives off cat energy more so than dog and he'd be the type of cat person who says he dislike cats but then falls in love with one and it changes his perspective. How came to have cat likely was you feeding the neighborhood stray and taking it in, ignoring Zemo's refusal but then you catch him putting tuna on a plate and bringing home flea medicine.

Your house is covered in artwork because Zemo is a collector. There's not a single wall that is not straight out of a museum. Monet's, Picasso's, etc. Paintings and sculptures. If you ever wanted to make an exhibit in your house and have people pay to see it, you could for sure do it. 

When you have movie nights, it's basically you two analyzing every single detail and having a full-on discussion rather than watching the film. Especially if it's movies you've already seen and are rewatching. Zemo can't shut up, and you shove popcorn in your mouth while he vents about how stupid the main character was or how plot lacked consistency. If Zemo really liked a film, he'll actually shut up because he doesn't have anything to say. 

His love languages are acts of service and quality time. And you can add gifts into the mix because he loves to give you gifts. 

You two play chess a lot--It's one of the ways you have quality time together. Zemo is a master at chess and while you were weak in the beginning you quickly became a master yourself and now you two have matches lasting hours. 

Zemo has a photo album dedicated to you of all your dates and trips or special moments you shared. All taken on a film camera because while he does have hundreds of pictures of you on his phone, there's something personal and intimidate in capturing the beauty of you on film. 

You have matching jewelry you both wear and hardly ever take off. If you're married, of course you have the rings but even then, you both have matching bracelets or necklaces. It's probably got your names or initials engraved or has your birthstones. 

[mypoisonedvine]

𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙯𝙫𝙤𝙪𝙨 | helmut zemo x reader

@radmerrmaid requested a drabble with zemo and enemies to lovers. what happened is a whole oneshot. don't ask me how.

word count: 4.3k

warnings: DUBCON SMUT, enemies to lovers/hate sex, rough sex including hair pulling, degradation and name calling, restraint, a slap, and overstimulation, touchstarved reader, unspecified age gap, very mild violence (hand-to-hand combat and a mention of a previous gunshot wound), kidnapping, soft!dark zemo?

"It must drive you crazy," he purred, wrapping his fingers carefully around the crystal glass before picking it up. "Seeing me like this."

He smirked around his sip of bourbon— at least you figured it was bourbon— as you tried to keep a poker face. You didn't like the idea of being seen as crazy at all, let alone because of him. "Like what?" you pressed instead of admitting to it.

"Free," he shrugged. "Out of that cage you worked so hard to keep me in."

"Getting you there was my job," you corrected with a frown. "If keeping you there was mine, too... you'd still be in it."

He laughed lightly, if briefly, and shook his head. "Still so prideful. You're young, and you have something to prove."

"I have nothing to prove to you," you asserted, shifting your weight on your hips— it was sort of uncomfortable to keep standing, but it felt wrong to take a seat even though he'd offered you one when you entered. It seemed like a sign of trust. Not that he should be surprised by you acting aloof, when he'd offered to meet you here without even explaining why.

"No, not to me," he agreed, setting the glass down again and taking one step closer to you. "To your friends at the CIA."

He seemed to emphasize every letter of the acronym, a playful condescension in his tone. "Friends is a funny way to say it," you rolled your eyes, "like I do what I do because I want to be popular, and not because I want to keep the world safe."

"Safe from me," he added, "the evil terrorist. Right?"

You ignored his question, not really wanting to dignify it with an answer— or start some spiel about how you don't really believe in evil people, just actions that merit punishment, bla bla bla...

"Yet, you couldn't keep yourself safe from me," he went on, raising one eyebrow as he examined you. "Or, you can't. Here you are— alone, as I asked."

Obviously, you had tried to imagine some way you could have back-up for this, even just tell someone where you were going. But this was Zemo's turf, and he had eyes and ears all over the city... he would know if you tried to turn this into a sting. Instead, you only hoped to gain some sort of information tonight that you could use to track him down when he tried to run again.

"You're more trusting than I suspected," he smirked, gaze darkening a bit. "Or, more desperate."

"Maybe the right word is 'curious'," you proposed. "Clearly, you have something to discuss with me."

"I do," he nodded. "A question to ask you-- one I feel only you can answer."

You waited for him to ask it, but even just the way he sucked in a sharp breath made you realize he was going to bore you with some preamble first— just like him, really..

"You see, after evading you so many times—"

"Narrowly," you interjected.

"Maybe some times," he shrugged, smiling, "other times, I think I had plenty of room. But that's besides the point... the point is, here I am. I've probably bested you for the last time—"

"That's not—"

"Ah ah, no interrupting, please," he scolded gently. "I know you know that if I can keep a low profile here, your organization has no hope of getting me back. I simply have too many resources, and your superiors know my risk is relatively low. No?"

Again, you refused to answer, but the way you crossed your arms tighter and glanced away seemed to serve as enough of an agreement.

"So that's it— I'm free. It should be so simple," he sighed. "So, why am I disappointed?"

You furrowed your brows, staring at him in confusion. You were waiting for him to say something to give context to that, but he didn't— he only waited for your response with an earnest look. "Why... are you asking me that?" you wondered.

"Because you're the person who knows me best."

You'd never thought of it like that, and it was such a jarring idea that you began to shake your head almost instantly. "No, that... that doesn't seem right..."

"I figured you would take pride in it," Zemo grinned. "You tracked me for years, studied me, learned my habits... I had to do the same to escape you. I must know you better than anyone else."

"That's ridiculous," you scoffed. "What are you trying to say?"

"I just hoped you could tell me why I feel this way— why I feel so wrong about never seeing you again."

Your chest tightened. You couldn't bear to meet his gaze; your stomach felt sick and strange and you just wanted to run out of there, but what good would that do? You needed him to tell you something you could use, one last chance to catch him before it was too late.

"If I didn't know you so well, and hate you so much," he went on, "I wouldn't have the energy to keep running. And me? I'm your biggest case. Sometimes you act like I'm your only case. What is it about me, that you need to win against me so badly?"

"It's not you," you insisted instantly, "it's me— it's who I am."

"Maybe that's how it started," he suggested, "but you can't spend so long hunting someone without becoming a little obsessed with them— trust me, I would know."

You grimaced at him. "You— you can't be serious."

"Who will you be without me to chase?" he pressed anyways, matching some of your anger as he stepped closer again— almost too close. "Without this... passion, between us?"

"Don't step any closer," you warned.

"Or what?" he challenged. "No weapons, no soldiers— it's just the two of us here."

He stepped up again, nearly pressed against you, and you couldn't let him get away with that... you had to prove you meant what you said. You weren't armed, and you knew he wasn't someone you wanted to go up against hand-to-hand... but at the same time, it was one thing you'd always secretly wished for. A chance to wage this war the way it should be, the way it had always been: personal.

You stepped back at the same time as you swung your fist, giving yourself just enough room to gain momentum— but you weren't quite fast enough, and he blocked you. From then on it was fast, instinctual: he was stronger but you were quicker, and on the offensive.

You never quite landed a hit, but neither did he— which felt like a good sign, until you realized he wasn't really giving it his all. Dodging and blocking, yes, but he wasn't trying to win, just keep you at bay.

"Come on!" you yelled in frustration as you finally got in a kick to his chest, forcing him to stumble back and nearly fall. "What are you doing, pitying me?"

"Hardly," he wheezed, a little affected by the hit, which made you smirk. "But I don't want to hurt you."

"Please," you rolled your eyes, putting your fists up and stabilizing your posture. "If we're going to do this, let's do it right."

He came at you, and finally, there it was... his real strength. That passion he'd been talking about, you could feel it.

Both of you were flushed and panting, exhilarated by the sport of it all. Unfortunately, right as you thought you'd found your moment— the weak spot in his form— it was a trap. When you moved in closer, he grabbed you and spun you around, holding your back against his chest so tight that you struggled to breathe.

But he didn't shove you down, didn't put you in a chokehold, didn't even threaten you or gloat about pinning you. Instead, he only held you tighter, and soothed you with a gentle 'shh' in your ear when you tried to squirm out of his grasp.

"Wh-what are you doing?" you whispered, your whole body shaking as he ran his tongue up your neck.

"If it's curiosity that brought you here," he purred in response, "I can satisfy that."

"You can't be fffucking serious," you hissed, though a moan tainted your words as one of his hands ran down your body, the other still effortlessly holding you still.

"I know you so well," he went on, a deep growl in his voice as your eyes fell shut. "I know how lonely you must be. That's one of the things we share."

His hand was heavy and warm against your leg, even through your pants— and it was moving higher, petting your inner thigh as you shivered.  Though your mind longed to resist him, your body was desperate for any affection; because he was right, you were lonely.  You couldn’t think of the last time someone had touched you like this, and yet you remembered it didn’t usually feel this good.  His touch was precise and careful and teasing— not too awkward but not too cocky.  And the heat of him wrapped around you, his hot breath on your shoulder, his wider form encompassing you… how could it feel so good?

“And I know you’ve thought about this,” he added.  “That’s something we share, too.”

He couldn’t know that— he might be rich and resourceful, but he wasn’t omniscient.  If you were any more logical in that moment, you would’ve realized he was just guessing and denied it.  But his teeth brushing over your pulse didn’t exactly provoke your critical thinking skills.  “Fuck, I— fuck,” you choked out instead, shuddering when he chuckled proudly.

“You might hate me, draga, but you need me,” he explained.  “Your mind needs me, just as much as your body does.”

Something about the way his fingers traced up your side, teasing your breast before pulling away right before getting to anything too exciting… it seemed to bring you back to reality, at least partially.  You absolutely couldn’t do this— you couldn’t let him do this.  “G-get off me,” you choked out, struggling against him again.

“That’s what you want?” he taunted.

“Get the fuck off me!” you yelped.

“Make me,” he challenged.

Bringing your foot down hard on top of his, he winced and you managed to break away, spinning around and shoving him back— he actually lost his balance that time, falling to the floor.  You were ready to deliver a firm and swift kick between his legs, but rolled over and grabbed your leg while it was up, bringing you down to the floor with him.

He laughed breathlessly, sounding a little frustrated, as you flailed for purchase against the floor— only for him to grab your wrists and pin you down, positioning himself over you with a grin.  His hair was shaken out of its style, hanging around his face which was flushed from exertion.  “You keep me on my toes, I’ll give you that,” he offered.  You tried to writhe again but he had you properly trapped now, with absolutely no way out.

“You wouldn’t,” you sneered incredulously.

“Wouldn’t what, dear?”

“You wouldn’t force yourself on me,” you completed.

He seemed a little surprised, hanging his head and shaking it.  “Oh,” he breathed, “no, I wouldn’t.”

A little relieved, you started to catch your breath.

“I don’t need to.”

He brought his lips down to yours suddenly— the collision was almost too rough, and yet it was the only thing that made sense for the two of you.  You groaned in protest yet submitted instantly, opening your mouth wide for his desperate and dominating kiss.

Your back arched up off the floor, and his weight seemed to sink down on top of you in response.  Though you hated yourself for it, you spread your legs a bit, just enough for him to rest his hips between— and fuck, you could feel it.  The hard, throbbing heat, you could feel it pressed against you and the most horrible moan was nearly lost to his lips.

He hummed back proudly, running his hands over your body, kissing you faster.

You were gasping for breath when he broke away, which only worsened when he latched onto your neck.  “God, I hate you,” you blurted out, just to remind you both that if this was going to happen, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

“You hate me for all those times I embarrassed you?” he assumed, hands holding your waist and starting to slide up your shirt.  “For when I eluded you, wasted your time, made a fool of you?”

“And that time you shot me.”

“I winged you,” he corrected— like that was any better.

He tugged your shirt up and you raised your arms, letting him slip it off; he spotted the scar right away, a line across your arm just under your shoulder.  He cooed for a second before kissing it softly— too gentle a moment for you to let lie.  You shoved his jacket back next, helping him slip it off his shoulders before pulling him down to kiss you again.

Your sports bra had a clasp in the front, it was a bit unique in that way, yet he had no trouble with it.  Freeing your chest, he of course had to tease you a bit more— instead of groping your waiting breasts right away, he guided your arms down from where they held onto the back of his neck, lifting you up from the floor a bit so you could slide the garment off and toss it away.  

When you laid back down, the floor was cold, but the hiss you let out was more a response to him rocking his hips against you, teasing you through these stupid remaining clothes.  “You know why I hate you?” he returned as he started to unbutton your pants, even though you’d entirely forgotten that last part of the conversation.

Before he answered the question, he yanked your pants and underwear down to your thighs— and swiftly got his own out of the way.  Your heart raced; you weren’t totally convinced this was really happening, not until he pushed into you in one painfully sudden thrust.  You cried out, yet he took no mercy on you.  He was ruthless, in fact.

Choking on your broken cries, you arched up off the floor again as he hammered into you, rage and relief and desperation evident in every movement.  He had to hold your legs tightly just to keep you from sliding across the floor, which only ensured you took every stroke as deep as it could go— which was already too fucking deep.

“Say it,” he ordered, “tell me why I hate you.”

“I caught you,” you said— but you knew that would just make him angrier.  Maybe that was kind of the idea.

Stopping just long enough to tug your pants the rest of the way off— and leaving you naked while he was still mostly dressed— he descended over you and looked right at you, far too close, with a rageful stare.

“You trapped me,” he corrected gruffly.  “You played dirty.”

Before you had a chance to retort that all’s fair in love and war, he started to pound into you… harder and meaner than ever.  You didn’t surprise yourself by crying out, considering how intense and nearly painful the feeling was, but you were a little confused that the word you said was a needy yes!

"Those years in prison," he snarled, "you could barely call it living, life in that place— you put me there. I thought every day about how you put me there."

He yanked your hair, making you whine loudly and exposing your neck for his lips and teeth to explore freely.  

Finally, a hand latched onto your chest— a hot palm encompassing your breast and skilled fingers pinching lightly at your nipple.  You couldn’t believe how composed he was through all this— in many ways, he wasn’t, but he seemed to be deliberate with every way he touched you and that was far more togetherness than you had.

You weren’t together at all, actually… something about the heat of the moment, the way your body responded to him, the way he glared at you… you could already feel tension building inside you.  It wouldn’t be long, not if he kept going like this.

“I thought about you every fucking day, draga— that you were free, and I was trapped in that cell,” he growled.  “You missed it, didn’t you?  Chasing me.”

When you didn’t answer, he struck you across the face with the back of his hand; the shock of it made your walls clench on him, or at least you could blame it on that, but you had no way to explain the way you moaned a moment later.

He moved even faster, a sickening wet sound echoing through the room which you hated to acknowledge was your own body.  “The worse I am to you, the wetter you get,” he noticed, smiling for just a moment.  “What a filthy whore you are.”

“F-fuck you,” you stammered roughly.

“Actually, why don’t you?” he offered, grabbing you by the hips and rolling both of you over until he was on his back and you were straddling him.  “Show me how bad you need it.”

As much as you wanted to not do what he told you, your hips were already moving— your body was on its own mission now, desperate for pleasure and friction and heat.  Desperate for anything he would give.  You whimpered as you grinded down on him, feeling his cock go so much deeper than you imagined was possible.  “God,” you sobbed, tossing your head back and trying not to picture the way he must have been looking at you then.

His hands moved all over you, up your thighs and over your breasts, even wrapping around your neck once though they didn’t put on enough pressure to really choke you.  “Pretty girl,” he praised darkly, making chills dance over your skin.

But when his hands settled on your hips, trying to guide you the way he wanted, you’d had enough; you grabbed him at the wrists and leaned forward, pinning his hands beside his head.  He smirked up at you at first, but when you bounced your hips up and down while hovering over him, his eyes fell shut and he let out a deep groan.  “I’m close,” you panted sharply.

“You can make yourself come like this?” he realized, sounding a little impressed.  He opened his eyes and lifted his head for a moment to get a better look at you, before almost instantly giving up again and dropping his head back to the floor with a moan.  “Fine, take it— just take what you need, draga.”

You held tighter to his wrists, mostly to keep yourself stable, and you felt his own hands ball into fists as you bounced faster.  “Oh god, oh god, oh god— yes!” you yelped, legs quivering as it struck you.  It seemed to come and go so quickly, perhaps because your strength gave out halfway through and you felt weak and paralyzed.  It had been ages since you’d felt pleasure like that… actually you weren’t sure you’d ever felt pleasure like that, at least not so much all at once.

If only he were satisfied by that.  With your grip weakened, he easily pulled his hands away to wrap his arms around you, holding you tightly and bucking his hips up into you rapidly.

“Fuck, wait, s-slow down,” you panted, whining weakly as he shook his head against the crook of your neck.

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he purred.  “I won’t be able to slow down at all until you’re full of come, draga.  I want you dripping.”

You were all numb and limp now, so raw and sensitive inside— he put you on your back again and didn’t struggle at all to pull another orgasm from you.  The third, though, was a little more hard fought: he rubbed your clit with an almost painful amount of pressure, watching through dark eyes and with a sneering grin as you screamed and shivered.

“Not too loud, darling,” he warned, “the people in the streets might hear you, the window’s still open—”

“Fuck!” you shouted, high-pitched and shaky, and he covered your mouth with his other hand as he laid on you with a growl.

“Just one more, then I’ll fill you,” he promised.  “I only need to feel you come one more time.  You want a rest, don’t you?”

You nodded weakly, biting down on your shaking lip.

“Then give me what I want.”

Your final cry was stuttered and helpless, every final ounce of energy in your body being taken from you by the final forced peak of ecstasy.  But it wasn’t until you sighed out his name, barely audible under your breath, that he groaned against your neck and pumped himself deep inside you— every drop, leaving you full to the brim and then some.  

You didn’t even have the strength to hold onto him, but he held you far too tightly as if to make up for it, and didn’t let you go for quite some time.

It had only gotten darker and colder out, and the draft through the window eventually danced over your sweat-slickened skin.  When you shivered under him, Helmut lazily reached up to the couch nearby, pulling a throw blanket off of it and wrapping you both up in its soft embrace.  You sighed with relief from both the cold air and the hard floor, not even realizing you were falling asleep. 

Even when you woke up, you didn’t really notice that you’d been asleep— except that Helmut was gone, and the fireplace was going.  Sitting up as little as you could get away with to look for him— since moving at all was quite a task given how tired you were— you heard him coming around the corner and turned back to look at him.

He was in a robe now, and carrying two crystal glasses of water.  He smiled at you as he sat back down on the floor, laying beside you on the blanket and handing you your glass.  “Figured you would need this soon enough,” he explained with a soft voice as you sipped carefully at the water.  You weren’t really ready to talk to him yet, but you wanted to thank him for the water, so you just nodded and hoped that would get the point across.

The silence was probably only awkward for you— he seemed totally at peace, getting through most of his drink before setting it down on the floor and cuddling up to you again with a contented sigh.

You quietly drank the water, staring forward at the crackling fire, hardly believing where you were.  It actually sounded sort of romantic on paper: a dashing and wealthy older man, a penthouse apartment in a foreign city, a fire, a blanket, a crystal glass…

If it weren’t for the wanted terrorist, it might make for a good little fantasy.

Yet, you set your glass aside and laid back down with him.  He slipped an arm around you, holding your shoulder and petting it with his thumb, even kissing the side of your forehead sweetly.  “I don’t understand how you can… be like that,” you whispered, glancing down at his arm crossed over your chest.

“Not everyone is so afraid of their feelings as you are,” he countered, and you snorted a little.

“I’m not afraid of my feelings,” you denied half-heartedly.

“You’re afraid of me, then?” he wondered.

“Not… quite…” you murmured your answer, not even sure yourself what you felt.  “I mean, I drank the water, so—”

“I wondered if you would,” he laughed, “but I’m glad you did.”

“I mean, only half the glass, technically,” you noticed.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ve had enough,” he shrugged.

“Enough?” you chuckled.  “After that, half a glass of water is hardly enough.  I won’t be recovered until I have a protein-heavy meal and probably a couple painkillers— if I wanna, you know, sit or jog or whatever in the next few days.”

“I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment,” he chuckled, “but I didn’t mean enough to recuperate.  I meant enough for you to sleep until we get there.”

“...what?” you asked, turning over your shoulder with knitted brows to look at him.

“If even you know where you’re going, you might find a way to get out is all,” he explained flippantly.

“What… what are you…?” you started, shaking your head— but it didn’t shake off that funny feeling, that heaviness in your head.

“You see, I did think about you every day in my cell,” he went on, “and I thought about how, someday, I would lock you away— so you’d know how it feels, to be a prisoner.”

Whimpering as realization dawned, you sat up quickly to try to fight whatever was in that water… but it only seemed to make it worse, spots forming in your vision like when you stand up too fast— except they didn’t fade, just multiplied.

“I’ll treat you much better than I was, though,” he assured, “in fact, I think you’ll be better off than you were before… you’ll be mine, draga.  No one else will ever see you again.”

You tried to speak but it wasn’t really coming together— you tried to push him away but you only limply held onto him, looking up at his eerily blank expression with your fading vision.  As it all turned to black, he caught your head before it hit the floor, cradling it rather tenderly before kissing your cheek.

“Now,” he whispered to you, though you couldn’t possibly hear it, “let’s get you cleaned up— the plane is waiting to take you to our new home.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Collision

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, blood, injury, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you find yourself in the hands of unexpected saviours after an accident.

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Helmut Zemo

Note: Ugh, here we go.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

A loud bang awakes you.

You're not in your bed. Not sleeping. That cloudy feeling in your head combines with the haze of dust across your vision. The same ash coats your skin, suffocating as you writhe beneath the weight that pins you.

