#hemut zemo x reader

[starlightsearches]

(if you aren't taking any more requests from the smut prompt list, ignore this ^_^)

19 + 100 from the smut prompt list with zemo pls and thanks

What I Missed the Most

19 and 100 from the Smut Prompts List

Inspired by this gif

Zemo x femme! reader

Warnings: 18+ Only (Minors DNI), PIV sex, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected sex, virgin! reader, sex work, prostitution, praise kink, soft dom/sub dynamics, creampie. Please be aware of the warnings!

It's strange to stand like this—so stiff and detached, practically naked in the lingerie and robe the madam had picked out for you. You're used to sitting coyly on the edge of a couch until someone makes their approach, skin glittering prettily in the partial darkness of the club. The room looks much too large when it’s flooded with the emergency lighting—used during the daylight hours when the club is closed—and the air is chilled with the lack of bodies.

The mysterious patron, who had everyone in such a fuss this morning, is making his way down the line with the madam at his side—a quiet, thoughtful frown on his lips. It’s difficult not to stare, but your instincts keep your eyes from resting on him for too long. You’ll have to settle for the small details you catch in glimpses.

He's well-dressed—a long coat thrown over his shoulders, and a well-fitted turtle-neck sweater beneath it. It sits snugly over his torso, hinting at a muscular build. The rest of him is unkempt in comparison; his hair just a bit shaggy, a few tendrils curling against his forehead. Most of his face is taken over by a dark beard, and he can't keep his hands away from it, scratching at his jawline beneath or dragging a palm down over his mouth. He must not be used to keeping facial hair.

"And who is this?" He stops before you, his voice low and pleasant, carrying an accent you can't identify. You do your best to look demure, glancing up at him shyly through your lashes as the madam gives him your name.

Dark brown eyes trace over your features carefully, the seconds melting into minutes under the warmth of his gaze. The intensity brings a heat to your cheeks; you find yourself staring at your reflection in his well-shined shoes.

“How much?”

The madam clears her throat awkwardly, but it's all part of her act. She could smell money on a man like blood in the water, and she always knew which veins to open first.

"You wouldn't want her, Baron," she says, trying unsuccessfully to usher him down to the next girl, "we're charging quite a price for her first time. Why don't I introduce you to Cassandra here—"

He stops her with a raised hand, tilting his head curiously. "Her first time?”

"Oh yes," the madam confides. She leans in, whispering up against the shell of his ear, so close it’s incredible she doesn’t leave traces of her bright red lipstick smudged against his skin. "I have a few loyal customers who are quite eager to, let's say, take her innocence."

She pets her bony fingers down the side of your face, and you purse your lips, trying hard not to roll your eyes. You'd hardly call yourself innocent.

“How much?”

The madam's lips stretch open over her too-white teeth, and she whispers again in his ear. He doesn't pause to think on it.

“I’ll take her.”

Your eyes grow wide, jaw clenched tight. No doubt the number she named was outrageous, preparing for his attempts to bargain. Accepting the very first offer would be insane.

"Perfect." Her voice is dripping with glee when she addresses you, "why don't you show our guest to one of our private rooms?"

You nod, taking him by the hand. The main floor of The Elysian is a veritable minefield of chintz cushions and plump couches, and you weave with him between the empty furniture, hoping he doesn't notice the growing layer of perspiration coating your palm.

The silence between you grows more noticeable as you shut the door to the sound-proofed room, the plush carpet crackling with every step.

You glance around. You haven't spent much time here, but you’re glad to see that the private rooms are a little more tasteful than what you’re used to. There's a leather couch up against the wall, and a large, low bed with silk sheets, a few multi-colored lanterns hanging from the ceiling, throwing specks of light across the bed.

He busies himself near the couch, oblivious to your presence—removing his coat and draping over the back, taking the watch from his wrist and placing it in the pocket. He pushes the sleeves of his sweater out of the way next, revealing toned forearms dusted with bronzed hair.

You clear your throat, brushing the top of one foot over the back of your calf, unsure if you're meant to be doing something.

This is your first time, after all. You were hoping for some direction.

"You may take a seat," he says, nodding towards the bed, and you do as you're told immediately, perching on the end of it, hands folded in your lap.

"I am Baron Helmut Zemo," he says, coming to a stop beside you and dropping to one knee, "but you may call me sir."

His fingers wrap around your bare thigh, hand shifting back and forth as he caresses your skin, acclimating you to his touch. He has nice hands—long, thick fingers and clean nails, and his palm is warm and soft.

"Thank you, sir," you say, addressing his hand.

"Look at me," the command is gentle, but it is still a command. You tilt your chin up just far enough that you can meet his eyes. "Is it true that you're a virgin?"

Your mouth is dry. "Yes, sir."

His fingers flex subtly, hand shifting higher. You try not to squirm.

“You don’t need to lie to me.”

Given how much he probably paid, it would be in your best interest to lie to him. If you weren’t already telling the truth.

"I am a virgin—" you confirm, and he quirks one brow, waiting for you to remember, "—sir."

The baron hums, deep in his throat. "That is good news. You see, I had selfish reasons for my choice. It has been a long time since I have been with a woman. I did not want to embarrass myself."

That’s a surprise. A man as handsome as him shouldn't have any trouble finding someone willing.

You chance some contact, stroking your fingers lightly over his shoulder, hoping you’ve found the correct balance between sympathy and flirtation. "Why so long?"

"I've been in prison for many years. A high-security facility called The Raft, for only the most dangerous of criminals."

Your hand stops.

He watches you, waiting for a reaction—surprise, or fear. You certainly feel a bit of both.

But which does he want? Some men certainly liked to feel you shiver, liked to murmur violent stories low in your ear as you perched on their laps. The feeling of their hands never left you, phantom limbs still gripping at your waist, ensuring that you couldn’t pull away, laughing at the way you squirmed. Fear sated better than sex ever could for men like that.

The baron doesn’t seem that way.

"Really?" you ask, sounding a little more naive than you feel. He seems to like it, moving his hand to the back of the neck, thick fingers wrapping around it, hot and tight against your skin.

His eyes bore into yours; with the way he's holding you, you can't drop his gaze. "Do you know what I missed the most while I was there?"

You manage the slightest shake of your head. His skin is dotted with freckles where the beard doesn’t reach, and there are dark shadows like fingerprints beneath his eyes.

“This.”

He breathes the word, breath warm with the scent of money and men, and then he's kissing you, mouthing gently at your parted lips.

Oh. It's not like you'd never done this before—you hadn't gotten such a dedicated customer base batting your eyelashes—but he is leagues better at it than the others, his beard a little rough against your cheeks, the cashmere of his sweater soft beneath your fingers.

He groans faintly, pressing closer, the tip of his nose digging in against your cheek as his tongue finds its way between your parted lips. His hand shifts from your neck, cupping your jaw, and he uses that leverage to his advantage—adjusting your movements to his liking, controlling the pace. Your fingers encircle his wrist, hoping to keep him there.

It’s not like you to get so caught up in something like this, but you find the more you touch him, the more you want to feel—a warmth like whiskey blossoming in your stomach at the thought of the full press of his body against yours.

He shifts off his knees, pulling away from your lips despite your attempts to keep him close. His thick fingers are at the buckle of his belt, unlatching the metal and pulling the leather strap free. Your thighs press tighter of their own accord, an unfamiliar anticipation enveloping your core.

“You may be a virgin, but given the circumstances I'm sure you're not completely ignorant,” he says over the metallic jingle of his belt buckle and the rumble of his zipper, “show me what you know.”

The baron steps forward, looming, coming closer and closer until your eyes are level with his waist, your line of sight filled completely by the thin sliver of skin and coarse, shining hair that stretches up from the band of his dark black boxers. Your gaze trails lower—slowly—examining him like a fine work of art, lips parting in surprise when you spy the thick bulge straining against the expensive fabric. He’s bigger than you expected.

He must notice your apprehension, a smirk on his lips staining the words he speaks next.