You moan and cough, dizzy and dazed as your mind turns slowly. You reach up instinctively to drag yourself free of whatever is on you. The effort does little more than pull more scraps of plaster towards you.

You fall flat and wheeze. What the heck happened? You blink and try to wipe the grime from your face.

It comes in patches. The big building, the interview, your borrowed heels. The desperation that's now turned dire as you stare at the singed ceiling.

"Dammit," a voice snarls as there's a clatter. Some metal thumps and there's a hiss. "You goddamn--" the man stops himself. "I said no bombs."

"You said you wanted a way in, soldat," the lilted slither returns.

"Don't call me that. I'll break your jaw," the deeper voice warns. "I doubt that thing you're wearing will protect you. You look stupid."

"Well, forgive me for having taste," the other man snickers. "You got what you needed--"

"I don't need all this. Do you have any idea the kinda shit that's gonna rain down on me. You're lucky this place was as shell--"

Your throat clogs with ash and you cough again. You try to wet your lips but even your tongue is pasty with the stuff. Their voices silence. You listen but only hear one pair of steps.

A shadow appears on the other side of the lumber and metal that traps you. Another from your other side you don't hear. You raise your palm helplessly to shield yourself. Blood covers your fingers, one of them bent to the side. You whimper and choke again.

"Shit, I told you--" The bare-faced man snarls at the one in the strange purple mask.

"She was not in my calculations," the other rebuffs.

"Not in your--" the other huffs and stops himself. He drops to one knee over you. "Miss, miss, can you hear me?"

You try to answer and your voice comes out like a fizzle. He shakes his head and turns to sneer at the other man. He stands and lifts the thick pillar from over you, clearing away the rest of the mess.

"Little help," he snips at the other.

"I think you got it," the other pulls a thin thread free of his glove.

"Miss," the other man kneels again, feeling around his belt. He frees a canteen and searches his pockets. He shrugs and pours the water over your face. He wipes the dust away with his hand then put the neck above your lips. "Don't swallow, you gotta rinse this stuff out."

He fills your mouth and you gag. He hurriedly sits you up and you hack out the liquid with a rattle. Your arms hangs at your left side and you grunt at the pang in your bones.

"Zemo! You just gonna watch."

"Yes," the other man answers smugly. "What are we going to do with the creature?"

"You're serious?"

"I am... on the lamb, as you say," the other shrugs.

"Get the car," the man holding you up growls.

"Wh-what..." you can barely speak for the pain. Your head droops as the room tilts in your vision and you stare down at the red stain across your pressed blouse. Blood. Your blood.

"Go!" The man yells.

The footsteps of the other scamper off beneath his grumble. The man lifts you as you put your head back and scream in horror. You feel the blood draining out of you.

"Shh, stop," he hisses as he walks over the piles of rubble. "Don't do that, alright? You gotta calm down."

"B-b-but..." you babble and put your hands to your side, feeling the warm stickiness.

"That's it, doll, put pressure on it." He girds as he nears the blown-out wall.

You whine and quake as you obey him. You tuck your chin down and focus on containing the flow. An engine whirs up and he angles you around to open the door. He slides you into the backset and follows you.

"Go," he orders the driver.

"Oh, Barnes," the man he called Zemo tuts. "Not such a cold heart after all."

"Be quiet," he snips. Barnes?

He slides something free of the pocket in the door and opens the small chest. He takes out gauze and folds it in layers.

"Let me get a look," he touches your hand with his. His fingers are forged in metal. Huh?

Your hand slips and he wipes with the gauze. He hums as he leans in, parting the torn fabric around the gash.

"Not awful," her mutters.

"Dying," you murmur.

"No," he insists. "Zemo, what are you doing? Taking in the sights?"

"Be calm. It wouldn't do to draw attention," he insists.

The other man growls again but keeps tending to you. He tugs your shirt up above your chest and wraps your middle, padding around the cut with a thick layer of cotton. He knots it tight then puts his fingers to your neck.

"Pulse is strong," he says then feels along your arm. You cry out as he touches left. "Can you move it?"

You try and shriek again.

"Dear man, her screams are rather distracting."

"Shut up." Barnes' lips thin. "Alright, uh," he unzips his jacket and slips his hand under, fishing around. "Just relax, doll. I got something will help you until we get you fixed up."

He slides out a metal tube. You squint, your lashes still covered in dust. A sharp point pops out the end. Before you can react, he jabs it into your upper arm. A coolness spreads through your vein and tingles over you, washing out the agony.

"Zemo..." Barnes hisses as your eyes drift upward into the sockets. "... you goddamn idiot."

💞

Swaths of black and grey fold into each other in the abstraction of your subconscious. You forget the ruin, the blood, the fear. You forget yourself as you sink into the pit.

A glimmer of light breaks the void. A thin line between your eyelids. Your skull pulses and you feel as if you're moving. You open your eyes completely. You're still. Laying on your back, propped up slightly, in a king bed.

Where are you? The world around you is unfamiliar. The tall posts of the bed frame, the canopy pinned back behind them, the silky duvet and sheets. For all the comfort, you are entirely uncomfortable.

Your shoulder hurts, your ribs and side too, your face is thrumming, and your finger is on fire. You look down at your right hand. Your pink is wrapped and splinted. Your left shoulder is achy, your arm bent into a sling. The blankets are folded right beneath your elbow, hiding the rest of your injuries.

You remember the earth shaking, the dust, the voices. Those men...

You peer around as slowly the edges of your vision sharpen. There's a large painting showing a scene of ribaldry, men and women from another era sloshing wine without modesty. The furniture is antique and polished, well-kept, the wall-paper vintage but not gauche.

Next to you is a folded paper standing like a pyramid. Next to it, a golden bell. The card reads; ring me.

You whimper at just the thought of moving. You don't even try your left arm. You reach and grab the handle, your pinky kept straight in the splint. You tinkle the bell and the noise rattles in your head. You put it down to quiet the sharp noise.

You wait. You don't hear anything. Nothing changes.

You close your eyes and ease against the pillows. You hurt so bad. You wish you could just go back to sleep but the pain keeps you restless.

There's a creak. You look out from beneath your lashes as the door opens. A man enters. Brown hair, browner eyes, and a permanent smirk written into his thin lips.

"Darling, you are alive!" He raises his glass of dark liquid and slurps bawdily. "Cheers to you."

You blink. You know that voice. The buzzing in your ears clears.

"Zemo?"

"You remember!" He winks triumphantly. "Ah, but you must be miserable. Scotch?"

He comes closer and offers the glass. He wears a silken robe that gives a peek at his fluffy chest hair. You frown and shake your head, grimacing at the ripples of pain.

"I do recommend it. In your state, especially."

"Zemo," his voice rolls like silt in the air. He backs away and turns to watch the other man enter. The one with the metal arm.

"Barnes," you croak.

He stops short and looks at Zemo. "Bucky," he corrects you.

You can only nod. Just once before you moan and quiver against the pillows.

"It must be wearing off," he shakes his head and approaches. He opens the drawer of the nightstand. He takes out another metal tube. "Half-dose this time. Don't wanna make a habit."

He pokes your arm again. Too quick for you to react. You sigh as the soothing floe overrides your pain.

"You do like them sedated, eh?" The other man teases.

"Why are you in here?" Bucky spins on his cohort. "Hm? And why aren't you dressed?"

"You should be praising me. I was quick to respond for her call for help. I did not even fully draw my bath. I came at once."

"With scotch?"

"Well, forgive me for enjoying the finer things."

"You are unbelievable."

"Me? You are the one who absconded with a casualty."

"I did not--"

"You should've taken her to hospital."

"You said--"

"You don't usually listen to me," Zemo counters coyly. Your eyelids droop as their argument turns to low drones in your itchy ears.

"Doll," Bucky startles you as suddenly he's beside you, sat on the edge of the bed with a glowing glass of water. "You need to drink some. Eat too."

You gurgle senselessly. He leans the brim on your lips and slowly tips it into your mouth. He gentle rubs your throat to make your swallow. It's almost soothing.

"We're just gonna get you back to new then..." he trails off into a sigh. "Wasn't supposed to happen." He trades the glass for a bowl. "Soup."

He offers the spoon. You bat your lashes and open your mouth numbly. He feeds you the warm broth. You close your mouth and gulp with effort.

"Sorry, ya know? It's not-- not what I'm doing-- I thought--" he shakes his head. "Does it matter what I say? Look at you."

You don't say anything. You can't. He feeds you another bite and you shakily move your right hand towards him. You touch the hem of his shirt. He looks down in confusion.

"What?" He furrows his brow, blue eyes swimming like water sparkling over the coast.

"Know... you." You utter as your brain flickers.

He shrugs and scoops up more soup. As he hovers it before you, you groan and lift your hand to touch his. You brush the metal plates of the heel cradling the bowl.

"Hero." You say as the thoughts slowly piece together.

He sighs and looks down. His jaw clenches and his nose flares. He glances over his shoulder.

"Trying," he utters.

You keep your hand up, shifting it to look at your pinky. You frown. He does too. He rests the spoon in the bowl and gently guides your hand down.

"Tried to fix you up," he spoons up more soup. "Gonna be a bit."

You take another bite. It's better the more you eat. Not as stringent. Your stomach slowly adjusts.

You watch him as you eat. That seems to make him nervous. You remember him from pictures and videos. On the news. In history books.

"Bucky," you say.

"Just like I said, doll," he affirms.

You nod and open your mouth again. He puts the spoon in and you suck it clean. Now he watches you.

"Sorry about my... about Zemo."

You shake your head and wave weakly. You push your hand on the bed and try to sit up. His eyes flash.

"Woah, don't-- you gotta take it easy."

You fall back and whine. He sets the bowl down and turns to help you, sitting you up higher as he adjusts the pillows. He draws back, his hands brushing your sides and he sits again.

"Doll, you need anything, you say so." He eyes you with concern. "Already did enough damage."

[loki-quinn]

SQUEE!! Daniel brühl confirming my headcannon that Zemo is so into fashion... IS JUST YES

I love the interviewer for asking!!!

[welikeimagines-andfandoms]

Can I Hold Your Hand?- Zemo x Reader

Summary: Zemo looks after a super soldier friend of Buckys when she’s scared

Word count: 637

✨Want to be tagged in my next Zemo fic? Click here✨

A/N: Sort of sick of seeing ex hydra/red room characters or readers being all broody and angry from PTSD, so I decided to show the other and very real side of it. This isn’t me infantilising reader, it’s just a genuine way to experience PTSD

The great expanse of the wide open streets bustling with life and music, soon became small and dangerous. You were trained, and knew that anyone who did try to approach Zemo or yourself wouldn’t get far if they tried to attack, but the thought of a conflict caused your heart to race.

Zemo was confused when Bucky had asked him to care for his fellow ex Hydra friend while he was away. Most people who had escaped Hydra or the Red Room could take care of themselves. While they were riddled with anxieties and nightmare they still managed alone, but you needed people, you needed care.

The result of years of abuse at the hands of Hydra had caused you to become vulnerable, and often needing an almost child-like protection. You’d tried to hide this need for so long, but according to a therapist Bucky had found for you, it was a very normal and natural response to PTSD.

As the walk from your day out with Zemo continued, any person you passed or sudden noise caused you to walk closer and closer to the man walking beside you. Your cowering posture and protective proximity did not go unnoticed by the Baron, but he just kept watching you, both intrigue and worry filling his mind.

Trying to remember the breathing exercises and grounding techniques you’d learn, you tried not to be afraid, but after passing under one broken street light and a box of broken glass smashing into a bin, you couldn’t help but jump. Clinging desperately onto Zemos arm, you looked into his eyes sheepishly.

“Ca-can I hold your hand?” Your meek voice asked shamefully.

Smiling down at you, Zemo knew he should have revelled in seeing an all powerful super soldier so weak and powerless, but all that flashed in his minds eye was the image of his son and his wife. Instead of disdain or twisted pleasure, your scared eyes and innocent question caused him to feel warm, and for the first time in a long time, he was a caregiver again. He felt like he was needed in the most simple and wholesome way possible.

“Of course you may, and here,” the Baron spoke as he began to take off his large expensive jacket, “take this, please, it will keep you warm. Wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I let you freeze.”

Slowly you took the coat from his hands, and slipped your arms through the jacket sleeves. Once on, you gingerly reach for his now ungloved hand.

Zemo must have taken his gloves off just to hold your hand. The thought of such a small act of kindness made you feel more cared for then you had in a long time.

The next ten minutes back to his apartment were silent, but comfortable, and as the walk continued you found yourself being closer and closer to him. By the time you arrived, your arms were linked together, and your head was resting peacefully against his shoulder.

Opening the door he ushered you inside, and though you were safe now, neither of you seemed to let go of the other. Instead his hands had slipped around your waist, and yours now rested against his chest.

You both stared into each others eyes, as if you were trying to search for an answer. He found that you were scared and safe with him, but the underlying feeling of joy that brought him, also confused him. Why did he care for you suddenly? He had only known you a few days, and yet he wanted nothing more then to see you happy and cared for.

“You’re safe now,” he gently spoke, a soft warm kiss placed on your forehead.

You can’t help but lean into his soothing touch, his very presence feeling like home.

[woods-and-adlers-left-hand-chap]

Whenever I read a fic that's like "he/she was bent over the table" this is all I have in my head

(it's weaver)

[multific]

Ghosts of Sokovia

Baron Helmut Zemo x Reader

Summary: As a journalist chasing the truth behind Sokovia’s fall, you expected danger, but not Baron Helmut Zemo himself finding you first. 

You had been warned.

Dig too deep, ask the wrong questions, and eventually, someone will come looking for you.

It seemed that day had come.

Your apartment door was already open when you returned. A chill ran down your spine as you stepped inside, clutching your bag as if it could serve as any real defence. 

The room was untouched, no signs of a struggle, no shattered glass, no ransacked drawers. 

That was almost worse. 

Whoever had been here didn’t need to search. 

They had simply waited.

The soft clink of glass drew your eyes to the living room. 

There he was.

Baron Helmut Zemo sat comfortably in your armchair, legs crossed, a glass of whiskey in hand. 

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes watched you as if he already knew your every thought before you could speak it.

“You’ve been asking dangerous questions.”

Your heart pounded, but you tried your best to steady your voice. “And you’ve been answering them by breaking into my home?”

Zemo smirked, tilting his glass in a slow, lazy gesture. “Consider it an act of courtesy. Others might not be so... civil.”

You knew who he was. 

A man responsible for the collapse of the Avengers, and for the deaths of countless people. 

A man who had spent years in prison, only to escape and disappear into the world like a ghost. 

And yet, as you sat across from him in a dimly lit café hours later, you realized you were not afraid. 

Not exactly.

“If you’re here to threaten me, Baron, I should warn you, I don’t scare easily.”

He chuckled, taking a slow sip of his drink. “If I wanted you gone, you wouldn’t be here at all.”

You swallowed hard, refusing to let his words shake you. “Then what do you want?”

Zemo leaned forward slightly, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his face. “You seek the truth about Sokovia. I can give it to you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Why?”

He exhaled through his nose, something almost like amusement flashing in his eyes. “Because the world has already painted its version of events. You believe you are uncovering a hidden story, but in reality, you are only seeing what they allow you to see. If you truly wish to know what happened, then listen to someone who was there.”

It was a gamble. You knew it. 

And yet, you found yourself unable to walk away.

---

The more time you spent with him, the more difficult it became to separate the man from the monster.

Zemo spoke of Sokovia not with the cold detachment of a war criminal, but with the grief of a man who had lost everything. 

His wife. His son. His people. 

He did not seek pity, nor did he ask for forgiveness. He merely laid the truth before you like a blade, sharp and undeniable.

“I watched as the sky fell,” he murmured one evening, standing by the window of a safe house he had taken you to. “I heard my son call out for me. And I was too late.”

Your chest tightened. “That’s why you did all of this.”

He turned to you then, eyes dark with something unspoken. “Would you not burn the world for the ones you love?”

Your breath caught. Because at that moment, you weren’t sure you could say no.

Somewhere along the way, the lines blurred.

What began as careful interviews turned into late-night conversations. What started as caution became trust. 

And trust was far more dangerous than fear.

One night, as the rain drummed softly against the rooftop, Zemo studied you in the quiet glow of a single lamp. 

“You should leave,” he said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

You took a step closer. “Do you want me to?”

He said nothing. 

But when your fingers brushed against his, he did not pull away. 

Instead, he let out a breath, as if surrendering to something he had fought for too long. 

His hand closed around yours, firm and warm, and when his lips met yours, it was not the kiss of a villain, nor a desperate man seeking salvation.

It was something else entirely.

You knew there was no simple ending.

Zemo was still a fugitive. You were still a journalist. 

The world would not allow what had grown between you to exist without consequence. But as he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead before disappearing into the night, he made a promise:

“This is not goodbye.”

And you believed him.

Because for all the ghosts of Sokovia that haunted him, you had become the one thing that reminded him he was still alive.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[andy-15-07]

The News

Summary:Y/N anxiously prepares for Helmut Zemo’s return, holding a secret—she’s pregnant. When he arrives, they share an emotional reunion, and he’s overjoyed at the news of their growing family.

Paring: Baron Helmut Zemo x reader

Words count: 2594

Daniel Brühl Masterlist | Masterlist

The soft hum of the rain tapping against the windows filled the quiet apartment, adding to the warm, cozy atmosphere Y/N had tried to create all day. She had spent hours preparing for this moment—cleaning, cooking, and nervously adjusting everything in the living room a dozen times.

The smell of dinner—a mix of Zemo's favorite dishes—lingered in the air, and soft music played in the background, trying to mask the excitement and nerves building within her. Y/N checked her phone for what felt like the hundredth time, her eyes darting to the time.

He should have been home by now.

Helmut had been away on a mission for weeks, leaving her with nothing but sporadic, cryptic messages that barely hinted at when he might return. But today was different. Today, she was certain he'd be home. She had received a brief text earlier that morning, "Coming home tonight. Don't wait up."

Of course, she couldn’t just go to bed, not with the news she had been holding close to her heart, a secret she had been dying to share with him. She glanced down at the little box in her hands, flipping it open and shut nervously. Inside was a tiny pair of baby shoes—white and soft, with delicate lace around the edges. She smiled softly to herself, a rush of emotions threatening to spill over.

She had found out a few days after he had left. The initial shock had been overwhelming, but the idea of them starting a family had slowly taken root, filling her with a joy she hadn’t expected. Y/N could already imagine Helmut’s reaction, the way his eyes would light up, the way he’d pull her into his arms, overjoyed at the news.

The rain picked up, drumming harder against the window, and she glanced outside. The city was dark, a few lights flickering through the sheets of rain, but there was no sign of him yet.

Minutes felt like hours, and the worry she had tried to suppress started to creep in. What if something had gone wrong? What if he was hurt? But no, she pushed those thoughts away. Helmut was too skilled, too careful. He always made it back to her, no matter what.

She placed the baby shoes back in the box, setting it on the coffee table and rubbing her hands together nervously. The fire crackled softly in the background, casting a warm glow over the room, but it did little to soothe her nerves.

Then, finally, she heard it. The unmistakable sound of keys jingling at the door, followed by the soft click of the lock turning. Her heart leapt into her throat as the door slowly creaked open, and there he was—Helmut Zemo, soaked from the rain, his hair tousled, but very much alive and home.

“Helmut!” Y/N exclaimed, rushing to him before he could even close the door behind him. She threw her arms around him, ignoring the dampness of his clothes as she buried her face in his chest.

“Schatz…” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion, but there was a softness in his tone as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in, as if grounding himself after weeks away.

“I missed you,” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. She had missed him terribly, every moment he was away felt like an eternity.

“And I missed you,” he replied, pulling back slightly to look at her. His dark eyes were tired but filled with love as he cupped her face in his hands, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, meine Liebe.”

Y/N smiled, her heart swelling with affection for this man she had chosen to spend her life with. But she could see the weariness in his expression, the way his shoulders sagged slightly under the weight of whatever he had gone through. She knew better than to ask about the mission, not right away. There would be time for that later.

“You’re soaked,” she said, her voice tinged with concern. “Come on, let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”

He nodded, allowing her to guide him toward their bedroom. She helped him out of his coat and boots, and then he peeled off his wet shirt, tossing it aside. His body was as strong and lean as ever, though she couldn’t help but notice a few new bruises marring his skin.

Y/N frowned, reaching out to touch one gently, but Helmut caught her hand, bringing it to his lips instead.

“It’s nothing,” he assured her, his voice low. “Just a few scratches.”

She looked up at him, her brow furrowed with worry, but he gave her a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was trying to protect her, as always, but she could see through the façade. He was tired—emotionally and physically—but he was here, and that was what mattered most.

“Come on,” she whispered, tugging him toward the bathroom. “A hot shower will help.”

Helmut didn’t argue, and soon the sound of water filled the space as steam began to rise around them. Y/N stayed by his side, helping him rinse off the grime of whatever battle he had been through. He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch as she ran her fingers through his wet hair, massaging his scalp gently.

They didn’t speak, the silence between them comfortable and intimate, a reminder of how connected they were, even after all these years.

Once he was clean, she handed him a towel, watching as he dried off and wrapped it around his waist. His gaze softened as he looked at her, his expression unreadable for a moment before he pulled her into his arms once more.

“Thank you,” he murmured into her hair, his voice filled with a deep, unspoken gratitude.

Y/N smiled against his chest, her heart fluttering with love for this man who was always so strong, so capable, and yet so vulnerable in moments like these. She pulled back slightly, looking up at him.

“I made dinner,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Your favorite.”

His eyes lit up, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “You spoil me, Schatz.”

“Only because you deserve it,” she teased, leading him back into the living room where the food was waiting.

They settled on the couch, plates in hand, and for a while, they just enjoyed the meal in comfortable silence. But Y/N could feel the weight of the secret she was holding, the news she was so eager to share. She glanced at the small box on the coffee table, her heart pounding in her chest.

Helmut noticed the shift in her demeanor, his brow furrowing slightly. “Is something on your mind, Y/N?” he asked, setting his plate aside.

She hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to begin. But then she took a deep breath, reaching for the box and holding it out to him.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said softly, her voice trembling slightly.

Helmut’s eyes widened in surprise as he took the box from her hands, his expression curious as he opened it. His gaze softened instantly as he saw the tiny baby shoes nestled inside, his breath catching in his throat.

“Y/N…” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he looked up at her, his eyes searching hers for confirmation.

She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. “I’m pregnant, Helmut. We’re going to have a baby.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, as if trying to process the words. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face—a smile so full of joy and love that it took her breath away.

“Meine Liebe…” he murmured, setting the box aside and pulling her into his arms. He held her tightly, his hands trembling slightly as he cupped the back of her head, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You have no idea how happy you’ve made me.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she clung to him, feeling his love and warmth enveloping her completely. “I was so nervous,” she admitted, her voice cracking with emotion. “I didn’t know how you’d react.”

He pulled back slightly, cupping her face in his hands and looking into her eyes with a seriousness that made her heart skip a beat. “Y/N, there is nothing in this world that could make me happier than this news,” he said, his voice steady and filled with conviction. “You and our child…you are everything to me.”

She smiled through her tears, overwhelmed by the depth of his love. “I love you, Helmut,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

“And I love you, more than anything,” he replied, pressing his forehead against hers. “Thank you…thank you for this gift.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, holding each other close, their hearts beating in sync. The rain outside had slowed to a gentle drizzle, the soft patter against the windows a soothing backdrop to the moment they were sharing.

Finally, Helmut pulled back, a playful glint in his eyes. “I suppose I’ll have to be extra careful on my missions from now on,” he said, a hint of humor in his voice. “I have more than just you to come home to now.”

Y/N chuckled, wiping away her tears. “Yes, you do. And you’d better keep that in mind.”

He smiled, leaning in to kiss her softly, his lips lingering against hers as if savoring the moment. When he pulled back, his eyes were filled with a tenderness that made her heart swell.

“We’re going to be a family,” he repeated, his voice filled with awe as if he was still trying to wrap his mind around the idea. His hand moved gently to rest on her stomach, his thumb tracing small, tender circles over the place where their child grew.

Y/N placed her hand over his, the warmth of his touch sending a wave of comfort through her. “Yes, we are,” she whispered, her voice full of love and certainty. “Our little family.”

Helmut’s eyes shone with emotion as he stared down at her, his usually composed demeanor softened by the weight of this new reality. He had faced countless challenges, confronted the most dangerous of foes, and yet, this moment—this simple, beautiful moment—was enough to bring him to his knees.

“Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of this?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “A family of my own… I never thought it would be possible after everything that’s happened. And now, here we are…”

Y/N smiled, her heart breaking and healing at the same time. She knew his past was riddled with pain and loss, and she understood how much this meant to him. “You deserve this, Helmut. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

He shook his head slightly, his expression one of disbelief. “I don’t know if I deserve it, but I’m not foolish enough to let it slip away. You and our child…you’re my future now. My purpose.”

She could see the determination in his eyes, the promise that he would do everything in his power to protect them, to give them the life they deserved. It was a vow unspoken, yet she felt it in every fiber of her being.

Helmut gently pulled her closer, his lips brushing against her forehead. “Thank you,” he whispered again, the words heavy with gratitude. “Thank you for giving me this gift, for giving me hope.”

Y/N’s heart swelled with love for him, a love that seemed to grow stronger with each passing second. “You’ve given me so much, Helmut,” she replied softly, her fingers threading through his as they rested on her stomach. “This is our gift to each other.”

They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the reality of their future slowly sinking in. It was a future filled with the unknown, but for the first time, they faced it together, not just as partners, but as a family.

After a while, Y/N broke the comfortable silence, her tone laced with playful curiosity. “So… have you thought of any names yet?”

Helmut chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, breaking through the seriousness of the moment. “Already? You’ve only just told me!”

Y/N laughed, the sound light and full of joy. “Well, we should get a head start, don’t you think? We need to be prepared.”

Helmut’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he considered her words. “True. But I think we should take our time. We have many months ahead of us to decide.” He paused, his gaze turning thoughtful. “But if I had to choose… something traditional, perhaps. Something with meaning.”

Y/N nodded, her mind racing with possibilities. “Something that honors your heritage, maybe? A name that connects our child to their roots.”

Helmut’s expression softened, a deep pride flashing in his eyes. “Yes,” he agreed, his voice low and serious. “Something that carries the weight of history, but also the promise of a new future.”

She could see how much this meant to him, and it warmed her heart to know that he was already thinking of their child’s legacy. “We’ll find the perfect name,” she assured him, leaning into his embrace. “One that represents everything we’ve been through, and everything we’re going to build together.”

Helmut kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering there as if sealing a promise. “We will,” he agreed. “And no matter what name we choose, our child will know they are loved. That is the most important thing.”

Y/N sighed contentedly, feeling a sense of peace settle over her. This was what she had always dreamed of—a life filled with love, a future full of hope. And now, with Helmut by her side, that dream was finally becoming a reality.

As the evening wore on, they talked about their plans for the future—the changes they would need to make, the things they would need to prepare for. They discussed where the nursery should be, what color to paint the walls, and how they would balance their new responsibilities. It was a conversation filled with excitement and a little bit of fear, but most of all, it was filled with love.

Eventually, the exhaustion of the day caught up with them, and they found themselves curled up on the couch together, the warmth of the fire lulling them into a comfortable drowsiness. Helmut held her close, his arms wrapped around her protectively, his hand resting on her stomach as if to keep their child safe even in his sleep.

Y/N looked up at him, her heart swelling with love as she watched him drift off. There was a contentment in his expression that she hadn’t seen in a long time, a peace that came from knowing they were finally moving forward together.

And as she closed her eyes, her head resting against his chest, she knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them together—united by the love they had for each other, and for the family they were about to start.

In that moment, Y/N realized that the future was no longer something to be feared. It was something to be embraced, something to be cherished. And with Helmut by her side, she knew they would create a life filled with happiness, love, and endless possibilities.

As sleep finally claimed her, Y/N’s last thought was of the tiny heartbeat growing inside her, a new life born out of the love she shared with Helmut Zemo—a love that would carry them through anything.

The rain outside had stopped, leaving the night quiet and still. And in the warmth of their home, their hearts beat as one, full of love, hope, and the promise of tomorrow.

[gremlin-girly]

Flufftober Day 17

Prompt: Bewitched

Pairing: Helmut Zemo x Reader

tags/warnings: Love at first sight, mutual pining, confessions, kiss, FLUFF

Although Reader's gender is not specified the translations below (specifically Vrăjitore) are feminine!

Summary: Bucky and Sam come your apartment for a few days to hide out and a certain Sokovian Baron is enamoured by you.

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: I've said it before and I'll say it again - I'm a hopeless romantic. - Love, Grem x A/N 2: I loved this so much that I created a follow up (here) and decided to make this a mini-series which you can find here. - Love, Grem x Dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

Translations:

Draga - dear

Vrăjitore - Enchantress/witch (in the context below - it's enchantress)

Prev | Next | Masterlist

Zemo hadn’t known what to expect when the door to your apartment opened but it certainly wasn’t instantaneous infatuation. You were a friend of Sam and Bucky’s and somehow, somehow, got roped into helping them hide him. Despite the initial feelings of scepticism and meticulously planning his escape from the dingy apartment building, when you opened the door it all changed.

You were stood in your pajamas, rubbing your eyes, speaking in a soft sleepy voice that alluded to you either just about ready to fall asleep or you had just woken up. Zemo was staring and he knew it. Even though you hadn’t looked at him yet, you were the picture of perfection with your slightly tousled hair and the disgruntled expression you were giving Sam as he explained what was going on. When your e/c eyes finally flickered over to him, finally meeting his eyes, he felt his breathing stop.

“You better come in,” you sighed, stepping aside and allowing them inside your small apartment.

You immediately headed to the small kitchen-cum-living room, turning on your kettle and grabbing mugs.

“Tea? Coffee? Food?” You fire off questions in rapid succession but Sam nor James pay attention to you. They’d began a hushed conversation about ideas and plans in your living room. Zemo looked over to you and was surprised to see you were looking directly at him. He felt like a deer in headlights. He was at a loss for words. For once.

You raised an eyebrow at him curiously. “You... want anything?”

Zemo clears his throat and stiffly approaches the counter top that seperates the two of you. “Tea will do. Thank you.”

“I have earl grey and English breakfast,” You say, holding up the two boxes. “What would you prefer?”

Zemo blinks, his throat dry. “Earl grey, please.”

“Sugar and milk?”

Zemo only nods and watches as you turn away to prepare the tea. Surely, you knew he was dangerous? Surely, you had seen the news from years before? Surely, you knew you shouldn’t turn your back to him?

But you had. And Zemo was helplessly lost in you whilst the hushed conversation of Bucky and Sam drifted around the apartment. He couldn’t remember when he had last felt this way. It had been a long time, that’s for sure.

After five minutes you turn around with two mugs in your hand and slide one to Zemo. He carefully lifts the mug to his mouth and sips, relishing the sleepy warmth of the lavender drink. His tongue darts across his lips, something else is in the drink, making it ever so slightly sweeter. You register his expression and offer him a small, sheepish smile.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I think I’ve given you mine. I always add a dash of vanilla syrup.”

Vanilla. Zemo’s eyes widen but he smiles and nods. “An excellent combination.”

Your smile brightens. Zemo thinks his knees might give out; that smile lights up your entire living room and you’re not even trying. He should be trying to manipulate you, make you uncomfortable; not nervously running sweaty palms on his slacks or being tongue tied. And you should be cold and harsh, threatening to maim him like Bucky or Sharon not warm, friendly and inviting.

“Have you ever tried an Edinburgh Mist?” You ask, eyes brightening with each passing second. Zemo briefly wonders if it's because your friends, the ones who have barely spoken with you, the ones who have landed a fugitive terrorist into your hands, have never bothered to indulge in the beauty that was you. He shakes his head gently, watching you speak.

“It’s like the cocktail London Fog but an actual hot drink.” You explain. “it’s earl grey with vanilla, with foamed milk and dusted with cinnamon. I loved it so much I had to start making it at home.”

Zemo finds himself smiling  over the rim of his mug at you. He hums in response, nodding a little before adding, “I may have to trouble you for one when you have the chance.”

You scoff a little, suppressing what looks to be a blush and Zemo’s heart does a flip. Unfortunately, you’re both torn away by Sam and Bucky wanting to talk strategy.

The next few days feel like a dream.

Zemo practically follows you around like a love sick puppy, offering to help with everything he can. Laundry. Cooking. Cleaning. Each time you dismiss him, citing that he is a guest in your home and will be treated as such. Your mother didn’t raise you to be unwelcoming.

When it’s clear he doesn’t really know what to do with himself, you roll your eyes and pretend you’re so hard done by with the lack of help you recieve from Bucky and Sam, that you’ll gladly take Zemo’s company instead. Which he humbly (albeit very enthusiastically) accepts.

As you do chores, you chat about anything and everything. His favourite books, your favourite shows, his music taste, your favourite foods. Whilst you cook he watches eagerly, asking inquisitive questions and occasionally teasing gently to make you laugh. Part of your brain believes it to be a ploy, as does Sam and Bucky. Some grand manipulation that they had warned you he was capable of. But somehow you doubted it. There was something about how he made you laugh, how he always acted the gentleman and offered his help, something about the softness in his eyes that you knew he meant every word he spoke and action he did.

Perhaps that was what caused the argument between you and Sam.

“He’s a terrorist,” Sam snapped at you on the fifth day. Bucky was out and Zemo was in the shower, making it an opportune time to discuss the behaviour Sam had witnessed over the last few days. “And a master manipulator. You should not trust him.”

“God forbid men have hobbies.” You quip. Then seeing Sam's frown you sigh.

"On a technicality, you are too." You point out, scrubbing at a dish violently. Anger had bubbled inside you at the subtle accusation that you were falling for a manipulation, especially when said terror had been placed in your lap. “You brought him here as well.” You huff with agitation.

It was Sam’s turn to huff. “You don’t get it. He’s dangerous.”

You slam the scourer down and glare at Sam. “No, you’re not getting it. You brought him here. Hell, yesterday you and Bucky went out and left me with him for hours.”

Sam opens his mouth and closes it again, at a loss for words. He knows he can’t argue against that and he knows damn well better than to try.

“Just... be careful. Okay?” He grumbles, heading to the spare room. “That’s all I ask.”

Once the door is closed you roll your eyes and turn back to the sink, haughtily mimicking Sam’s words. You startle when you hear Zemo chuckle from behind you.

“Apologies,” He murmurs, looking over  at you with a smug smile. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Whether or not it was his intention, you know that he isn’t sorry about it at all and it makes you smirk back. As with everything the last few days, you can’t seem to find yourself to be genuinely upset with him.

“It’s alright,” you sigh, drying your hands. “Tea?”

“Please, dragă.”  

You blush at the use of the nickname, but turn away quickly. This was another ritual that had formed in the last few days, and you would be lying if you didn’t enjoy the sweet nickname he’d given you and the way his honeyed eyes followed your movements. You didn’t want to tell him you knew the meaning. That you’d briefly dabbled in learning Sokovian. Something about him using his native tongue to compliment you, believing you had no idea what he was saying as  he looked  at you,  made your heart beat faster and your fondness for him grow. Again, this only made arguments of him manipulating you weaker; why say things to you that you couldn’t understand? Quick compliments or praise in a foreign language he thought only he could speak, muttered under his breath that made your resolve crumble apart like a cookie dipped in hot  tea. You couldn’t deny that he had charm but something else drew you to him. It was like you were under a spell and the thought that he may have to leave soon was too much to bare.

“You know,” Zemo started, voice quiet. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the countertop. “I’ve noticed that they don’t appreciate you, dragă.”

You turn, eyebrows high, mid-stir of the teas. “What?”

Zemo’s eyes drop to his hands. “Perhaps I am out of line,” he says carefully. “But you are correct in that all of us being here was sprang on you. Yet you welcomed us, even me, into your home without hesitation. You have cooked meals, offered your shower, home and did laundry... and only once or twice I have heard a thank you.” He looks up, meeting your eyes with his. His expression is soft, almost apologetic. “So, thank you, dragă.”

You blink at him, slightly shocked. So, he’d overheard your argument with Sam. He could’ve taken a different route; planting seeds of doubt about your friendship with the heroes, allowing tendrils of resentment to grow and blossom into anger. However, he hadn’t. Zemo had only pointed out the truth of the current situation; you had accepted the bizarre situation to help your friends and hopefully the betterment of the world without question and without thanks. Your mouth opened to defend Sam and Bucky, but your mind faltered trying to find an example from the last few days.

In fact, Bucky had grumbled his thanks of a coffee once and Sam for his food once. Zemo had been trying to help you for the past five days and somehow always managed to thank you and compliment you. Heat rushed to your cheeks and you snapped your mouth closed. You shrug half heartedly and remove the teabags.

“Thank you.” You murmur and then realise it sounds like a very stupid thing to say back. “For saying thank you? Sorry. Um.”

You turn back, handing him his tea but not meeting his gaze. You’d already learned to make it how he liked. That was probably not a good sign. You clear your throat.

“I appreciate it.”

There’s a beat of silence and you look back at him. He smiles. You smile back.

Your heart beats a little faster than before and you shift on your feet. You’re being drawn in again.

“Anytime.” Zemo bows his head to you, still smiling, his tone utterly sincere; like he would never tire of thanking you. His gaze meets yours again and he exhales gently. “You... are something else. Do you know that?”

You tilt your head at him, smile widening to a lopsided grin. “No? How do you mean?”

Zemo huffs through his nose, chuckling slightly. “You have bewitched me, dragă. From the moment I saw you.” He takes a sip from his mug watching you with a mesmerised expression. In a low rumbling voice he adds, “Vrăjitore.”

Your breathing stalls for a moment. You don’t think anyone has ever looked at you like how Zemo is looking at you; like you’re almost too good to be true. Your stomach twists into knots and your heart and mind race to try to come up with a quip or statement as equally romantic and poetic as he’d uttered but you can’t.

When you don’t respond, Zemo steps away, looking at the floor. “Forgive me. I’ve said too much.”

“No!” you blurt suddenly, and cover your hand with your mouth. You cringe slightly and smile sheepishly at Zemo, whose tilting his head curiously at you now. “I thought it was just me.” You say lamely.

Zemo’s eyes widen and a smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth but he says nothing as you rake a nervous hand through your hair.

“So....” You start awkwardly, wetting your lips and dropping your hand from your nape limply.

“So.” Zemo repeats back to you, his eyes sparkling. You can feel your heart thunder at the sight and you open your mouth to continue  but Sam erupts into the room.

“We need to go,” He says hurriedly to Zemo, throwing on his jacket. “Bucky and Sharon have ran into some trouble.”  

Zemo nods, setting his mug down and striding to the coat rack for his purple fur coat. Sam shoots you an apologetic glance when you ask if they’d be back.

“We may have to find another safe house. We’ve stayed here for too long, you might get caught being with us.” He shrugs. “But thanks for everything. I owe you one.” Sam grins over at you cheekily and adds, “and so does Bucky.”

“As do I.” Zemo adds, smiling softly over at you as he straightens the  collar of his coat. Sam looks like he’s about to shush Zemo when his phone rings. Sam’s expression turns serious and he stalks for the front door muttering instructions to either Bucky or Sharon.  He points at Zemo before he opens it. “Parking garage in five minutes. Make sure you’re not followed.”

The door closes behind Sam before  he sees Zemo nod and make his way back over to you.

Zemo stands before you, looking down at you with the same wondrous expression he had before. He’s close but not too close; a polite distance even after  everything tonight.

“So....” You start again, smiling wryly at him. “I guess this is goodbye?”

“For now, vrăjatore.” Zemo says with a gentle smile. A gloved hand reaches up hesitantly to cup your cheek. You can feel the heat of his palm through the leather, and you lean into it; searching for his warmth. Your eyes flutter ever so slightly and you heave a sigh. Just your luck.

“I’ll find you once the dust settles.”

You raide an eyebrow at him and chuckle. “And I’ll be waiting.”

Your own hand encompasses his on your cheek and it feels like an eternity passes as you both stand in silence gazing at eachother before Zemo leans down and places a chaste, tender kiss to your lips. Your heart stutters and you move to follow his lips as he pulls back, making him chuckle.

“I’ll find you,” he repeats, firmer this time. “And then you may kiss me for as long as you wish. Until then, duty calls.”

He grins at you again, adoring the flushed expression you’re wearing, but pulls further away from you. Your arm stretches out, still holding his hand and with one last, small squeeze you release him; watching him stride out of the front door and follow Sam. The silence in your apartment is palpable, and when you remember to draw a breath, the air is stale and dry. You sigh to yourself and finish your tea while replaying the events of the last hour.

 You hadn’t seen Zemo in two months.

That hadn’t meant his presence was missing.

The mission had finished a month ago, however, Zemo was still currently on the run. Bucky and Sam had attempted to find him but from what they had told you, they had assumed he was long gone in some faraway island, living it up. But you had known better.

Lavish gifts from expensive chocolates to tea had appeared at your apartment. The latest was the newest, beautiful bouquet that you had centred perfectly on your coffee table, somewhere you could look upon it everyday, and a pack of cherry blossom tea. You took photos of all of your gifts and added little notes of them into your phone – as you had no way of contacting the Baron, you ensured you could thank him for each and every gift he’d bought for you when you saw him in person. Bouquets came every ten days like clockwork – as soon as one bouquet wilted, the next would appear to take its place. The gifts would be every two weeks. Maybe, you joked with yourself, so it didn’t seem like it was excessive to send two gifts every week.

The only indication that it was Zemo sending you these items was because each gift came with a small 6-by-4 card with one word written in plum-purple cursive.

Vrăjitore.

[frost-queen]

A love game (Reader!Stark x Bucky Barnes)

Requested by: @kombuchaqueen04 Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @floatlosers, @alex–awesome–22, @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly , @denkisclown, @wildiefleur , @meyocoko , @subjecta13-thefangirl , @m-rae23, @melsunshine  , @venomsvl , @the-uncoordinated-house-cat , @rosecentury , @evilcr0ne , @vviolynn , @niktwazny303 , @avada-kedrava-bitch-187, @erikasurfer , @slythetic  , @eliscannotdance, @p0nycurtis, @slythetic, @bitchybananaflower, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr, @evyiione

You still remembered it. The first time you laid eyes on him. On James Bucky Barnes.

Party at Stark towers for no reason as it being your brother’s idea. You remembered how you were. Walking, still wearing your sunglasses and a bottle of wine in your hand as you got out of the elevator. Nearing your brother at the sight at someone new by Steve’s side. – “Who’s beside the popsicle?” – you asked leaning against your brother.