“Go on,” he encourages, taking your hand delicately in his own, leading you where he wants, pressing your palm against the hard length, the rush of blood and heavy weight of his cock solid beneath your fingers.

Your lips part with a pop, mouth flooded with saliva that coats your tongue. You press it between your teeth, wetting your lips, picking up the latent taste of him. It’s irresistible. You want more.

He exhales sharply through his teeth, bracing himself with a hand in your hair as you pull his cock from its confines.

Jesus, he’s thick. Even half-hard, he’s bigger than most—the tips of your fingers just barely brushing your thumb when you stroke him experimentally. You’re not sure how much of him you’ll be able to take, throat aching at the thought. The air in the room is heavy in your lungs.

“Don’t tease me, hase,” he admonishes, pulling you forward until your mouth brushes against the tip of his dick, painting your lips with sticky pre-cum. “I have no desire to be patient right now.”

Swallowing, you pull closer, taking the tip into the warm center of your mouth, tonguing softly at the slit, sealing your lips and pulling your cheeks in tight. He sighs, shifting his hips forward, filling your mouth and stretching your jaw, pressing down until your lips meet your curled fingers. Spit pools against his skin, and you spread it with your hand, stroking in the space where your mouth can’t reach.

You can feel him growing thicker, the muscles in his fingers tensing against your scalp as you begin to bob your head, sucking your cheeks in tighter.

“Oh, you’re a very good girl, aren’t you? Just like that, hase.”

You can hear the smile in his voice, it’s brightness echoed in the warmth at your core. It’s easy to imagine how he must look, those broad shoulders dropping lower, neck stretched long and tense, his molten eyes leaving cigarette burns on the backs of his eyelids and his lips parted in prayer.

As soon as you’ve pictured it, your body screams for more—desperate to watch him fall apart in your mind’s eye, addicted to the idea of undoing such an enigmatic, powerful man. Your fist tightens around his dick, and you stretch yourself farther, taking more and more until the head of his cock nudges your soft palate, eliciting a quiet gagging sound with each press. Stinging tears pool at the corners of your eyes.

His fist tightens in your hair, urging you away from him with a few whispered curses, pouring from his lips in a language you don’t understand. You do as he asks, pulling back until you’re only connected to his cock by a few strings of saliva.

“God, schatz—” he strokes his thumb over your wet and swollen lips, “you are beautiful.”

Your nails press crescent moons against your thighs. He’s breathing heavily, standing before you like a god, or an emperor. He’s the kind of man who could have you willingly on your knees.

“Thank you, sir.”

He strokes his hand down over your shoulder, eyeing the delicate lace that covers your body. “Lay down.”

You shift back against the pillows as the baron stands at the end of the bed, stripping off his sweater. He’s well-toned, but not bulky—arms corded with muscle he’s clearly put to use for more than just vanity, broad chest peppered with ruddy hair, and constellations of freckles on both his shoulders.

“Do you like what you see, hase?” he asks once he’s fully naked, standing before you without shame. He observes you closely, noticing the way your eyes travel over the ruddy skin of his neck, the gentle swell of his stomach, his cock hard and thick and ready for you. Your cunt aches at the sight of him.

“Yes, sir.” You’re unable to control the shift of your hips, the way your body yearns. You want him on top of you, want his hands at your waist, want his lips against every inch of your body.

You want him inside you.

He climbs onto the bed, stradling your body, and you support your weight on your arms in an attempt to bring your face in closer proximity to his own. His eyes wander over your features, lingering against your lips. You resist the urge to close the gap, despite the overwhelming strength of your desire. You're here to meet his needs.

But maybe your needs align in this moment—or maybe he likes the hint of desperation in your features—because he cups your jaw in his warm palm, eyes exploring the recesses of your soul as he pulls you in.

You kiss him back eagerly, letting your hands caress his neck, stroking your ankle against his calf until he grants you the contact you've been hungry for, his chest and hips against yours, forcing your body further into the mattress. You relish the wandering burn of his hands, the wildfire path from your hips to your waist to your breasts. His touch lingers there, and your skin grows warm with a rush of blood as he pinches at the stiffened peaks of your nipples.