Slowly lowering your glasses further down your nose. – “Barnes. Bucky, a friend of Steve’s.” – he responded, making you remove your sunglasses. – “Ah so popsicle number two.” – you let out with a smirk. Tugging the glasses in the chest pocket of your brother’s shirt with a tap. Giving him a sweet smirk to just accept it. Tony rolled with his eyes, taking your sunglasses out. Placing them on the counter before going over to Banner. You neared the bar where he was sitting. Smiling when Steve got up to leave. Seeing him head for the bathroom.

With a weary sigh you let yourself drop into the seat beside him. – “A drink?” – you offered, showing him the bottle of wine in your hand. He looked briefly confused back at you, before shaking his head. – “No… thank you.” – placing a hand over his glass. – “Nonsense.” – you responded holding your hand out to the bar. From one of the top shelves, you moved a glass with your mind to come to you. Falling perfectly in your hand as you set it down. Scrunching your nose at him with a smile.

Bucky swallowed nervously as you poured a glass for him. You shoved it over to him. – “Like I said, no thank you.” – he repeated moving the glass further away. – “You seriously aren’t going to let a lady drink alone are you?” – you responded shoving the glass back at him. Bucky let his gaze go from you to the glass. Drinking the content down in one gulp. Setting the glass firmly down before taking his leave.

There and then, you think you must have fallen for him. For you couldn’t get him out of his head.

You smiled, quickening up your pace to fall in line with his step. Passing by Sam and Zemo. – “Hey handsome.” – you breathed out, slowing your pace down to his. Bucky glanced briefly your way with a contracted face. – “Are you warmed-up or do you need a lesson with two?” – you teased knocking your elbow against his arm to poke him more.

Bucky swallowed nervously, picking up his pace. You quickened up your pace as well to keep in line with him. – “You could show me a thing or two, Bucks?” – you spoke winking at him, grabbing his metal arm.

The moment your hands were on his, he started moving faster. The abrupt movement made you let go of him. Watching him run off. – “Ha!”- you heard loud behind you. Looking over your shoulder at Sam laughing. Annoyed you moved your hand, shoving a trashcan right in front of him.

“Ha!” – you repeated with mockery as Sam knocked into it, nearly tripping over it. Zemo snickering loud. You slowed your pace down to meet with theirs. – “Someone’s been needy.” – Zemo said as you raised your hand to warn him. He immediately kept quiet, yet kept his smirk up.  

You rubbed your hands together at the entrance of the club. Already hearing the deafening music coming from inside. Zemo spun around to Sam, walking backwards for a bit. – “You better keep an eye out for our party girl.” – he teased pointing at you.

You rolled your eyes at him. – “You boys are just lame.” – you responded coming up to the club. Coming to stand beside Bucky, who nervously looked at the club. – “Don’t worry handsome, I’ll show you the ropes of dancing.” – you swung your arm over his shoulder. Bucky cleared his throat, moving his head away.

When Sharon appeared in the door opening, he removed your arm from around him. Sharon urged you inside. – “I’ll call you when the buyer has arrived. Keep your phones in check.” – she told you all. – “What are we to do in the meantime?” – Sam questioned. Sharon quirked her eyebrow up.

“It’s a club Sam, figure the rest out.” – was her response, throwing her hands up. You called it out from excitement, grabbing Bucky by his hand. Pulling him with you through the crowd. Zemo placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder, but immediately pulled it up at the sight of his glare.

Shaking his head, Sam went after you. – “Stark wait up!” – he called out. His voice dying out over the blasting club music. – “Y/n stop!” – Bucky called out, pulling his hand out of yours hard. It made you look in slight shock back at him at his sudden brute force. – “It’s a club, Bucky. Live a little.” – you told him, getting up to his ear to make sure he would hear you. Bucky’s eyes widened, quickly turning his head away.

Bucky huffed loud, heading over to the bar. Taking a seat. The moment he was gone, some guy already caught your eye. He came moving closer, ready to approach you but turned quick around when Zemo came placing a hand on your shoulder. – “Show us some dance moves Stark.” – he gestured at the dancefloor as you knew he was just teasing you. Sam sighed loud with a roll of his eyes. Walking past the two of you to join Bucky at the bar. – “You got it Zemo!” – you told him, accepting the challenge. For you couldn’t resist a party.

You started dancing. Swaying your hips and letting your hands go down your body. Zemo threw you kissed hands to applaud you. Soon people joined, coming in closer to you as you simply attracted them. A guy came gliding up your back, pressing a hand on your hip. You shoved him off with a dance move. Taking his hand to twirl out. Posing with your hand up, kicking a foot up to knock him back.

You then placed your hand in Zemo’s offering hand, nearing him again. Zemo brought you close to him, placing a hand on your back. Swaying from side to side, his cheek close to yours. Your gaze fell on Bucky and Sam at the bar. Seeing how they were clearly looking at the two of you. Sam’s expression with disgust as Bucky’s expression was clenched. You moved Zemo away from you, patting him on the shoulder.

Zemo shrugged his shoulders, dancing on his own as you moved over to the bar. Throwing your arms around both of them. – “Fancy a dance boys?” – you called out. – “Ha! You think you can make our old timer strip a dance.” – Sam laughed out hinting at Bucky. You turned your head to smile at Bucky. – “Just give me three seconds and he’ll no longer be shy.” – you outed teasingly.

Bucky shoved the barstool back, jumping off. You blinked confused at his sudden departure. – “Did I say something wrong?” – you asked Sam. Sam shrugged his shoulders. You decided to go in pursuit, wanting to know what you did wrong. – “Bucky!” – you called out loud over the blasting music. Unsure if he would hear you. Bucky kept moving through the crowd, creating a distance.

Making his way across as he reached the men’s toilets. The door was open as you knew you couldn’t follow him in there. – “Bucky!” – you called out, shutting the door with a thud using your mind. The door slammed shut right before Bucky wanted to enter. He took a shuddering step back. Turning around to face you. Hands slightly up as he quickly turned his face away. Taking a run for it.

“Bucks!” – you panted out. Pausing briefly to rethink his action. Was he perhaps scared of you? Scared of your powers? While else would he react so frantically around your abilities. The last thing you wanted was for him to be scared of you. Sighing loud, you turned around. Heading back to the bar. Taking a seat somewhere remotely. The bartender poured you a glass as you could use it. You let your hand rest on your cheek, letting your finger go over the top.

No more interest in partying as Bucky was on your mind. You felt like crying that he was scared of you. You only wanted him to like you. Wanted his attention. Approaching him in the only way that you were familiar with. Having learned the ropes when growing up with Tony.

It was just your personality that flirting came out so easily. Sighing again, you covered up your face with your hands to not cry. The vibes for partying completely gone as now you just wanted to wallow in self-pity that Bucky was scared of you. For why else would he keep running away from you?

“Where is Y/n?” – Bucky asked Sam at the bar further up. Sam pulled his shoulders up. – “I don’t know, she was in pursuit of you. Didn’t you see her?” – he responded. Bucky ignored his question, not wanting to respond to it. Slightly worried, he looked around for a sight of you. – “I thought you were supposed to keep eyes on her.” – Bucky called out, close to his ear.

“She went after you!” – Sam shouted back that it wasn’t his fault. That looking after you was a shared agreement. Bucky sighed soft, moving away from the bar. – “Where are you going?” – Sam called out but Bucky couldn’t hear him anymore. Pushing himself through the crowd in search for you. A girl came squealing loud at his presence, throwing her arms around him.

Bucky politely removed her hands from him with a forced smile. Pushing his way further through the crowd. Rushing himself through. Lights blinding and effecting his sight. He searched the entire dancefloor for that was the first place he would find you. When it felt like an endless pool, he moved back closer to the side. Knocking against a person, turning round to politely apologize with his hands up.

It was then that his eyes narrowed. Settling upon the bar as he seemed to distinguish you. A guy leaning against the counter by your side. Bucky’s jaw tensed as he made his way over. Grabbing the guy roughly by his arm, pulling him away from you. – “Beat it!” – he said with a serious glare at him. The man scrambled off as he heard you sigh loud. Tilting his head curiously, he came setting his hand on the bar close to you.

Leaning in to get a good look of your facial expressions. You turned your posture away from him. – “What’s up with you Stark?” – he asked confused. He wasn’t used to this coming from you. Biting your lip, you tried to hold it in, but the emotions took over. Making you spin back to him on the barstool.

“Look I’m sorry okay! I’m sorry that I’m scary!” – you called out with a desperate hand gesture. – “What? What are you talking about Y/n?” – Bucky responded grabbing both your hands to lower them. – “I’m an abomination and I am sorry you are scared of me.” – you cried out, lips pouting. Bucky visibly blinked confused. – “I’m sorry what? I’m not scared of you Y/n.” – he responded, making it your turn to blink  confused.

“I don’t scare you?” – you repeated to be sure you had heard him correctly. – “You make me nervous.” – he responded, looking shy away. – “I do?” – you questioned. Bucky exhaled soft, coming to sit at your side. – “You always catch me off guard with your flirting. I’m not used to women flirting with me so bluntly Y/n. You never even give me the chance to flirt first.”

A bright smile curled up your lips. – “So you want to flirt with me?” – you spoke. – “Is that truly the only thing you have remembered from my entire speech?” – he replied seeing you shake your head. – “Okay flirt with me.” – you told him, poking him in the chest. – “Au…” – he chuckled out. – “I’m not going to flirt with you on command.” – making him turn his gaze bashful away.

“Come on Bucks.” – you poked him again in the chest to annoy him a bit more. You kept poking him when he wouldn’t give you any attention. – “Alright enough!” – he called out, grabbing you firm by the hand. Pulling you off the barstool, moving with you through the crowd of the club. Grinning from ear to ear, you couldn’t wait for him to flirt with you. For he wasn’t scared, he was just flustered.

-----------------------------------------

Read more of my fics on my Masterlists!

[dameronspector]

Philophobia (Part 7)

Pairings: Joaquin Torres x Stark!Reader, Sam Wilson x Platonic!Reader, Bucky Barnes x Platonic!Reader

Chapter Summary: You, Sam, Bucky and Zemo make your way to Madripoor to meet up with Zemo’s contact. Joaquin asks you a question and you doubt yourself. Madripoor is shady and you meet someone who was MIA for years.

Warnings: Cursing, Angst, Slight Fluff, Revisiting Past, Mentions of Depression and Phobias, Isolation, Loneliness, Guns/Bullets, Alcohol, Smoking, Steve Rogers Hate- click off if you’re not interested in that, Bucky is forced to act brainwashed (that scene from ep03), that’s all i think!

AN: sorry, no joaquin in this but there’s some crumbs! This chapter is mostly about Sam, Bucky and Reader!

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Zemo's butler wheel in a tray filled with drinks and food and noticed him say something to the butler. Sam and Bucky mostly kept quiet, Sam being the one to ask questions here and there but you could see Bucky’s face set in an irritated expression and it almost made you laugh at how he looked like a pissed off cat.

You had chosen to zone out for the most of it, keeping your headphones on and daydreaming because you were still reeling from the departure from Joaquin, when you suddenly noticed a quick movement and saw that Bucky had his hand wrapped around Zemo’s throat, his face showing fury. You immediately straightened up and threw your headphones aside to make your way towards them.

“Whoa, hey. What’s wrong?”, you asked Bucky in alarm and wrapped a hand around his bicep, pulling him away from Zemo. Bucky spared an annoyed glance towards Zemo, his jaw clenched tightly.

“I’m sorry. I understand that list of names. People you’ve wronged as the Winter Soldier”, Zemo replied calmly.

You furrowed your eyebrows and looked between them, “What?”

Bucky looked uncomfortable with the attention so he just shook his head and gently shrugged your hand off before walking back to his seat.

You looked at Sam and he just shrugged helplessly. Letting out an exhausted sigh, you chose to sit on the arm of Bucky's seat, to act as a barrier between him and Zemo.

“Don’t push it.”

“I’ve seen that book. It was Steve’s when he came out of the ice. I told him about Trouble Man. He wrote it in that book. Did you hear it? What’d you think?”, Sam asked Bucky with curiosity.

“I like ’40s music, so…”

“You didn’t like it?”, Sam asked in an incredulous tone.

“I liked it”, Bucky replied nonchalantly. You chuckled under your breath. They were back to fighting like a married couple.

“It is a masterpiece, James. Complete. Comprehensive. It captures the African-American experience”, Zemo confessed and you and Sam turned to look at him in the same weirded out manner.

Sam grimaced but admitted, “He’s out of line, but he’s right. It’s great. Everybody loves Marvin Gaye.”

“I like Marvin Gaye”, once again Bucky replied in a 'couldn’t care less' manner.

“Steve adored Marvin Gaye”, Sam exclaimed, irritated with Bucky’s indifference.

“You must have really looked up to Steve. But I realized something when I met him. The danger with people like him, America’s Super Soldiers, is that we put them on pedestals”, Zemo conceded in his breathy voice and you froze.

Actually shocked at his confession and shocked at the fact that you and him shared something in common: a dislike and critique for Steve. Although his dislike was in a more lethal way, you found it funny nonetheless.

“Watch your step, Zemo”, Sam warned.

You let out a loud scoff and all three of them turned to look at you. Checking your nails in an unbothered manner, you quipped, “I can’t believe we have something in common, Zemo.”

The entire cabin was quiet at that. Sam and Bucky stared at you in disbelief and Zemo looked at you with a smirk. You sensed the tension and coughed to clear it, "Carry on."

Zemo threw one last look at you before continuing, “They become symbols. Icons. And then we start to forget about their flaws. From there, cities fly, innocent people die. Movements are formed, wars are fought. You remember that, right? As a young soldier sent to Germany to stop a mad icon. Do we want to live in a world full of people like the Red Skull? That is why we’re going to Madripoor.”

Bucky pursed his lips while Sam made a face, "What's up with Madripoor? You talk about it like it's Skull Island."

You opened your mouth to explain before Bucky beat you to it, "It's an island nation in the Indonesian archipelago. It was a pirate sanctuary back in the 1800s."

"It's kept its lawless ways. But we cannot exactly walk in as ourselves. James, you will have to become someone you claim is gone. And (Name)-"

"-is not going anywhere", Sam conceded firmly. You snapped your head towards him.

"What's that supposed to mean", you asked him in a warning tone.

"That means that you're not goin' anywhere. You’ll stay and wait til' we come back", he replied in a tone laced with finality.

You rolled your eyes, "Dude, you cannot be serious. You want me to be alone in a shady place like that?"

"Listen-"

"Sam", Bucky interjected, "They obviously know more about this place than you. Plus, they can fight. We could really use someone for backup, especially with this...clown with us", Bucky reasoned, calling Zemo as the clown and admitting that he did not trust him either. That made you relax and you threw an appreciative look towards Bucky.

Zemo ignored Bucky's jab and nodded his head, "Yes, the little Stark has experience, knowledge and stealth. They can keep an eye on us while being undercover, in case, something goes wrong. They’ll act as my assistant. We will talk in Russian, only”, Zemo instructed and you reluctantly nodded your head.

Sam let out a dejected sigh and looked at you in disappointment before speaking up, "But if you do anything s-" "-stupid you will bench me immediately. Yeah, I know", you finished for him and he glared at you half heartedly.

You just shrugged and addressed Zemo, your tone clipped and stern, "If you try to do anything crazy while we’re there...", he just raised his hands in a surrender motion.

-

While you were getting ready to put on the very expensive and very chic all black suit and trench coat given to you by Zemo, your phone's buzzing distracted you from the task at hand. You opened it to see that you had received some texts from Joaquin. Involuntary butterflies fluttered in your stomach and you bit your lip to stop the smile from spreading across your face.

You opened the messages and saw that he had sent three in a row:

Flyboy: hi Flyboy: hope u landed safely Flyboy: how are u

You let out a soft giggle before replying

You: hey flyboy You: will land in a few You: i am okay. did you reach back to the base safely?

Flyboy: yep. already back at work. 😵‍💫 Flyboy: missing you tho

That second text almost made you drop the phone but you noticed that he had attached a picture of pancakes. Your cheeks warmed up and palms felt sweaty as your thumbs hovered above the keyboard, debating on what to reply. You shook your head a little and decided to reply casually, choosing to ignore that 'missing you' (for now).

You: woww. eating pancakes without me? traitor 😧

You didn't have to wait for too long for his reply, which made you think he was siting with his hands glued to his phone and you let out a chuckle at that.

Flyboy: u wound me 😔 come back safely and then we will have our favorite pancakes, promise Flyboy: it's a date

You gasped. Did he just straight up ask you on a date? Your gasp must have been loud enough for Bucky's super soldier hearing to pick up because you heard his voice call out, "Kid, You okay?"

"Uh-I-", you stammered and held a hand to your forehead, "Yeah! Yeah, I'm good. Just- just stubbed my toe!"

You heard him say 'Okay' faintly and went back to staring at your darkened screen. Were you ready for this? Or did he mean it in a friendly way? Friends do go on dates, right?

Flyboy: or not...its okay! forget i said anything

Your phone lit up with his text and you swallowed thickly before your shaky hands opened his chat.

He was a sweet and lovely guy but you weren't sure why he wanted to hang out with you. You couldn't be in denial about your feelings for him any longer. It felt immature to keep acting like this was your first time ever experiencing something like this. After everything you have been through in the last 6 years, you sort of allowed yourself to wallow in your sorrows and become a recluse. You reveled in the pain and loneliness you felt, like a sick masochist, because your depressed brain thought that you deserved it. Simple as that. That is what made you push everyone away--that is what made you push Peter away.

Well, that and the weird five year age gap between the two of you now. But Joaquin was here, and he was trying so hard. You didn't want to hurt him like you did with Peter, even though you already have a few times since you met him.

The logical and phobic part of your brain was sending you warning signals to not text him back, to run away, to isolate. But the hereditary, impulsive Stark-gene in you was screaming at you to say yes.

And you did exactly what the Stark gene asked you to.

You: okay, done 👍

You shut your eyes tightly after sending the text and your phone buzzed right away. He had sent a gif.

Flyboy:

And you let out a cackle. You loved how he could switch from serious to funny easily. You reacted to it with a laughing emoji and shut your phone to prepare yourself for whatever Madripoor has in store for you, deciding to ignore how light and warm you felt after talking to Joaquin, for now.

-

The four of you finally got off at a private airport and made your way to the car waiting for you.

Sam let out a sigh, “We have to fix this. I’m the only one who looks like a pimp”, he complained, lifting the hem of his jacket. You let out a chuckle and he glared at you.

Meanwhile, Bucky was way too quiet next to you, his hands and jaw clenched tightly, eyes focusing in front of him. You looked at him in sympathy, knowing that he was feeling uncomfortable with the fact that he’d have to slip into his ‘brainwashed version.’

“Only an American would assume a fashion-forward Black man looks like a pimp. You look exactly like the man you’re supposed to be playing. The sophisticated, charming African rake named Conrad Mack, aka the Smiling Tiger”, Zemo explained while showing a picture of Conrad Mack.

Your eyebrows raised high on your forehead, “Whoa. Sam, you sure you don’t have an estranged twin?”

Sam whistled lowly, “He even has a bad nickname. Hell, he does look like me, though.”

“You smell this?”, Zemo asked.

“Yeah, what is that? Acid?”, Sam asked and you wrinkled your nose.

“Madripoor. No matter what happens, we have to stay in character. Our lives depend on it. There’s no margin for error. High Town’s that way. Not a bad place if you wanna visit, but Low Town’s the other way”, Zemo instructs and you just nod your head—hating that you have to follow his lead but understanding that this was his world so you had to listen to his words.

“Let me guess. We don’t have any friends in High Town”, Sam conceded and the four of you finally reached the car.

You were sat in between Sam and Bucky and Bucky was still quiet—quieter than usual, his whole body tensed.

Nudging him with your arm, “You good?”, you asked him in a low whisper.

Bucky’s ocean blue eyes looked at you, thinly veiled fear shimmering in the low light. He let out a hum and tried to give you a smile. You pursed your lips and squeezed his arm in reassurance, “We’ll cover you, you know that, right?”

Bucky smirked and nodded, finding it endearing that someone half his size was volunteering to protect him.

-

Madripoor definitely lived up to its reputation. Filthy streets, flashy lights, loud music, people loitering around in fancy/club clothes and the constant feeling of being spied on—all of this summed up the place pretty well. Every corner of the street looked suspicious, like someone will jump out of the shadows to hold you at gun point.

You were almost sure nobody would recognize you because you haven't appeared in public for over a year and because you were also older now. But you did not want to take any chances, so you were using one of those invisible-shapeshifting masks that Natasha introduced you to, and shifted it into a random person's face.

After weaving through crowds and being gawked at like you were an exhibit, the four of you finally reached the club that you were supposed to meet this contact in.

“Here we are”, Zemo announced and ushered the three of you in.

“I’ll be watching your six”, you murmured lowly. Sam and Bucky looked at you in concern but you flashed them a reassuring look and disappeared into the crowd to blend in.

Standing exactly opposite to the three of them but hidden in plain sight, your laser sharp eyes scoured the entire room, brushing a hand against the gun holstered to your thigh to reassure yourself.

You were nervous, you wouldn’t lie. It's been 6 months since you last went on field and even though Rhodey made sure you stayed in shape and trained, the fear and anticipation of being in a real threat was not lost on you. Every hair on your body was raised in alarm because its felt like the entire room was watching your every move.

The smell of alcohol and smoke was distracting, the room suffocating you--not only from the scent, but also from the crowd and atmosphere. You pushed through it to keep a subtle eye on Sam, Bucky and Zemo and eventually made your way over to the bar counter, requesting for a vodka mojito to blend in and keep your hands busy.

As your eyes moved across the room, you noticed a man approach the three men and you sat up straight in alarm. The hands around the glass tensed, your teeth biting the inside of your cheek in focus. And then suddenly, Bucky lunged.

Your eyes widened and you moved before Zemo made eye contact with you from across the counter and subtly shook his head--telling you to stay put. So you clenched the glass tightly in your hands—the cold perspiration of it making your palms wet and slippery—and helplessly watched Zemo use Bucky as a shield and make him do the dirty work, your chest clenching in worry for him.

Sam had a similar disturbed look on his face. Everyone's phones were on Bucky, filming the Winter Soldier do what he does best. It was too much, too traumatising and Bucky's paralysed face said it all. It's like he had shut down.

Thankfully, it got over and the three of them were being escorted out of the room before they suddenly stopped. Zemo whispered something in the guard's ear and he made his way over to you.

You stiffened, your breath hitching and body locking up.

"Your boss is asking for you."

You blinked rapidly before catching Sam's gestures to 'come here' and pursed your lips, offering the man a curt nod. You silently followed him over to where the three of them were standing before Zemo spoke up, "Я сказал тебе следовать за мной" (i told you to follow me), his eyes asking you to follow along.

"Извините, босс" (Sorry, Boss), and lowered your eyes in fake shame.

Zemo nodded and told the guard to show the way. He guided you to a shady looking nook (honestly, this whole place was fucked), the music and commotions getting muffled and the fluorescent lights making your eyes hurt.

The four of you finally arrived into a room where a platinum blonde-haired woman was sitting on a sofa. There was some kind of music playing and there were guards protecting the woman, guns in hand, you took notice. Alarm bells were going off in your head—this was going to get real messy if Zemo fucked it up. The crowd in the club combined with the guards and security littered across the place, were going to make the escape a pain in the ass.

You, Sam and Bucky were still trying to digest all of this in so the three of you simply stood there numbly—you stood next to Zemo's right, Sam on his left and Bucky stood attentively, like a soldier on duty, between you and the woman. You felt disgusted that he had to do all this.

"You should know, Baron. People don't just come into my bar and make demand", that woman spoke up, her gaudy makeup and tacky fashion sense making her stand out, yet fit in, in this bizarre place.

"Not a demand. An offer", Zemo suggested.

The woman gave him a sarcastic smile, "A lot has changed since you were last here. By the way, I thought you were rotting away in a German prison. How did you escape?", she raised an eyebrow.

You clenched your jaw and kept your gaze away from her, keeping a vigilant eye on the guards in case they tried anything.

"People like us always find a way, don't we? I'm sure you've already figured out what I'm here for."

The woman threw Zemo a look before turning her attention to Sam. You furrowed your brows and kept your gaze on him, his face displaying how tensed he was.

"You're taller than I'd heard, Smiling Tiger", she flashed him a disgustingly sweet smile before addressing Zemo again, "What's the offer", she purred. You grimaced and exchanged a look with Sam.

“Tell us what you know about the super-soldier serum. And I give you him, along with the code words to control him, of course. He will do anything you want”, Zemo announced and made his way over to Bucky, caressing his dimpled chin like he was his master.

It made you sick, it took everything in you to not lunge at him so you clenched your fists tightly and focused on Bucky instead.

The woman smiled like a maniac, “Now that’s the Zemo I remember. I’m glad I decided not to kill you immediately. Yeah, you were right to come to me. Arrogant, but right. The super-soldier serum is here in Madripoor. Dr. Wilfred Nagel is the man you wanna thank. Or… condemn, depending on what side of this you’re on. The Power Broker had him working on the serum, but… things didn’t go as planned.”

You furrowed your brows. Power Broker?

“Nagel still in Madripoor?”

“Oh. The bread crumbs you can have for free, but the bakery is gonna cost you, Baron. And before you get all cute, don’t think you can find Nagel without me”, the woman conceded and leaned back on the sofa.

Suddenly, the vibration of a cell phone echoed in the room and you all froze. It was Sam’s. You felt your stomach drop.

“Answer it. On speaker”, the woman demanded.

Sam swallowed thickly before looking around the room and hesitated before picking up the call.

“Hello?”

“Hey, um, we need to talk about this situation. It’s been drivin’ me nuts”, a woman’s voice said on the phone.

“What situation exactly are you talkin’ about?”, Sam asked.

“Are you high? You know what situation, it’s the only situation me and you have.”

“What situation, Sarah? Say it”, Sam asked hotly and that’s when it clicked to you. It was his sister, Sarah. You felt like someone had poured cold water on you, praying that she wouldn’t blow his cover or reveal any personal information about herself.

“The damn boat. And watch your tone. Okay? I let you slide at the bank”, Sarah hit back at him.

Sam scoffed, his face struggling to keep up the facade and you swallowed, “The bank. Yeah. Laundered so much…” he chuckled in exaggeration, “Yeah, they’ll come around.”

You then noticed the woman’s face. She was slowly getting suspicious, her eyes on alert.

“If that was the case, then why’d they dog you out, Big Time?”

“Yeah, you damn right I’m Big Time. You’ll see when I have that banker killed”, Sam replied condescendingly. You almost face palmed yourself, Sam couldn’t even lie to be an asshole. It just wasn’t in his blood.

“Cass! What’d I tell you about the Cheerios? I don’t have time for this! Sam, I’m sorry. I’ll call you back.”

It felt like time had stopped. All of you froze in your places and stared at Sam, who was trying his best not to show that he was scared.

“Sam?! Who’s Sam? Kill them!”, that woman screeched and her guards lunged at the four of you.

And all hell broke loose. The guards started shooting, two of them making their way to you and you quickly unholstered your gun to fire at their kneecaps before Sam and Bucky punched the others and disarmed them. Zemo took out his gun and shot the woman in the stomach before the four of you cleared the room. You stared at him in shock before Sam grabbed your arm and gently pushed you out of the room.

It wasn’t difficult to take down the woman and the guards, but it was going to be a pain in the ass to save yourselves from this city itself.

As soon as the four of you stepped out of the bar, you heard several phone chimes go off, the screens flashing some message on it.

“What the hell is going on?”, you muttered as gunshots went off in your direction. “Fuck!”, you ducked and ran.

“Shit, Shit!”, Sam yelled, “I can’t run in these heels!”, Sam shouted and grimaced as his feet hurt.

You looked back and fired a shot, but you were too distracted to notice that all of a sudden, there was an additional gunshot fired from the opposite direction, causing another shooter to die.

You all slowed down to a stop and stared at the body in disbelief, Sam and Bucky looking around to see who did this.

“You seem to have a guardian angel”, Zemo announced, his gun still raised.

You furrowed your brows and looked at him in confusion, trying to figure out which ally was living in Madripoor of all places?

Then, a figure appeared—Gun pointed at you four, face covered with a big hood, the darkened alley making it seem like they appeared out of thin air.

“Well this is too perfect. Drop it, Zemo.”

And the figure stepped into light. You gasped and Sam and Bucky stared at her with wide eyes.

“Sharon?”, Bucky finally asked.

You didn’t even know if she was alive, to be honest. After the whole accords fiasco, she was wanted and had left the States, but the fact that she could be laying low in Madripoor wasn’t something that you could’ve ever imagined. After all, the Carters were nothing if obedient to the government.

“You cost me everything.”

“Sharon, wait. Someone recreated the super-soldier serum and Zemo had a lead.”

“That explains why you guys are here. And Selby’s dead.”

You paused. So the woman’s name was Selby.

Sharon then turned her attention to you, her face twisted in confusion. “Who’s this?”

Then you remembered that you were still wearing the mask and brought your hand up to your face, removing the veil and shaking your head to get rid of the flyaways.

“Oh. The (Name) Stark with Bucky Barnes? That’s something I’d pay to watch”, Sharon quipped and you shrugged casually.

“So what are you doing here?”, Sam asked.

Sharon looked away from you and addressed him, her gun still pointed at you four, “I stole Steve’s shield, remember? I also took the wings for your ass, so that you could save his ass from his ass,” she pointed at Bucky and Zemo as she went on, “I didn’t have the Avengers to back me up. So I’m off the grid in Madripoor”, she finished and glared at Sam.

Wow, she’s mean now, you thought.

Sam clenched his jaw, “Don’t blow smoke. I was on the run, too.”

“Was. Is. Big difference. I don’t speak to my family anymore. I can’t. My own father doesn’t know where I am.”

Hearing that made you feel sorry for her. Your belief, that the whole thing with the Accords was stupid and useless if the people who fought for and against it were still suffering, stood still.

“Listen… Sharon, we need your help”, Bucky pleaded and Sharon chuckled, “Please”, he added for good measure.

She took in your messy and helpless selves and sighed, lowering her gun finally.

“This isn’t over. I have a place in High Town. You’ll be safe there for a while”, she conceded and guided you all away from the filthy streets.

-

“You okay?”, you stretched your arms and your concerned murmur reached Bucky. He turned to look at you hesitantly, falling into step with you.

“Yeah…yeah. I’m alright. Don’t worry”, he tried to give you a smile but it ended up looking pained, the low lighting making his eye wrinkles stand out. You scoffed, almost sure that he doesn’t realise how expressive his face is.

“You know, for a trained assassin, you’re the worst liar, and actor, I’ve ever met.”

That got him to break and he chuckled before shaking his head.

“Really though, are you okay? I saw your face back there. Do I need to hurt Zemo?”, you quirked an eyebrow and Bucky scoffed.

“Thanks for the offer, terminator. I’ll definitely take you up on that”, he smirked and you groaned nudging his shoulder with yours. The five of you joined Sharon in her car, making your way to her place.

It was going to be a long and messy night.

Part 8

-

AN: sorry there’s no joaquin in this but i habe structure the story to give the reader their own moment to shine and bond with sambucky. Plus i needed to see them in action too, lol. Hopefully y’all liked this! Will have more action scenes in the next chapter as I’m still trying to figure out how to bring it all together, please excuse me!!

Also it’s a date finally😁😋 and we are unravelling Reader’s past slowly *rubs hands*

taglist: @og-baby-ob14 @littlemsramirez @thejadevvitch @giona45-5

sorry if I didn’t/forgot to tag anyone, reply if you wanna be added to the taglist!

[mandoalorian]

speak now [bucky barnes x f!reader]

horrified looks from everyone in the room but i’m only looking at you.

word count: 1,800

rating/warnings: 13+, angst, pre-established relationship with helmut zemo, hurt/comfort, happy ending (i imagined this with tfatws!bucky).

fic inspired by speak now by taylor swift ₊˚ෆ

: ̗̀➛ masterlist

The mirror felt cold beneath your fingertips.

“Are you okay?” one of your bridesmaids asked gently, fluffing the hem of your dress behind you.

You nodded, lips tugging upward into something that passed for a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

But you weren’t thinking about vows or flower arrangements or the champagne toast.

You were thinking about Vienna.

It had rained that night. Not enough to soak the rooftop, just enough to leave the sky glistening and the air charged with the kind of electricity that makes people say things they normally wouldn’t.

It had been just the two of you — you and Bucky — standing at the edge of a building overlooking the Danube, your mission gear still clinging to your skin, both of you catching your breath from a close call in the shadows below.

He’d saved your life that night. Threw himself between you and a sniper’s bullet like it was instinct. Maybe it was.

“I told you not to run ahead,” he said, voice low, a smirk barely ghosting across his lips.

“And I told you I hate being told what to do,” you shot back, though your pulse hadn’t stopped racing.

You hadn’t thanked him.

Not with words.

Instead, you stepped closer to him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his chest, the way his shoulders tightened when you reached up to touch his jaw — a small scrape blooming red from the scuffle.

“You’re bleeding,” you said softly.

He didn’t move away.

“It’s fine,” he murmured. “You’ve seen me worse.”

Your thumb traced the edge of the wound, careful, lingering longer than necessary. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”

The city lights stretched out behind him, but all you saw were his eyes. Tired. Guarded. Like he was holding in a war he didn’t trust anyone else to fight.

“I’m not going to stop worrying about you, you know,” you whispered. “No matter how many walls you put up.”

He swallowed hard. You felt it, saw it in the way his throat bobbed.

“I don’t want you to,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

You didn’t understand. Not right away. But then his hand came up — hesitating — until it hovered near your waist. Not touching. Just there.

And that’s when you felt it.

That aching, fragile almost.

He was close enough to kiss you. Close enough to ruin everything.

Your breath hitched.

“Say something,” he murmured. “Before I do something stupid.”

You stared at him.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

And he nodded. Just once. Like it was exactly what he expected.

You both stood there, in the middle of a storm that never broke, hearts full of things neither of you dared say.

Eventually, he stepped back. And that was the end of it. Or so you thought.

You never meant for it to end this way.

Not with lace trailing behind you. Not with trembling hands wrapped around a bouquet that didn’t mean anything. Not with Bucky Barnes watching you walk down an aisle meant for someone else.

But then again, you and Bucky had never done anything the way people expected.

It started simple. Late nights at the compound, sitting shoulder to shoulder in silence that felt warmer than words. Missions that turned into inside jokes. Gloved fingers brushing yours when he passed you a cup of coffee. The way his gaze lingered when he thought you weren’t looking.

You should’ve said something.

You should’ve asked him what he meant, that night on the rooftop in Vienna when he’d leaned in like he might kiss you but didn’t.

Instead, you let him pull away. And eventually, so did you.

Enter Helmut Zemo — elegant, composed, intelligent in a way that made you feel like you could finally breathe. He listened. He gave you space. And he didn’t come with ghosts clinging to his back like chains.

It was easier with Zemo. Simple. Predictable.

Bucky never was.

You and Bucky never even kissed. But, you never had to. The love was there in the way he always stood slightly too close. In the way his voice softened when he said your name. In the way he always watched you like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

But he never said it.

And when Zemo did — when he got down on one knee with a vintage ring and a calm certainty Bucky never gave you — you said yes.

Not because it felt like fate.

Because it felt like a life raft.

You didn’t invite Bucky to the wedding. You couldn’t. Not after the way he looked at you when he found out. He didn’t say anything — just nodded, smiled like it didn’t kill him, and said he was happy for you.

You should’ve known that was a lie.

Now, you’re here. The aisle stretches endlessly before you. Guests turn in their seats. The quartet plays something soft and elegant. And at the end of the aisle, Zemo waits, handsome and steady.

But it’s not his eyes you look for.

It’s the man in the last row, sitting alone, head down.

Bucky Barnes.

His hair is shorter now, especially compared to the last time you’d seen him. You remembered one night at the compound, your fingers tangled in his hair, casually making a comment about how he’d look so good if he cut it. Either way, he looked good, but he had been complaining about maintaining it. And you liked the idea of seeing his face more, instead of it being hidden by unkempt bangs.

In spite of the changes, Bucky still had that same stubble grazing his jaw. And those same ocean blue eyes and pink lips.

He shouldn’t be here. But he came anyway.

He doesn’t smile. Just watches you like you’re walking toward your own execution.

You try not to cry.

The ceremony begins.

Zemo says his vows first. They’re poetic. Controlled. Exactly what you expected. Then it’s your turn. You open your mouth, but your throat feels dry, feeling Bucky’s gaze burn into you. You say your vows distracted, your eyes glazed with unshed tears. Everything about this felt wrong. And yet here you were, standing in front of your family and friends, about to be trapped forever.

You forced yourself to change your train of thought. This wasn’t fair on the man who stood at the altar, beside you.

No, nothing about this was fair.

Zemo was nice enough. He was intelligent and passionate and a good lover. He worked hard and earned enough money to take care of the both of you, and he always fought for what was important to him. Those were traits you could value in anyone.

He was handsome too. He dressed well, albeit not to everyone’s taste. He wouldn’t have dared to be seen in tactical gear. And you supposed you could admire that.

If you were to really force yourself.

Zemo was nice, but he wasn’t Bucky.

Every instinct told him to stay away. To let you be happy, even if that happiness was in someone else’s arms. Even if it killed him.

But Bucky Barnes had never been good at doing what he should.

So here he was. In the back row of a wedding he didn’t belong at, fists clenched in his lap, jaw locked so tight it ached. Sam had begged him not to go. “Move on,” he had told his friend with convict and care. But Bucky couldn’t. He’d tried and he couldn’t, and now he was running out of chances.

You looked like a dream.

No — not a dream. A punishment. A walking reminder of everything he wanted but never dared to take.

He’d lost you a long time ago.

That night on the rooftop in Vienna had been the closest he’d ever come to telling you the truth. The air had been damp with rain, the mission barely behind you. The city was still burning beneath your feet, but all he could think about was the way you’d looked at him — like you saw something in him worth saving.

You left the rooftop that night thinking nothing had changed.

He left knowing everything had.

And still… he stayed silent.

He watched you fall for someone else. Watched you laugh at another man’s jokes. Watched you wear a ring that wasn’t his. He convinced himself he was doing the right thing — staying away, keeping his distance, letting you be happy.

But when the music swelled and you walked down that aisle, he realised something.

He wasn’t protecting you.

He was just scared.

Scared you wouldn’t choose him back.

Scared he’d never be enough.

Bucky’s chest burned. Because he was back on that rooftop, rain in the air, the heat of your hand on his skin, and the weight of almosts on his tongue. Not this time.

“If anyone objects to this union,” the officiant says, his voice cutting through the hush, “speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Your palms were clammy. Your ears were cold.

And then—

“I do.”

It’s like a grenade goes off in your chest.

You whip around. Guests gasp. Zemo goes rigid beside you.

Bucky rises from his seat, face unreadable, hands clenched at his sides. But there’s no mistaking the tremor in his voice.

“I object.”

The room falls into stunned silence.

And you can barely breathe.

What is this feeling? Anger? Confusion? Relief?

“I know this isn’t fair,” Bucky says, stepping into the aisle, his voice raw. “And I know I should’ve said something sooner. But I can’t let you marry him without hearing this. Without knowing that I—”

He falters, then meets your eyes with everything he’s got left.

“I love you. I always have. I was just too scared to ruin what we had. I thought… maybe if I stayed quiet, you’d be happier. Safer. He can give you a stable life, and God knows you deserve that. But if there’s even a part of you that still wonders—still feels something when I walk into a room—then don’t do this.”

You can feel every eye on you. Zemo doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. His silence speaks volumes — he already knew.

Your throat tightens.

You’d convinced yourself you were over Bucky. That the softness in your chest whenever you heard his voice would fade with time. That marrying someone safe meant you were finally moving on.

But love was never supposed to feel safe.

It was supposed to feel like this.

Like heartbreak and hope, tangled into one.

You drop the bouquet and it hits the floor with a dull thud.

Then you run — past the flowers, past the altar, past everything that should’ve been enough but wasn’t. Bucky catches you like he always does, like he was built for it. You bury your face in his shoulder, breathing him in, shaking, laughing and crying at the same time.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers.

“You never did.”

And that was the truth.

Zemo doesn’t chase you. He just watches. Dignified. Quiet. Maybe he was never meant to be the villain of your story.

Just the man who helped you realize who the hero was.

“Bucky, I’m so mad at you.” you sobbed into his chest, tears dampening the material of his black shirt. He cradled the back of your head.

“I know,” he replied softly, regretting the time he’d lost with you. “And I deserve that. But please—“

You cut him off with a kiss. Hard, passionate, in love. The kiss you had deserved since Vienna. The kiss Bucky had dreamed of. Your lips taste like heaven against his, and you know now, that this was exactly where you needed to be.

You don’t look back.

You don’t need to.

Because Bucky was never behind you.

He was always the one waiting to be chosen.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

[mypoisonedvine]

you know your last zemo piece RUINED me I think about it at least once a day 😭 what about zemo/reader + 41? 👀 if you feel like it of course! I would read even your grocery list probably

okay well then eggs, milk, greek yogurt--

just kidding c: (not kidding that i need to buy greek yogurt tho. i ran out the other day)

41: "don't do that. don't act like you don't feel this too."

warnings: smut (18+ only, ever so slightly dubcon because of all of the denial?), fingering and overstimulation, glove kink, angst, enemies to lovers, descriptions of injuries and violence, reader is very generally implied to be an avenger?

100 random prompts - send me a number and a character!

"What are you doing here?" you asked sharply, pretending to be focused on your book even though your heart had been beating too fast to let you read another word as soon as he stepped into your room.

"I just wanted to speak with you," he said. You knit your brows together, because obviously you just want to talk, what the hell else would we be doing in here alone? but you didn't say anything. "About what happened today--"

"It doesn't mean anything," you insisted, rather dramatically flipping the page of your book. "You're an asset to the mission, my job is to keep the mission on track. That's it."

He didn't react, really. "I... never said it meant anything," he explained, "I simply wanted to thank you."

You cursed yourself internally, staring blankly forward at your book, trying so hard to ignore his dark form in your peripheral. Did he have to keep staring at you like that?

"So, thank you," he said.

"That's not necessary," you insisted, "I would've done it for anyone."

"You'd take a bullet for anyone?" he pressed.

You closed your book in frustration, finally looking back at him; you wished you hadn't. You couldn't even begin to react to everything you saw on his face, the way he was looking back at you... you stopped yourself before you even thought about trying to describe what emotion that could be. It took you a moment to even remember what you were going to say: "I didn't take a bullet," you corrected him, standing up off the bed, "I had Kevlar on. I just blocked it."

"Yes, Kevlar-- not magic," he clarified. "It must have still injured you."

You shrugged. "I'll live."

"May I see?" he asked softly, stepping forward until he was uncomfortably close to you, and you nodded slightly. You couldn't look at him as his gloved hand slowly pulled up the bottom of your tank top, until the massive bruise on your stomach was revealed. "Christ..." he whispered under his breath.