The air punches out of your chest, and the sound it makes is embarrassingly close to a whine, your hips canting off the sheets. He leans back, watching your lips tremble as he continues his ministrations.

"I think it's time for this to come off," he whispers, leaning in towards your thudding pulse as his hands reach for the clasp of your bra. The lace tickles at your skin, stripped forward until you're bare. He tosses the garment to the side, pressing firm kisses across your jaw, down your neck.

"I may have lied before, hase," he says, and the air is filled with quiet reverence as he stares at your naked breasts. "This is what I truly missed the most."

There’s no space for you to reply before his lips are on you, lavishing the tender skin of your chest with hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses, the gentle bites in direct contrast to the sharp burn of his beard. He's fully engrossed in the task, ignorant of the way you watch him partake in this thorough worship, nibbling meticulously at the surrounding area before closing his lips around your aching nipple, sucking it between his teeth. Your back arches harshly, head thrown back, and you let his strong arms support your weight as he turns his attention to the other breast.

You dig your nails into his skin, gripping the back of his neck, hard enough to make him bleed. Maybe if you peeled the skin from his bones, he'd finally feel close enough.

“Oh god, please,” you grind against him, your voice going shrill when the tip of his cock nudges haphazardly at your cunt, “please, sir. I want you inside me.”

He pauses his assault, stills his hips which had been rocking against yours with the same unchecked desire. He stays still enough for you to catch the gold flecks in his eyes, the wet shine of spit coating the dark hairs at the corners of his mouth.

There’s a tremor in his throat, a subtle shift as he adjusts his hands, pulling one arm tighter at your waist to give the other range of motion. His fingers tremble in the corner of your vision, and whatever it is he plans to do, he hesitates.

“Of course, schatz. Whatever you want,” he whispers, committing to the movement, stroking the tips of his fingers down the curve of your cheek, and you finally understand. Tenderness like that doesn’t belong in a place like this, between people like you.

He cups the back of your neck as your spine meets the cool sheets, his other hand at your hip, sliding the lace of your underwear down off your thighs and tossing them to the side.

“God . . . you’re so wet for me.” He strokes one thick finger between your thighs, just enough pressure to part your lips and gather your slick on the tip of his finger. “Are you always this wet, hase? Do you get like this when you're fucking yourself?"

You shake your head, although you can tell based on his tone that he already knows. He adjusts, shifting the bulk of his weight onto his thighs, removing his hips from yours and you stifle a whine at the loss. It breaks through your parted lips moments later as he presses the head of his dick against your swollen entrance.

He lingers there for a moment, stroking gently between your folds; there's not enough force behind the movement for him to slip inside you—only enough contact to make you squirm.

“Do you think you’re ready for me?”

You’ve never felt more ready for anything.

You can feel the pressure of his eyes, and so you know he must see the way your brows crease as your cunt stretches to accommodate that first, thick inch, must notice the rhythmic tensing in your core, the tremors in your thighs. You know he hears the strange cry that bursts from you—an intoxicating mixture of pleasure and pain—because he stops, petting a hand over your hair.

“You can take me, hase. I know you can. Relax.” His breath is hot against your neck, and there’s a hand at your hip, holding you in place. “Relax.”

He mouths at your neck, tracing a meandering path to your lips. He moves closer, and closer, the tension draining from your body, putting a slight shift in your hips.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he warns, but the message is lost on both of you, his mouth fully on yours in a messy, desperate kiss. His thrusts grow more fervent, a little chorus of moans echoing in the space between you—his deep with attempted restraint, yours high and aching. You can feel the thrum of his heartbeat under your hand.

"You’re doing so well, hase,” he says, once he’s finally fully seated inside you, “tell me how it feels.”

You manage a breathy moan. The world is dark on the inside of your eyelids.

He gives you a moment to adjust, and you need it—overcome with a fullness you can’t quite comprehend. Your cunt bears down on his cock, muscles clenching like you’re trying to find the edges of him in the dark, like you’re trying to keep him in place.