You shoved the fabric back down and wiped under your nose, trying to act normal and stern again.

"I didn't know you were wearing a vest," he explained. "The feeling that went through me when I thought you were really hit-- that you might..."

He trailed off, but you nodded, knowing what he meant.

"I haven't felt that feeling in a long time," he continued soberly, his gaze a little darker. "I never wanted to feel that again."

"Well, I guess I'm sorry if I... distressed you," you mumbled.

"Surely you know I'm not here asking for an apology," he scoffed.

"Then what do you want from me?!" you snapped.

"Don't ask me a question you don't want me to answer," he warned, and your heart jumped.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you mumbled, crossing your arms tightly and looking away.

He didn't answer, just stepped closer to you-- you wanted to step back, but the bed was in your way. Damn these insanely tiny rooms...

You looked back at him, trying to keep a straight face, hoping he couldn't hear your racing pulse somehow.

"Ask me again what I want from you," he ordered darkly, "if you really want to know."

You stammered a bit but eventually choked it out, almost a whisper: "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to promise you'll never do that again."

You weren't sure what you were expecting, but it wasn't that. "What?"

"Never put yourself in harm's way like that again," he demanded, "I can't take it-- if you were really hurt, or even killed--"

"It's my job," you reminded him. "If my orders put me in harm's way, that's where I go. And my orders come from Bucky, not you."

"James doesn't care about you," he interjected sharply, and your eyes went wide. "And you don't care about James-- not in that way, at least."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," you blurted out, not sure what else you were supposed to say to that.

"Don't do that," he pleaded lowly, shaking his head. "Don't pretend that you don't feel this, too."

You tried to step away but he grabbed you by the wrist, pulling you back into him-- closer than ever; his other hand came up to hold your face, a gloved thumb tracing over your cheek as you looked back at him.

"I can't watch you get hurt again," he breathed, "least of all for me. Just let me protect you."

"I don't need your protection," you assured, "I can fend for myself."

"But do you want to?"

When your mouth opened with a little gasp of denial, he took the opportunity to kiss you-- hard and passionate, pulling your body close to his.

You put your hands on his chest like you were going to push him away, but you found yourself melting into it instead, and your fingers weakly clutched at the fur lapel of his coat.

"Fuck," you mumbled against his lips, kissing him back with more intensity than either of you expected. Weeks of tension finally broke as you clawed at each other, falling onto the bed and struggling with a mess of bulky clothes.

His kiss moved to your neck, his teeth digging into your skin until you whined. "Would it be wrong of me," he wondered, "to be responsible for another mark on you?"

"Shut up," you hissed, 'cause how the fuck could he be all poetic and shit right now? You could barely even think straight-- clearly you weren't thinking straight, because you were in bed under Zemo of all people. "I can't fucking stand you sometimes."

"I know," he mumbled against your skin, his hands moving down your waist until he could start opening your belt.

"But I wanted you so fucking bad..."

"I know."

He slipped his hand into your pants, cupping your sex for just a moment, before roughly shoving two fingers inside you-- with his fucking leather glove still on. You moaned low and loud, tossing your head back as he stretched you on those fingers, the intrusion thick and sudden and making you insanely desperate.

Your back arched as he thrusted those fingers inside you, your legs spreading naturally as your body craved more. He pulled away from your neck to stare down at your face, mesmerized by the way you responded to him.

"O-oh my god," you gasped, "fuck--"

"Right there?" he assumed as he curled his fingers against your spot, making you shudder and hold tight onto his arm.

"Yes, yes!" you whimpered.

"Quiet, draga," he cooed, "James is only one room away--"

"Fuck, j-just fuck me," you begged, "I need you-- just fuck me, please."

"No," he denied flatly, though it clearly pained him to say it. "One of us has to stay in control."

You whined in frustration, amazed at how much he could say in so few words. I'm in control right now. I wouldn't be able to control myself if I was inside you. I wouldn't hold back, and everyone would hear us. You couldn't pick which underlying meaning was the one that made you that much more wet all of a sudden.

He purred through a smile as he rubbed harder against the spot inside you, moving his covered thumb to press to your clit as well. "I can feel how badly you need this-- it must have been so long since anyone pleasured you, hm? And you must have known I could take care of you."

Your legs were shaking already, your hand reaching up to hold onto his shoulder, then weaving into his hair. You tried to pull him down for a kiss, but when his face came close to yours, he stopped and stared right into your eyes-- and his other hand grabbed yours and pinned it down roughly beside your head. You bit your lip, hating how much you loved the helplessness you felt right then.

"I just need you to come for me now," he explained with a growl. "I need to watch you give into it."

"I-I'm close," you nodded, and he smiled again.

"I know," he said, making you feel a little stupid for even saying it. "Show me. I want to see what it looks like when you let go."

With your one free hand holding tightly onto the sheets, your hips started to rock up into his touch-- or maybe trying to get away from it, the feeling was so intense. Either way he had no trouble keeping you where he wanted you, shoving his fingers deep until your eyes rolled back. You knew you were saying his name, you heard it echoing around the walls, but you refused to believe that it was really you begging for him like that. You would've given him anything he wanted right then, just to get through that feeling and let ecstasy wash over you: thankfully, all he wanted was exactly that.

It was actually quiet at first, you were holding your breath without really meaning to; only when you just barely started to come down from the high did you make a sound again, a moan going out along with a big exhale of everything you'd been holding in.

Except the feeling didn't stop, because he didn't. Actually, he started going even harder.

Your eyes shot open and your body rocked. "F-fuck, fuck!" you yelped, both your hands tightening into fists before the unrestrained one grabbed at his wrist to try to slow him down-- which obviously didn't work.

He was biting his lip and flaring his nostrils from the force of it, staring down at you with fire in his eyes as he kept going.

"Oh my god," you sobbed, "I-I can't-- fuck, I-- oh!"

You wouldn't really call it a scream... he would, but you wouldn't. You might have said it was more like a high-pitched moan or maybe just a loud whine, but really, to anyone else who heard it (which may not have just been Zemo) it was definitely a scream. A scream of overwhelming, painfully-perfect pleasure. And only when your whole body was a shaking, useless mess did he stop moving his fingers inside you and gently pull them out.

You were so exhausted, going limp against the mattress and fighting to blink your eyes open, that you didn't even really notice him bringing his soaked glove to his mouth and getting a taste of you, humming contentedly.

It was only when he let go of your wrist and stopped hovering over you, sitting on the bed with a sigh, that you really noticed him again and (mostly) came back to reality.

His hair was messed up, and his face was flushed-- and you'd tugged his shirt to the side and exposed more of his chest. Only now did he look even a quarter as affected by this as you were. "There will be a time and place for more, draga," he promised you with a sigh, "soon."

"When?" you asked, and he smiled a bit deviously at you before wrapping his hand around the back of your neck and kissing you again-- sweeter, slower, but with a hint of dominance as he gently bit on your bottom lip.

"Whenever my patience runs out," he answered with a grin.

[ace-marvel]

Bereavement

Alpha!Helmut Zemo x Omega!Reader

Synopsis: Your daughter's question at bed time stirs you to think of how you came to be with Zemo

Word Count: 11.8K

(A/N: I saw a Zemo edit on TikTok and then this came out of my brain. I am a Bucky girl through and through but god fucking damn, emotionally manipulative men are my weakness.)

Your daughter’s laughter makes you smile as you follow her into the decorated room, pink walls decorated with sparkling stars and rainbows. She’s in her pyjamas, already crawling under her covers when you sit beside her on the bed.

Gently, your hands tuck in the blanket around her chin and move the teddy bear closer to her. She wraps her small arms around the massive thing, smiling up at you.

“Mommy,” She yawns slightly as you stroke her cheek, “How did you and Otecko meet?”

You can’t help but smile at her little accent. Innocent eyes stare up at you, full of wonder and amazement as you softly begin to run your fingers through your hair.

A soft laugh leaves your lips as you remember how you met your husband and alpha.

It had started with a phone call.

You didn’t even know that Sam Wilson still had your phone number until he called. He was lucky to have caught you in one of the rare moments you weren’t knees deep in a mission, tracking down whatever target you were after.

“What?” You answered bluntly as you held the phone to your ear.

“Is that how you talk to the guy who kept you out of prison?” Sam’s voice called through the speaker and you rolled your eyes.

“I would have broken out of whatever hole they stuck me in,” You stated simply, leaning against the wall of the shitty, run down hotel you were staying in.

Sam chuckled, “You probably would have,”

“What do you want, Sam?”

There’s a moment of silence followed by a sigh. You can hear the frustration through the phone before he’s even said anything, meaning this is something serious. Serious enough for him to call you, of all people.

“I need your help,” Sam explained, “Bucky decided to help a psychopath break out of prison,”

“What did you expect from the man who was The Winter Soldier?” You spoke sharply.

“Well,” Sam huffed, “We kinda need this psychopath,”

You pursed your lips, “And I come in, how?”

“I figured I’d fight fire with fire,” Sam stated, voice firm, “I need you to keep an eye on him with us,”

That was how you ended up in a safe house, facing off with Baron Zemo. The moment you arrived, both Bucky and Sam were having their usual bickering session, which made you roll your eyes as you stared at the man.

“You called her in?!”

“If anyone is going to control Zemo, it’s her!”

“She tried to kill Steve!”

“So did you!”

You had heard of Baron Zemo but this was the first time you were meeting him in person. He smelt like something expensive but also tainted. Your expertise lay in scent tracking, something that not a lot of people had these days.

It made you dangerous against alphas.

Zemo’s scent is rich, refined and you find yourself subtly intoxicated by it. It’s a mix of spiced cedarwood, worn leather and dark amber with a faint trace of bergamot and smoky vanilla.

It’s a scent that lingers but doesn’t command attention- because his presence does that effortlessly.

"You reek of grief,” Zemo finally said, his voice smooth yet laced with something unreadable.

Sam and Bucky are pulled out of their bickering when you pull a gun, shooting it at Zemo. Bucky flinched while Sam yelled, Zemo standing there with a smirk on his lips.

The bullet hadn’t hit him but was instead was embedded into the wall next to his head.

“Takes one to know one,” You bit back.

At that, his eyes turn sharp and assessing before it flickered away. You could smell it in his scent, the way it spiked to something more smoky before it fainted away.

“Ah, a kindred spirit then,” He chuckled, “You missed,”

You didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger again, a loud ‘ping’ and metal scrapping against metal filled the room. Zemo turned his head, finding the bullet in the exact same spot as the first one.

His scent flared again, this time an air of impressiveness and attraction? It caught you off guard for a split second.

“I don’t miss,”

“Can we put the gun away?” Sam asked loudly, he stepped in front of you making you put the weapon back on your hip, “Thank you,”

“You really think we can trust her?” Bucky had spoken up, clearly annoyed with the whole situation.

You scoffed, eyes rolling as you took a seat on the couch. But it didn’t mean your guard was down.

“Right,” Sam spoke, “We are going out, you..,”

Sam looked at you as you looked back at him.

“Play nice,”

When Sam and Bucky left, that’s when the connection came to life.

Zemo had analyzed you, like you had done with him. He noticed the way you sat, your scent so well hidden, your heartbeat steady and how you positioned yourself out of arms reach of anyone.

“Sam trusts you to keep an eye on me?” Zemo asked, arching an eyebrow, “How.. bold of him.”

You scoffed, “He trusts me to put you down if you step out of line,”

Zemo had chuckled, low and dry, “Oh. I like you already,”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t deny the way his scent curled around you- something dark, expensive, and laced with grief so similar to your own. It was maddening, the way your omega instincts stirred at the presence of this alpha.

He turned his head slightly, watching you with an interest that was piqued and unwavering.

“How long do you intend to sit there?” Zemo questioned, a slight amusement in his tone.

“Long enough to know if I have to kill you,” you replied, voice sharp but almost teasing.

He hummed softly, a sound of intrigue. “Do you find it difficult? Being surrounded by alphas?”

You laughed, bitterly. “No more than they find it being around me.”

His gaze lingered on you, searching. “Did you know there was a time when alphas like us ruled with fear?”

You tilted your head, meeting his eyes squarely. “Is that what this is? You trying to scare me?”

“No.” Zemo smiled faintly. “It’s quite the opposite.”

His honesty was disarming. You fell silent, wrestling internally with instincts that were screaming at you to close the distance between yourself and him. Zemo sat on the opposite couch, his scent closer, more distinguished as he spoke.

“An alpha is only strong with an omega,” He spoke proudly, “And an omega is only protected with an alpha, Contrary to popular belief, the two need each other in order to survive, keeps the instincts from consuming the mind,”

“I survive just fine,” You spat.

Zemo leaned forward slightly, tilting his head, “Tell me, Omega..do you ever wake up expecting to find them beside you, only to be met with cold sheets and an emptiness that never quite fades?”

The words sent a sharp pang through your chest. You swallowed, looking away but he didn’t need you to talk to answer him.

“Then perhaps you understand me better than most,” Zemo hummed, his gaze unreadable.

You hated this. The way he made you feel unnerved, because he was someone that understood you. Because mates died with each other, bond mates didn’t survive if the other wasn’t living.

Your gaze wandered to the dark, jagged scar etched across the side of his neck. The mark, with its uneven edges and slightly raised texture was black, representing that the person who put it there was no longer living.

It reflected your own.

The cat and mouse game continued for the rest of your time in Latvia, surrounded by the rich scent that was Baron Zemo. You were used to scents, you had smelt a lot of alphas in your time, tracked them down, killed them.

But nothing affected you like his did.

His scent put you on edge, they way it made you calm down when the battles were tough and you were faced with a strong opponent. The flag smashers weren’t anything you couldn’t deal with, but your omega instincts still lingered in the back of your mind despite anything you did.

Yet Zemo’s scent, the strong cedarwood and worn leather wrapped around a part of yourself you didn’t believe exist anymore.

It all came crashing down when you met Zemo in front of the Sokovia Tribute.

This was the mission, you reminded yourself. You were to ensure Zemo be handed over to the authorities or put him down with a bullet. Soon, the Dora Milaje would come, with Bucky, and they would drag him to whatever cage awaited him.

And you? You’d continue on, like you always did, finding another mission, finding another person to hunt down and turn over or kill.

Zemo stood in front of the statue, his hands clasped behind his back in that way of his- controlled, unreadable. He always held himself like he was two steps ahead of everyone, like he had already anticipated what was coming next. But he turned towards you, with something in his gaze.

Something like uncertainty.

“This is the end, then,” He murmured.

It should have been. You should have walked away, said something sharp, something final. But you didn’t.

For once, you didn’t stand out of arms reach. Zemo’s scent was making your guards fall and you couldn’t control it. Because his instincts called to your own, whether you controlled it or not. The strange pull- the one you had been ignoring the entire mission - it remained.

It was unnatural. It was wrong. Your instincts had died when your mate did and so did his. You both had bonds once cherished, now severed, leaving you both hollow, broken things.

“Why do you look at me like that?” Zemo’s voice was soft, for once, the cunning tone gone.

“Like what?”

“Like you feel it too?”

You exhaled sharply. “There’s nothing to feel.”

A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Lying doesn’t suit you, Omega,”

You should have left. Should have walked away, turned your back and ignored everything that was coming to life in that moment. Because it felt like a charged, crackling wire.

Zemo took a step forward, closing the space between you both. He wasn’t touching you, not yet, but his presence was overwhelming. And then- so softly it was barely a whisper - he asked.

“Would you let me kiss you?”

You didn’t answer. Not with words.

Your hands could his collar, fisting the fabric, pulling him down just as you rose to your toes and then-

Your lips met.

The moment they did, it felt peaceful and the electricity you felt had suddenly calmed, thrumming between you both. Something dormat had awoken in that moment. Overwhelming. Suffocating. Real.

You pulled away first, breathless. For the first time you met him, Zemo looked genuinely stunned. His pupils were blown wide, his scent thick with something bordering on disbelief.

“..Well.” His voice was hoarse, “That was unexpected,”

You swallowed hard and took a step back, regaining your composure. This wasn’t allowed, the moment should not have happened in your mind.

“You are the first person I have kissed since my omega died..,” He confessed.

The lump in your throat was swallowed down, a lie leaving your lips, “It’s just our instincts reacting to each other, you haven’t been near an omega since that moment and I just did you a favor since you asked so nicely,”

Zemo exhaled, his hand lifted to try and touch you. But at the sound of footsteps, his fingers curled shit into a fist and he took a step back.

Bucky and the Dora Milaje had arrived. Which meant your mission and your time with Zemo was done.

“It seems I must thank you for such a kind farewell, then.” The cunning had returned to his voice, along with an edge of something else. Something that almost sounded like regret.

Ayo gestured sharply at Zemo, and the Dora Milaje surrounded him, efficient and determined. Your gaze followed as they led him away, every step taking that intoxicating scent further from you.

You should have felt relief. You should have been glad it was over. But instead, there was an ache that gnawed at the edges of your mind, a hollowness that hadn’t been there since your own mate had died.

Bucky’s voice pulled you back.

“You alright?” he asked, watching you carefully.

You snapped back to that emotionless person you always had to be and nodded. “It’s done,” you said flatly.

He studied you for a moment longer, like he didn’t quite believe you but wasn’t going to push it. “We’ll be stateside by morning,”

“You’ll be stateside,” You spoke firmly, adjusting your weapons, “Just tell Sam to wire me the rest of the money,”

With that, you walked off.

Two years passed, of you throwing yourself into work. You hunted down men, alphas, enhanced individuals or anyone that had been involved in Hydra. You were finishing up a mission in Italy when Sam called you, your ringtone of ‘Dynamite’ by BTS blaring in the air as you held a gun to a man’s head.

The call came through, and you ignored it at first. The guy tied to the chair had whimpered, begged and pleaded as you held the barrel of the gun to his temple.

“Tell me who you were selling them to,” You snarled.

He whimpered and pleaded again, you were about to punch him when the ringtone cut through the air again, vibrating annoyingly in your pocket. You shot the man in the shoulder, just enough to make him think twice before running.

“Can I help you?” You snapped into the phone.

“Two years, no goodbye and this is the hello I get?” Sam joked through the phone, “Harsh,”

“I’m working,” You hissed.

“And I got work for you,”

Before you could respond, the man in the chair whimpered again before yelling out. In a second, you pointed the gun at his head and pulled the trigger.

“Did you just shot someone?”

“He was a human trafficker, he sold young omegas and I mean, young,”

Sam replied after a pause. “Listen, we need you in New York. I’ll pay you double,”

“Triple or I’m not interested,” You said shortly.

“I’ll wire it tonight,” Sam sighed. “But this is a big one, alright?”

You rolled your eyes. It was always a big one when it came to Sam. But if it didn’t include fighting aliens then you didn’t class it as a big one.

“I’ll be there soon,”

New York wasn’t your favourite place to be. Too many people, too many arrogant alphas who thought they ruled the streets.

Avengers tower stood tall, as it always did, like beacon and warning all in one. You just slumped against the elevator as it rode up the floors, looking as the numbers lit up. It reminded you of the happier days, when you’d joke around with your fellow agents on the way back from your missions.

The floor you stopped on wasn’t marked on the elevator, the doors slowly opening before you stepped out. It was the hidden floor of the tower, only the heroes and yourself knew about it. The Avengers darker side, their team of mismatched anti-heroes for the more cruel missions.

The Thunderbolts.

Sam was waiting.

“This is what your paying me for?” You asked.

“I’m not actually the one paying you,” Sam stated, “I just got you here,”

You narrowed your eyes at the Falcon as he lead you into a well lit briefing room. The moment you stepped into the room, you smelt him. The same sharp, undeniable awareness that haunted you since Latvia.

You had spent those two years forgetting about. Burying the way your body had reacted to Zemo, how your instincts, long thought dead, had stirred the moment his lips touched yours. You had spent the time convincing yourself it was nothing but a mistake, a fleeting consequence of fried and circumstance.

But the second you saw him again, standing at the head of the table, dressed in all black with his signature coat draped over his shoulders, your body ignited.

Zemo looked just as he had back then- poised, unreadable, a ghost of amusement dancing in his eyes. But this time, there was something different. This time, he had expected you.

“Ah,” Zemo mused, head tilted as his gaze raked over you, “So they finally convinced you,”

“They didn’t convince me, they paid me,”

He chuckled, slow and rick. “Of course,”

You had known what they were getting Zemo to do. He was the perfect person to lead the darker extension of what heroes liked to pretend didn’t exist. It was a condition of his release from the raft.

You folded your arms, ignoring the way his scent, spiced cedarwood and worn leather, wrapped around your nose, “So, what? Can’t get any of your little team of misfits to do something?”

“I like to think of myself as a fair boss,” Zemo chuckled and you ignored the way it made your body shiver, “Yelena and her father have gone on little family vacation, the others are on their own missions elsewhere,”

“And The Winter Soldier?” You quipped.

Sam answered your question, “He’s expecting a pup any day now,”

Your brow raised, “A pup?”

“Yeah,” Sam grinned. “Fatherhood’s mellowed him out. It’s weird.”

The idea of Bucky as a doting parent was something you couldn’t quite picture, but it wasn’t relevant now. Not with Zemo looking at you the way he was, like he could see past every wall you built, every lie you told yourself in the last two years.

“What is this job?”

Zemo gestured towards the table, scattered with maps and intel. He spoke, his voice low and smooth.

“It requires finesse,” he said, moving closer than he needed to, spreading his scent further; it was intoxicating and infuriating how much it affected you.

“They usually do when you’re involved,” You stated flatly.

He smirked, a slight tilt of his head acknowledging your point. “A group of radicals in Symkaria have uncovered some Hydra technology,” Zemo explained. “They’ve been capturing and experimenting on omegas,”

Your scent soured, followed by you picking up the file and briefly flicking through it. Maybe this was a big one, you had been tracking down omega traffickers for the last six months, this could be what they had all been selling to.

“I see you are interested,” Zemo said, watching you carefully.

“Don’t push it,” You answered.

“Then you’ll work the job?” Sam asked, a hopeful edge to his voice.

You shrugged, but your resolve was already slipping. “I’ll work it,”

Zemo’s eyes lingered on you, satisfied. He leaned against the table, his expression thoughtful. “We leave tomorrow,” he said, “After we gather some additional resources.”

You nodded once and turned to leave before either of them saw how affected you were. Before they could see the conflict tugging at your emotions.

But Zemo called after you. “Oh, and one more thing,”

You paused, dread mixing with the adrenaline in your veins as you glanced back.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said simply, that ghost of amusement ever-present in his eyes.

You didn’t have a response for that, as a new scent invaded your senses. It was a scent of roses mixed with rain, with the very lingering scent of crisp linen on top of it. It was coming behind you, making you quickly pull the gun from your side and pointed it at the person who had just walked in.

The omega at the door screamed, dropped the papers in their hands before letting out a string of curse words in Spanish. You raised an eyebrow, staring at the young omega. She looked oddly familiar.

“Can we not point guns at Jordi?!” Sam shouted out, grabbing the weapon in your hand, “She’s the Thunderbolts doctor and weapons expert,”

Jordi.

You knew her.

“Holy Shit,” Despite a gun being pointed in her direction a moment ago, a smile cracked onto her features, “It’s you! You worked with my dad!”

“I also put your father in jail,”

Jordi waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, well, he wasn’t a great guy,”

You lowered your gun, feeling the weight of memories pressing in. Jordi had been barely ten when you last her, a tiny kid genuis who rushed around her father’s lab, a blur of energy and wild ideas.

Zemo’s voice cut through the moment. “She’s quite indispensable,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“Don’t be too mean to her,” Sam said with a sigh, “She’s going to be working closely with you and Zemo on this one.”

You put the gun back into its holster before turning away from them all. “I’m going to regret this,”

“Probably,” Jordi replied with a shrug, “But it means I get to see your work first hand,”

Your eyes flicked back to Zemo briefly. His expression was still amused, you hated how much he enjoyed this.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” You huffed, turning and marching out of the room.

You had to get away from Zemo.

—

But your problems didn’t stop there.

Because twelve hours later, you were stuck on a private jet with no-one other than Helmut Zemo.

He sat across from you, completely calm as the plane cut through the sky. Your foot tapped nervously, even though you tried to appear just as composed.

“Care for something to drink?” he asked, already pouring champagne into a glass, the bubbles rising in a delicate swirl.

“No.”

Zemo laughed softly. “Still so serious,” he said, handing you the glass anyway.

You took it because refusing felt like a win for him, and you couldn’t allow that. “Where’s your little protégé?”

“Jordi will be helping us remotely,” he replied. “She’s not someone who goes into the field. Not to say she can’t defend herself.”

There was a lure to his words, an invitation for you to ask more questions, but you didn’t take it. You stared out the window instead, watching clouds blur past, clinging to this small piece of distance between you.

Zemo leaned back, his eyes never leaving your face. “You always did prefer working alone,”

“The last time I worked with a team, half of them turned out to be undercover hydra agents,” You slumped in your seat further, eyes locked onto the champange glass.

“Ah, SHIELD’s kill squad for enhanced individuals,”

You didn’t look at him, but you didn’t correct him, either.

“They were very brutal,” Zemo continued, “I was almost impressed.”

A bitter laugh escaped your lips. “You would be.”

“And your mate had been one of them,”

You slammed the glass onto the stupid little table beside the the chair, eyes narrowed as you glared at Zemo.

“He was not a hydra agent,”

“I didn’t say he was,”

The hint of a smile on Zemo’s lips told you he knew exactly what he was doing. He always did. You forced yourself to look away, clenching your hands to stop the tremor that had started.

“What is this, Zemo?” you snapped. “A reunion tour? I’m not interested in reliving the greatest hits.”

His expression softened, an uncharacteristic moment of sincerity breaking through. “We have more in common than you admit,” Zemo said, his voice low and knowing.

You hated that he might be right.

You felt his eyes on you, reading every twitch of muscle, every flicker of emotion, and it left you feeling raw and exposed. You needed to focus elsewhere before he dug any deeper.

“Tell me more about these traffickers,” you demanded, steering the subject back to the job. “What do we know about them?”

Zemo paused for a moment, as if deciding whether to let you change the topic so easily. But he allowed it, going on about the targets you would hunting down and the intel they had received. Keeping it professional helped you stay focused on something other than his scent, which was swarming around you.

—-

You had grown used to being in the guts of countries, deep in holes that no one ever climbed out of. Symkaria was a breeding ground of filth, lies and crime. The air in the country was sharp, carrying the scent of damp stone and distant gunpowder. At the center of all the corruption and crime, you knew something foul was festering.

The little base that you and Zemo infiltrated was run down, one of the Starks old weapon warehouses that no longer worked. But the men around the place, you had seen it all before. Alphas and betas who profited from selling omegas, taking their rights and erasing their autonomy. The worst part was half the time they were sold to rich, government officials who wanted a trophy.

You reminded yourself that’s why you were here, everytime Zemo’s rich scent invaded your senses.

It was the worst part of the operation.

You were surrounded by it—rich and dark, a scent of spiced cedarwood with hints of smoky vanilla and something warm. Something that made your instincts stir, a deep ache blooming in your chest.

You clenched your jaw, forcing the feeling down.

Zemo suddenly stopped, his hand coming up in a silent signal. You halted beside him, peering around the corner.

Two guards. Armed. Chatting casually in Symkarian.

Zemo glanced at you, amusement flickering in his sharp eyes. “Shall we?”

You rolled your shoulders, gripping your knife. “Try to keep up, Baron.”

You moved first—swift, silent. Your knife slid through the first man’s throat before he even registered the attack. Blood spurted as you twisted the blade free. The second man had just enough time to reach for his gun before Zemo was there, snapping his neck in a clean, practiced motion.

The bodies hit the ground almost at the same time.

Zemo exhaled, shaking out his wrist. “Efficient as ever.”

You wiped your blade against your pants. “Don’t sound so impressed.”

“On the contrary,” he murmured, stepping closer—too close. His voice dropped lower, smoother. “I have always found competence… very attractive.”

Heat prickled up your spine.

You forced yourself to scoff, turning away. “Keep your focus, Zemo.”

He chuckled, a sound that tangled around your resolve, but he didn’t press further.

You cleared the rest of the compound in record time, the two of you moving as if you’d never stopped. You hated how effortless it felt. How natural. By the time you reached what passed for an office, you were breathing hard but steady, adrenaline singing through your veins.

Zemo rifled through papers while you tapped at a decrepit computer terminal.

“Can she get anything off this?” You glared at the screen, skeptical.

“She’s quite resourceful,” Zemo replied, pulling out his phone. “Jordi, we’ve located a terminal.”

The line crackled, and then Jordi’s voice came through clear and bright. “Is it a hunk of junk? I bet it’s a hunk of junk. Don’t worry—just plug in and give me three minutes.”

You connected her to the system and backed away, feeling restless as you watched the computer screen. They weren’t keeping the omegas here but something in these files would point you in the right direction.

Zemo’s eyes were on you but you kept your focus on the computer, watching as Jordi hacked into the system. When a hand touched your cheek, you stepped back quickly, knife at the ready.

“Blood,” Zemo chuckled as he held up his gloved hand.

You hadn’t realized some of it had spattered across your face.

“Thanks,” you muttered, swiping at the spot with your sleeve.

Jordi’s voice crackled over the phone, “Uh, tiny problem,”

“What is it?” Zemo asked, oddly gentle in his approach to Jordi.

“They’ve got some hard encryptions on this stuff, it’s going to take me a while to get through it,” She explained, “Think you two can lay low for the night until I hack it?”

“Do we have a choice?” You asked sharply, not happy with the delay.

“Not if you want locations,” Jordi replied. “And I know you do.”

You shot Zemo a glare. If there was anyone you hated dealing with more than him, it was his smart-mouth hacker. “Fine.”

“We appreciate your skill,” Zemo said smoothly.

“Just watch your backs out there, alright? And tell her I expect a thank-you gif when this is all done.”

The line cut out before you could respond.

Zemo set the phone down and moved closer. “I have a penthouse nearby,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “We can stay there and wait for Jordi to make progress.”

You didn’t argue, though every step out of the warehouse felt like another surrender. You told yourself it was only temporary. Just until you had enough intel to move on.

The drive to the penthouse was mercifully short.

The apartment was luxurious in the way only old money could afford—high ceilings, dark wooden floors, and a fireplace crackling softly in the corner. Heavy velvet drapes were drawn over the windows, shutting out the noise of Symkaria’s restless streets.

Zemo poured himself a glass of whiskey from the bar in the corner, his movements slow, unhurried. You, on the other hand, were tense as hell.

The mission was on hold for now. The encrypted files you’d stolen from the trafficking ring’s server were being decoded, but it would take time—too much time. You hated waiting. It made your instincts restless, clawing at the edges of your control.

And then there was the bed.

Just one.

You had noticed it the moment Zemo led you inside. The massive four-poster bed took up the center of the room, draped in dark sheets that looked entirely too inviting. There was no couch. No spare mattress.

You weren’t an idiot. You knew what this meant.

Zemo took a slow sip of whiskey, watching you over the rim of his glass. His scent was there—rich, dark, unmistakable. You had been trained to be in tune to an alphas scent, which was now making your life harder than it needed to be. The warmth of leather, smokey vanilla, and something spiced curled around you, burrowing under your skin.

Your instincts shifted uneasily, confused. You weren’t supposed to react like this. Not anymore. Your mate had died. So had his.

But this bond— whatever the hell it was—refused to stay dead.

“You’re unusually quiet,” Zemo mused, setting his glass down. His sharp eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “Is something troubling you?”

You crossed your arms, leaning against the wall. “There’s only one bed.”

Zemo smiled. “Ah. Yes, I suppose there is.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You planned this.”

His lips twitched. “I would never be so manipulative.”

“You would and you are,” you shot back.

Zemo let out a low chuckle and stepped closer. Too close. The air between you grew thick, charged. His presence was warm, his scent brushing against your skin like a whisper of something forbidden.

Your body betrayed you—muscles tensing, breath hitching. Your omega instincts stirred, restless and confused. You weren’t supposed to want. Not after everything.

But Zemo wasn’t backing away.

“If it truly bothers you,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk, “I will take the floor.”

You exhaled sharply, trying to steady yourself. “Good.”

He tilted his head, studying you like he could see through every wall you had put up.“Would you prefer that?”

The question shouldn’t have made your pulse spike. But it did.

Zemo had always been dangerous. But this? This was something else entirely.

You swallowed hard, turning away before he could see the answer in your face.

“I’ll take the bed,” you muttered, heading for the bathroom. “And lock the damn door behind you.”

Zemo only chuckled, and the sound followed you long after you shut the door.

You stayed under the hot spray of the shower for longer than you should have, skin flushed and raw. The water washed away grime and blood, but not the heat curling beneath your ribs. This was insane. A mistake. You shouldn’t be here, with him, and he shouldn’t have this much of an effect on you.

Not anymore.

You turned off the water, hissing as cool air touched your skin. You dried off quickly and pulled on a spare shirt from your bag. It hung loose over your frame, claiming too much space, too much air. You shouldered the bathroom door open, half-expecting to find Zemo already in bed, smirking at your discomfort.

The room was empty.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. He had actually listened for once. Maybe he had taken pity on you—or maybe it was all part of his game.

The thought settled heavily in your chest as you climbed onto the bed. The sheets were softer than anything you had ever slept on, no doubt a reflection of Zemo’s wealth. Thankfully, the sheets didn’t smell like him, instead they smelt clean.

Sleep comes easier than you thought it would.

The pain started as a dull ache in your lower stomach, a vague discomfort that you tried to ignore. But as the night wore on, it grew sharper, twisting through your insides like a knife. A cold sweat clung to your skin, and your limbs felt heavy, wrong.

You curled on your side, clutching your stomach. Not now. Not here.

The suppressants always worked. You took them religiously, never missing a dose. But sometimes your body fought back, for brief periods of time.

You bit down a groan, forcing yourself to breathe through the pain. You just had to ride it out.

A sharp knock at the door made you tense.

“Liebling?” Zemo’s voice was smooth, but there was something careful in his tone. Too careful. “I heard you moving.”

Shit. Had you made a noise?

“I’m fine,” you gritted out. “Go back to sleep.”

Silence. Then—

The door opened.

You should have locked it.

Zemo stepped inside, his silhouette dark against the dim glow of the city lights seeping through the curtains. He was barefoot, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat. His scent hit you like a physical force—leather, whiskey, warmth. It curled around your senses, sending a ripple of something dangerous through your veins.

His gaze landed on you—curled in on yourself, trembling—and something shifted in his expression.

“Schatz,” he murmured, softer now. “What’s wrong?”

You clenched your jaw, willing your body to stop shaking. “Nothing.”

He exhaled, stepping closer.

You tried to sit up, but the motion sent a fresh wave of pain rolling through you. A strangled sound tore from your throat before you could swallow it down.

Zemo was at your side in an instant.

“Don’t—” You started, but his hand was already pressing against your forehead. His touch was warm, firm.

Grounding.

His eyes narrowed. “You’re burning up.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Zemo ignored you, his gaze flickering over you with calculated precision. Assessing.

“This isn’t a fever.” His lips pressed together, thoughts clicking into place. “You’re suppressing something, aren’t you?”

You stilled.

His eyes darkened. “Your heat.”

A rush of humiliation burned through you.

You shoved his hand away, forcing yourself to sit up. “Don’t,” you snapped.

Zemo didn’t move back. He just watched you, gaze unreadable.

“I take suppressants,” you admitted, voice tight. “Medically. Regularly. I don’t have heats.”

His brow furrowed. “Clearly, that is not entirely true.”

You swallowed, looking away. “Sometimes this happens, it’s a s-side affect. I just have to wait for it to go away.”

Zemo was silent for a long moment. Then—

“How long?”

You hesitated.

“How long have you been suppressing it?”

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. “Since my mate died.”

The words settled between you, heavy with something unspoken.

Zemo’s jaw tightened, and his gaze flickered—just for a second—with something you couldn’t name.

Then he let out a breath, his posture shifting. Less rigid. Less guarded.

“Suppressing it for this long—it isn’t natural.”

A bitter laugh escaped you. “Neither is living after your mate dies.”

His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. A shadow. Understanding.

He reached out then, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to. When you didn’t, his hand pressed lightly against your wrist.

His touch was warm. Steady. Unwavering.

“I won’t insult you by pretending I know what’s best for you,” he said, voice low. “But if you continue like this, it will only get worse.”

You swallowed, but you didn’t pull away.

Your body still ached, muscles tight and unyielding. But the pressure inside you— the gnawing, twisting pain—seemed to ease just slightly with his presence.

That was dangerous.

You met his gaze. “This doesn’t change anything.”

His lips curled—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.

“Of course not.”

Neither of you moved.

You should have pulled away. You should have told him to leave.

But you didn’t.

And Zemo didn’t push.

Slowly, hesitantly, you leaned against his body.

His scent washed over you, and the pain ebbed to a dull thrum.

You could feel him breathe, each rise and fall of his chest against yours matched with your own. Your instincts unfurled, craving more—more warmth, more touch, more of the connection he offered without words.

He was quiet for a long time, as if he knew speaking would break whatever fragile truce lay between you. His hand rested on your back, light and reassuring. Unthreatening.

“Stubborn,” he murmured, almost affectionately.

You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. The fight was bleeding out of you, leaving behind something raw and vulnerable.

He let you rest against him, quiet and patient. You wanted to hate him for it.

Instead, you found yourself focusing on his heartbeat—a steady rhythm beneath the chaos of your own pulse. It was too comforting.

Your eyes stung, an unexpected surge of emotion pushing against the walls you had built so carefully. You had forgotten what this felt like—this terrifying vulnerability, this precarious comfort.

You closed your eyes against it all, exhaustion crashing over you like a wave.

“Sleep,” Zemo murmured.

As the pain ebbs away, you fall into a light sleep.

His scent lingered in the air like a promise. You drifted in and out, half-aware of Zemo’s warmth beside you. Each time you surfaced, he was there—silent, present. It should have scared you how easily your body accepted it, how naturally you surrendered to the calm he offered.

When you woke, morning light seeped through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold. Zemo was gone. The space where he had been was cool to the touch, but his scent still curled around you, too familiar now.

The ache in your stomach had dulled to a distant memory, and the tension in your muscles had eased completely. You sat up slowly, waiting for pain that didn’t come. It left you feeling hollow and relieved all at once.

You rubbed a hand over your face. This couldn’t happen again. You wouldn’t let it.

A tray sat on the nightstand: coffee steaming, toast perfectly golden but you choose to ignore it.

You stumbled out of the bedroom, body aching in your joints as you walk into the living area. Zemo is sat at the table, sipping his coffee and looking out the window as if he’s on a holiday, not a dangerous mission.

“You should rest more,” He stated, almost like he was demanding it.

“I’m fine,” You huffed you.

“At least eat something,” He gestured to his own plate, “Toast? Yogurt, perhaps?”

“I don’t really eat much,”

He looked displeased at this statement but doesn’t touch on it. You’re already pulling your weapons back into their designated places on your body, trying to ignore what had transpired last night.

“Thank you,” you mumbled.

He looked up, an eyebrow arching. “For what?”

“For staying.”

Zemo set his coffee down, regarding you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “I told you before—a think of myself as a fair boss.”

You tensed, fingers fumbling over the buckle of your holster. The reminder was uncomfortable, a truth you weren’t ready to face.

“It’s not mutually beneficial if one of us is incapacitated,” Zemo continued, and there was a faint edge of amusement in his tone.

You bit back a retort. He was giving you an out, an easy way to sidestep the vulnerability you’d shown. You took it gratefully.

“Yeah, well.” You strapped on your last piece of gear. “You shouldn’t get used to it.”

His lips twitched. “Noted.”

Suddenly, his phone beeps and you look over. Zemo simply placed the device on the table before answering it.

“What’s cookin’, boss?” Jordi’s voice comes calling through the phone, “Sleep well?”

“You could say that,” Zemo smirked, “What do you have for us?”

Jordi goes on a ramble about the decryption, she’s talking fast and stumbling over a few words that makes you think she’s been up all night and pumped full of coffee. She explained that she managed to crack it and was sending the information to Zemo now.

“Good work, Jordi,” Zemo smiled, “Now, I have a medical question, if you don’t mind asking,”

“Uh,” Jordi sounded a little caught of guard, “Sure?”

“What would happen if someone was to suppress their heat for say..,” Zemo pursed his lips, shaking his head slightly before talking, “Almost ten years?”

There was silence on the other end. You held your breath.

“Yikes,” Jordi said finally, and you could practically see her wincing. “That’s… not great. They’d get really sick. Probably have breakthrough heats. It could kill them, honestly.”

You stiffened, your jaw clenching.

“Hm,” Zemo replied, and his eyes flicked to you, watching for your reaction.

“Someone in that situation really needs to be careful, y’know? Like super cautious,” Jordi continued, oblivious to the tension in the room. “And they should definitely stop suppressing.”

Zemo hummed again, “Thank you for your help, Jordi,”

The call disconnected.

The silence that followed was punctuated only by the distant hum of traffic outside.

“You needn’t look so smug,” you muttered.

“Smug?” He feigned innocence. “I am merely... informed.”

You glared at him but couldn’t hold it—your gaze dropped to your own phone. Jordi had also sent the information to your device, although you didn’t question how she managed to get your number.

From what you gathered, the headquarters of this operation was in Latvia.

Great. Fucking Latvia.

“Well,” Zemo chuckled, the amusement obvious in his tone, “Back to Latvia,”

—-

Latvia smelled the same.

The damp cobblestone streets, the lingering scent of cigarette smoke, the sharp bite of vodka spilled outside bars—it all hit you the moment you stepped off the plane. Unchanged. But you weren’t the same person who had left this place years ago.

And neither was Zemo.

He stood beside you, adjusting his leather gloves, his gaze cool and unreadable. He blended in with the crowd, dressed in a tailored coat and scarf, effortlessly slipping into the role of a man meant to be here. Meant to be anywhere.

You, on the other hand, felt like your skin was too tight.

“Welcome back,” Zemo murmured, voice smooth with something dangerously amused. “Feeling nostalgic?”

You didn’t dignify that with a response.

The two of you moved through the airport with ease, just another pair of travelers in a sea of faces. Your mission was simple—infiltrate the omega trafficking ring that had relocated to Latvia, identify the key players, and dismantle the operation from the inside.

It should have been easy.

Except for the fact that Zemo was an Alpha. Any other time, you would have posed as an omega sold, taken down the guards and released the omegas while taking down every piece of filth.

After the incident in Symkaria—after your body rebelled against the years of medical suppression— you weren’t sure where you were supposed to stand with Zemo. He was a powerful man with a powerful mind, both alluring and terrifying.

And yet, the moment you had to pretend—the moment Zemo pressed his palm against the small of your back as you passed through security, the warmth of his body bleeding into yours—it hit you like a live wire.

The bond inside you, the one you’d thought was gone, shook itself awake.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t just you.

You felt it in the way Zemo’s muscles tensed, the way his fingers flexed before pulling away. The way his scent—usually controlled, carefully masked beneath expensive cologne—deepened just slightly.

Dark, spiced cedarwood, the vanilla notes stronger now.

You clenched your jaw, forcing your body to ignore it. To ignore him.

This wasn’t about you. It wasn’t about Zemo.

It was about the omegas trapped in this operation, the ones who didn’t have a choice.

The two of you left the airport without another word, slipping into the waiting car that had been arranged under one of Zemo’s many aliases.

As the city blurred past the window, Zemo finally spoke.

“We will need to be convincing,” he said lightly, his voice giving nothing away. “A lone alpha will raise suspicions. But an alpha with an omega?” He smiled, turning his head toward you. “That is expected.”

You exhaled sharply. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

Zemo chuckled. “Not at all, liebling. But it is curious, is it not?” His gaze flickered over you, sharp and assessing. “How your instincts react to me.”

Your fingers curled into a fist.

He knew. Of course, he knew.

But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“This is a mission,” you said coldly. “Nothing more.”

Zemo hummed, leaning back against the leather seat.

“Of course,” he murmured. “Nothing more.”

But the bond between you throbbed.

And you both knew it wasn’t that simple.

—-

The air inside the private auction house was thick with power—alphas. Dozens of them, their scents coiling through the dimly lit room like a noxious fog. It was overwhelming, even for someone like you, who had spent years dulling your omega instincts with suppressants and sheer willpower.

But nothing could prepare you for the way your instincts screamed when Zemo touched you.

His arm slid around your waist, pulling you against his side as you stepped further into the lavish, candlelit chamber. Every pair of predatory eyes in the room flickered toward you, assessing, judging.

Stay calm. Stay in control.

The omegas up for auction were displayed in open cages—dressed in silks, their eyes glazed from suppressants or conditioning. Some were defiant, their shackles rattling as they moved, while others were still, quiet, their faces carefully blank.

Your stomach twisted at the sight.

Zemo must have felt the way your body tensed because his grip on your waist tightened. “Careful, liebling,” he murmured, his breath brushing against your temple. “We cannot afford suspicion.”

You exhaled through your nose, pushing down the rising anger in your chest. You had to focus. Play your part.

Because you weren’t here to buy.

You were here to destroy this place from the inside out.

Zemo guided you toward the front of the room, where other alpha couples lounged on velvet seats, sipping aged whiskey and speaking in low, murmured tones.

The scent in the room was disgusting—possessive. Every alpha here was marking their territory, ensuring the other predators in the room knew exactly who belonged to whom.

Which meant…

You stiffened as Zemo leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“They expect submission,” he said smoothly. “You must let me hold you.”

You knew that. You had prepared for this.

And yet—

Your skin burned where his hand rested at your hip. Where his breath ghosted along your jaw. Where his presence surrounded you like something solid, something unshakable.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Not real.

Not like your body wanted it.

But the moment you hesitated, you felt the eyes of the room narrow on you. Alphas could smell uncertainty. Smell weakness.

So you did what you had to.

You let yourself lean into him.

You dropped your gaze, tilting your head slightly—offering your throat, just enough—and felt the deep rumble of Zemo’s approval vibrate through his chest.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped.

The seats of these places were designed to reflect the power alphas had. They had a step in front of them, where you had to sit, knelt in front of Zemo. He settled into the velvet, exuding the controlled confidence he wore like a second skin.

“Comfortable?” You muttered bitterly.

Zemo’s chuckle was nearly drowned out by the auction beginning, a man on the stage talking but you drowned out his words. You had a mission, you needed to get to the main officer, find the ledger and any other information you could. The authorities had already been made aware and would be back the moment you gave the signal.

His hand snaked down your shoulder and back, finally landing on your waist, resting there. You involuntarily shivered. You tried to remind yourself that it was just apart of the mission, to show dominance amongst the scum but you couldn’t deny the way it made your legs quiver.

Zemo's grip on your waist subtly loosened. His fingers brushed against the small device hidden beneath the folds of your dress—a silent signal.

Now.

With practiced ease, you shifted away from him, your movements fluid, graceful, unremarkable in a room full of alphas far more interested in the display of bound omegas than one quietly slipping away.

Zemo played his role well. He remained seated, his expression one of mild disinterest as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, looking every bit the bored aristocrat. But you knew better.

He was watching.

Always watching.

You made your way through the shadowed corridors of the auction house, moving quickly but carefully. The blueprint Jordi had provided was burned into your mind, each turn and doorway mapped out with precision.

The main office was your target.

You reached the heavy door at the end of the hallway and slipped inside, moving straight to the desk. A sleek black computer sat at the center, its screen locked behind layers of encryption.

You pulled out a small drive and interest it into the port. Jordi had given you this device specifically for this mission It would work fast, cracking the security while downloading everything onto an external server.

Before the progress bar could even reach 10%, the air shifted.

You smelt it. The stench of an alpha, only there was hint of something chemical, meaning that whoever this person was, they were enhanced in some way.

You turned, just in time for a fist to connect with your ribs, sending you crashing into the desk. The sharp edge bit into your side, pain blooming across your torso as you gasped for breath.

Your attacker was huge.

Not just tall—muscular, built.

The way he moved, the sheer force behind his strike—it was obvious. You’d fought enough enhanced soldiers to recognize the telltale signs.

A super soldier.

Great, the last thing you needed was to be going up against another Captain America rip off.

"Shouldn’t have come here, little omega," the man rumbled, his voice thick with amusement as he cracked his knuckles. "You really thought you could sneak in and walk out alive?"

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you wiped the blood from your lip and shifted into a defensive stance, steadying your breathing.

Because you weren’t dead yet.

And if this bastard thought you were going down easy—

He was about to be very disappointed.

The super soldier lunged at you.

You barely dodged, twisting to the side as his fist shattered the desk where you’d been standing a second ago. Splinters of wood exploded outward, but you didn’t flinch.

Keep moving.

Your training kicked in—muscle memory taking over as you pivoted on your heel, using the momentum to drive your elbow into his ribs. He barely reacted, but you weren’t expecting him to.

Super soldiers take more than brute force.

His next swing came fast, but you were faster. You ducked, sliding beneath his arm and striking out with a sharp kick to the back of his knee. It buckled, just slightly—enough for you to grab the knife from your thigh holster and drive it toward his neck.

He caught your wrist mid-swing.

Shit.

"Nice try," he sneered, twisting your arm. Pain shot through your shoulder, but you let it happen, using the force of his grip to pull him forward—right into your knee.

His head snapped back, and you wrenched free, flipping the knife in your grip before slashing across his chest. The blade barely cut through his tactical gear. You needed to aim for softer targets.

"Omega, status?"

Zemo’s voice crackled in your ear. You could hear the tension beneath his composed tone.

You ducked another strike, feeling the heat of the super soldier’s fist grazing past your face.

"Little distraction," you muttered, gritting your teeth.

The super soldier snarled, swiping for your throat. You threw yourself backward, twisting mid-air as his fist grazed your arm—

No, not grazed—

A sharp, searing pain bloomed through your bicep.

You hit the ground, eyes flicking down. Blood. The bastard had a gun. You hadn’t even seen him draw it.

"Omega," Zemo’s voice cut through the haze of pain, he almost sounded worried, tense. "Report."

The super soldier stalked forward, gun still raised.

You clenched your jaw, rolling your injured shoulder as you rose to your feet.

"I’m handling it," you said, voice tight.

Zemo let out a low hum over the comms.

"So stubborn, liebling."

You exhaled sharply, grip tightening around your knife as the super soldier smirked.

"That was your one shot," you told him, shifting your stance.

Because now?

You were pissed.

The super soldier came at you again, fast and relentless. The pain in your arm burned, but you pushed it aside, narrowing your focus. You had one goal—put him down.

He swung wide. You ducked under the punch, spinning on your heel and using your momentum to drive your knife into the soft flesh beneath his ribs. A normal man would have gone down instantly, but this wasn’t a normal man.

The super soldier grunted, reaching for you. You twisted the blade, then ripped it free.

He staggered.

Not enough.

You darted behind him, wrapping an arm around his throat and locking your legs around his waist. A chokehold. He thrashed, trying to pry you off, but you gritted your teeth and held on.

Super soldiers needed oxygen, same as everyone else.

His movements became sluggish.

Then—a gunshot.

The super soldier jerked. You released him, letting his body crumple to the ground. Your breath came fast, your injured arm throbbing.

Zemo stood near the doorway, lowering his gun. His gaze flicked from the body to you.

"Disgusting thing," he murmured, stepping inside. He approached smoothly, scanning you for injuries.

His eyes lingered on your bleeding arm.

“Don’t you work with three of them?” You huffed.

“And I will deal with them if I ever need to,” Zemo hummed.

His hand reached out to your arm, but you took a step back. This was a mission, it was still going on. You couldn’t afford to be vulnerable here. Zemo lowered his hand.

“Come. Let’s see what they were hiding.”

You both walked back to the desk, where the device was still downloading the data. Zemo opened the draws, pulling out a stack of files. You flinched, seeing the symbol printed on them.

Hydra.

“Great.” You spoke spitefully.

“Like I said, they’ve been experimenting with old Hydra tech,” Zemo spoke calmly as he opened the files, glancing inside, “We will take these,”

You busied yourself with a thick book, flicking it open.

The ledger.

As you opened it, a name stood out that made your heart stop.

Your ex-mate.

Your dead ex-mate.

Zemo must have smelt the sudden change in your scent, the way it soured and twisted in the air. He stepped closer just as your breath caught, your fingers shook as you poked the name.

He had been a trafficker.

He had been with Hydra.

“Liebling,” Zemo’s calm voice sounded but you didn’t focus on it.

The shock, from Zemo’s scent to finding about such a betrayal, your instincts were starting to go haywire. You needed to stay calm but you couldn’t, a sound working it’s way up your chest and out your throat.

You whined.

Zemo was quick to shut the ledger, tucking the book under his arm as loud foosteps sounded outside the door. Your hands were shaking as you reached for the device, only for Zemo to grab it before you could.

“Not now, omega,” He spoke oddly calmly but his scent smelt like anger.

Distress.

“Jordi,” Zemo spoke over the comms, “We’d like to come home now,”

“Permission, boss?” Her voice called back.

“Permission granted, Hase,”

Jordi appeared out of no where, standing between you and Zemo. You jumped slightly, brows furrowed as you tried to figure out where the hell she had come from.

The tech nerd grabbed both your arm and Zemo’s and you were gone.

It was like a flash of white and coldness before the three of you appeared in the Thunderbolts foyer.

A wave of nausea rolled over you, making you stumble to the nearest bin and release the contents of your stomach.

Jordi winced as Zemo slapped the device into her hand, “Sorry, it’s a bit of a shock to the system the first time,”

“She needs medical attention, Jordi,” Zemo stated firmly, leaving no room for argument as Jordi helped you up.

It wasn’t the authority of Baron Zemo, it was the voice of an alpha.

"Let’s get you patched up,”

—-

Jordi’s medical room isn’t massive but it’s surprisingly cozy.

Fairy lights trail along the ceiling, and a stack of thick blankets sits on a cushioned bench. You sit on it with a grunt, cradling your bleeding arm. The shock of the ledger hasn’t quite worn off yet; your mind races between the pain in your body and the revelation from those files.

Jordi rifles through a drawer, pulling out bandages and a small medkit. "This might sting," she says, as she dabs at your wound with antiseptic.

You wince but don’t flinch, letting her work. "How long did it take you to get used to that... teleporting thing?"

"Honestly, it’s still difficult, I only really use it when it’s needed," she grins, glancing up at you from behind her glasses. "Freaked out a lot, ended up in some weird places."

You give a short laugh that comes out shakier than you’d like. Jordi’s easygoing manner is a good distraction, but your thoughts keep racing.

You didn’t expect this to hit so hard, you’d seen his body in the rubble of the destroyed SHIELD building. You had worked alongside him, grew to love him and eventually bonded with him.

Was it a lie? Was anything about him even real?

Jordi doesn’t try to talk to you about it. She knows better.

You stared at Jordi as she stitched up your arm, her brows furrowed together in concentration and tongue poking out slightly. But your gaze was on the pinkish scar on her neck, not even the tiniest bit hidden.

It was a bond bite.

“You get that willingly?” You asked softly.

“Oh?” Jordi pulled back slightly, “The bite? Yeah, Yeah I did,”

“Are they a good alpha?” You questioned.

Jordi chuckled as she placed the surgical tools in the kidney dish, “Yeah, Peter’s amazing, just took me a while to see it,”

“Peter?” You raised an eyebrow, “As in Peter Parker, Spiderman?

“You didn’t know?” Jordi’s eyes widened in surprise.

You shook your head slowly, the pieces clicking together now. “He doesn’t seem like the alpha type.”

“Well, he is,” Jordi laughed, securing a bandage around your arm with quick efficiency. “And he’s mine.”

You felt a strange pang of envy at how easy she made it sound. At the way her face brightened just talking about him. “And you’re happy?” You asked, trying to keep your voice casual.

Jordi nodded, leaning back to admire her handiwork on your arm. “Happier than I ever thought possible. Funny, considering I hated him when we first met,”

Your eyes flicked to the side before you spoke, “How does Spiderman’s omega become the doctor and engineer for The Thunderbolts?”

“Well, I started off as Tanya Stark’s intern, trained under her until some weird shit happened, got bonded to Peter during all that weird shit and then got transferred when they formed The Thunderbolts,” Jordi shrugged as she sat backwards in her chair, a cute grin on her face, “I also worked in a bakery for spare cash,”

“You’re barely twenty,”

“I got into college at fourteen,”

“Of course you did,” you muttered, a reluctant smirk pulling at your lips.

“What about you?” Jordi asked. “I can smell the way you and Zemo react to each other?”

That was the end of this conversation. You stood up, pulling your jacket on before heading towards the door.

“Hey! Everyone can see the weird ass tension you two got!”

You paused, your hand hovering over the doorknob. “It’s nothing,” you muttered, a little too quickly.

“Sure,” Jordi said, not buying it for a second. “But if you want to talk about it…”

You didn’t wait for her to finish, slipping out and letting the door click shut behind you.

You find yourself stepping into the Thunderbolts briefing room, taking a seat as you just stare at the window, looking at the New York skyline.

Your entire life was coming crashing down.

When you had first joined SHIELD, you were changing your life, getting away from what had been your home life with your parents. SHIELD had become your life, you trained to be the best at what you did and joining that squad had been you finding your found family. You had a friendship with every single member, met your mate and bonded with him. Then it was time for you to retire, start thinking about the future.

The day he died had been the fall of SHIELD, when Hydra had taken over. It was supposed to be his last day, you were going to be moving inland, starting a life and a family together. Then he died and you blamed Steve Rogers at first, you hunted him down and almost killed him until Sam had talked you out of it.

Then, you spent your years hunting down hydra, hunting down anyone that hurt others. Because your mate would have wanted that, he was brave, he protected others.

And now, you knew he was a liar.

You stared at the table, fingers laced together as you simply sat in silence. There was an edge in the air, something that you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

You felt empty- hollow. There was nothing left to focus on. No next step.

The door creaked open, your senses, hyper aware and trained immediately picked up on the distinct scent. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

Zemo.

Of course it was him.

He stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him, his presence as commanding as ever. He didnd’t speak at first, just observed you for a moment from across the room. His expression remained unreadable, but his gaze was sharp, as thought he could see straight through you. As if he could feel all the emotions coursing through your body.

“You’re alone,” Zemo remarked finally, sitting down across from you without waiting for an invitation. His voice was calm, steady, the cool authority always present.

You exhaled, a small, humourless laugh escaped your lips as you tilted your head up to meet his eyes. “I’m not surprised. I don’t anyone would want to be around me right now,”

Zemo didn’t respond immediately, instead, he leaned back in his chair with a quiet, almost imperceptible shrug.

After a beat of silence, you finally spoke, voice low and uncertain as if you were questioning yourself. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, Zemo,”

Your words were a confession, an admission of vulnerability that you never allowed anyone to hear. Not even yourself. Your life up until not had been a series of missions, a strong of one objective after another, always moving forward, always with a purpose. But now? Now it was all over, your life shattered.

For the first time in years, tears rolled down your cheeks. Your instincts were flaring up, finally unleashed after you had closed them off for so long.

Zemo studied you for a moment, his expression thoughtful.

“Retire,” He said, his voice steady, almost too casual for the weight of the suggestion.

You blinked in surprise, a laugh coming out amongst the tears, “Retire? I’m a trained killer,” The words echoed out, gaze meeting his as you dared him to say it, “How the hell am I supposed to support myself if I retire?”

Zemo’s lips curled into a slight smirk, his eyes gleaming with a hunt of amusement. He leaned forward, hands resting on the table, scent thick in the air that curled around you like some sort of brace, a support.

“You’d be surprised how much you can accomplish without having to worry about paying bills,” He said, tone teasing, though there was an undercurrent of sincerity that you pause.

You were surprised by his answer, thought part of you had expected it. Zemo was wealthy- his resources, vast. It was always evident that the life Zemo lead was one filled with luxury, power and control with money hardly a concern. If this bond between you was real, some sort of twist of fate, he was already leaning into it.

“You want me to retire, live off your wealth?” You shook your head, tension in your shoulders easing slightly, though the uncertainty remained, “I don’t think I could do that, Zemo,”

His gaze softened, just a fraction, as though he understood exactly why you’d say that. Zemo was no stranger to pride, especially when it came to independence.

“I’m offering you an option,” He spoke, voice turned serious and direct, “It’s not about money. It’s about freedom. You’ve spent your life in service of others, living in the shadows. You don’t have to anymore,”

You looked at him for the longest moment, considering his words.

Could you really just walk away?

Zemo’s eyes never left your own, his scent still licking at your skin, as if softly begging you to take up his offer.

“You’ve earned peace,” He added quietly, his voice like velvet, almost soothing.

You exhaled slowly, mind swirling with the thoughts of what life could be like if you listened to him. If you took that step back, allowed yourself to breathe, to heal, to be with him.

The thought.. it was tempting with its simplicity.

“I don’t know,” You muttered, the weight pressing down on your chest, “I’ve never had peace,”

“Then allow yourself to find it, if not now, when?”

A beat of silence. A sliver of hope. Of something outside of missions, the violence, the constant fighting.

“How would I even begin?” You spoke small, vulnerable.

Zemo’s smirk returned, faint but genuine, “You start by allowing yourself to believe you’ve deserved it and then..maybe, you’ll let me support you,”

You stared at him. There was a strange, unexpected comfort in his words. For once, you didn’t fight your instincts, fight that crackle of electricity that came to life around him.

Resting your head on the table, you let yourself think about it. But slowly, your hand inched towards his own your fingers coming to rest in his palm.

Zemo accepted, like he always did. He always waited for you to make the first move. Like that day at the memorial when you had kissed him, like in the hotel room when you had rested against him. And now, with your hand resting in his own.

The silence stretched on, not uncomfortable but filled with unspoken words, unexpressed emotions. It was a silence that had weight, but for the first time it didn’t threaten to crush you. Zemo’s presence grounded you in a way you hadn’t expected. He didn’t push further, didn’t demand an answer or force you to confront what you weren’t ready to face. He just stayed there, holding your hand with a calm certainty that told you he wasn’t going anywhere.

You squeezed back after a moment, surprising yourself at how easy it was to allow that small gesture of acceptance. A nonverbal acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, his support—his offer of freedom—was something you could lean into. Something you could want.

—-

“Your Otecko and I rescued each other,�� You whisper fondly.

You watch as your daughter’s eyes widen, intrigued, “Rescue? Like in the princess movies?”

You can’t help but smile more at the question, thinking about the fairytales that your daughter loved so much.

“Exactly like the princess movies,” You laugh.

She giggles, snuggling into her pillow while yawning, “Does that mean Otecko has a castle?”

“No, No castles,” You state with a grin, “But I’m sure if you asked, Otecko would buy you a castle,”

Before your daughter can speak, there’s a soft sound at the door followed by a chuckle. You smelt him before you heard him, your instincts still in tune with your surroundings. It was a habit you never really lost.

You look and find Zemo standing in the doorway, his presence unmistakable. His eyes soften as he steps into the room, moving closer to your daughter’s bed.

“What’s this I hear about castles, Zlatko?” His accent is thick as he speaks, sitting on the other side of your daughter.

Your daughter’s eyes light up immediately, sitting up a little straighter in her bed, “You made it home!”

Her little voice is full of excitement as Zemo cups her cheek, nodding, “I always make it home,”

“Mommy said you’d buy me a castle,” She giggles, laying down with heavy eyes, “Like in the princess movies,”

“I can see what I can do,” He chuckles before kissing your daughter’s forehead.

Your daughter laughs, eyes closing as she sinks deeper into the covers. You smile at her sleepy face, cherishing the simple peace of this moment.

“Good night, lovely,” You whisper as you kiss your daughter’s forehead.

She mumbles back a ‘good night’ in Sokovian before drifting off to sleep.

Zemo’s scent flares and you look at him.

“Rescue each other?” He whispers after a moment, amusement dancing in his tone.

“Would you rather I have told her the full story?” You quip, both of you standing up and heading to the door while Zemo flicks the lights off.

Her night light remains on as you both look at her sleeping form. Peacefully, calm, protected.

“You’re adorable, liebling,” He chuckles, that amusing taunt still in his voice.

“I can still beat your ass,” You whisper back, just as tauntingly.

“Oh, I know,”