You close your eyes tightly, hard enough that white spots appear in your vision, jaw open wide. You can’t imagine how devastating it will feel to be empty again.

His hands are harsh at your cheeks, biting against your skin. “No, hase. Keep your eyes open. Look at me.”

You don’t dare disobey, not that he gives you the opportunity to do so, his grip on your jaw tightening, the full force of his eyes on yours. He doesn’t let go, thrusting in and out of your dripping cunt, filling the room with the measured sound of skin against skin. His hips never stutter, his pace never fails, pounding you into the mattress as the friction builds into a white hot heat in your core.

He’s absolutely relentless.

He stares openly, intent on cataloging your every expression—from the slightest twitch in your temple to the wide stretch of your lips. You watch his eyes roam your face, watch the thin sheen of pride and sweat bead across his forehead with every successful moan he loosens from your throat. You’re only getting wetter—each thrust echoing with the wet splash of your cunt. You can feel it dripping down the curve of your ass, pooling beneath you.

He grunts, the first hints of his restraint fracturing, his jaw tight. “God, schatz. You are a miracle.”

His body moves against yours, adjusting your position, posing your body like a marionette with his free hand, his other never leaving your jaw. Your knee presses higher towards your chest under the weight of his palm, and you feel the burn of the stretch at the mouth of your pussy, every sensation heightened as he thrusts into you at this new angle.

Your neck stretches back, forcing your head against the pillow, and you can’t decide if there’s a ringing in your ears or if those noises are coming from you, in time with every thrust. The borders of your body grow blurry, dissolving as more and more of you is consumed by the feeling of him. Every muscle in your body goes tight. He’s so deep you can feel the head of his dick nudging at your soul.

“Are you close, hase?” he asks, and you nod into his palm, tears dripping from the corners of your eyes.

His whisper reaches you through the oceans of your pleasure. “You can cum, schatz. Go on. Let go for me.”

The light inside you breaks once he’s given permission, pouring out in jagged shards, leaving no part of you untouched. Chill air brushes against sweaty skin, your back arching from off the sticky sheets, cunt clenched tight around his cock, holding him deep inside you. You feel remade, taken apart and put back together by his steady hands, forged anew under his warm, soft lips.

Your body fizzles, the result of some chemical transformation you don’t understand, only partially aware of his continued thrusts, the warm spill of his cum as he’s buried tight in your pussy, chest heaving against yours and his hand at your neck.

Puffs of hot air from his lungs dissipate against your collar bone, cooling the thin sheen of sweat that coats your skin, and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you over him like a blanket holding you close until long after it dries. His fingers trace soft patterns over skin, tapping a melody only he can hear.

You give up on keeping your eyes open. His chest makes a comfortable pillow, with the untroubled beat of his heart and the safe harbor of his arms. It’s tempting to allow yourself to drift off; your heart twinges at the idea that you could fall asleep and wake up in his arms.

Like every other man, he must be able to sense the thoughts of commitment, because he sits up, shifting you from his lap—gently, at least. You can’t help the whine you let out when he slips his cock from inside you; your body left emptier than it had been before.

He smirks, sitting at the edge of the bed with his eyes directed between your thighs. Your skin grows flushed—feeling the slow drip of his cum slide out of your aching cunt. Your legs move to close, a sick feeling crawling over your skin. It feels wrong to have him look at you now that he’s gotten what he paid for.

He slips his fingers in the space between just before your thighs meet, catching the dripping spend on his thumb, spreading it across your tender opening, just barely brushing your clit. Your lips part with an unbidden moan.

"Still so needy, even after i just fucked you, hase?” he asks, the corner of his mouth turned up proudly, “that's good. I like my women insatiable."

He stands, all business as he grabs his clothing from the floor, reassembling his wardrobe. “We should be going,” he says, “there are places to be; I can have someone collect your things.”

He doesn’t notice your confusion, shrugging his coat over his shoulders, only turning back to you once he’s reached the door.

“Aren’t you coming, hase?”

“Coming? With you?”

“Of course, if you’d like,” he says. “You’d be taken care of, for as long as you choose to stay.”

There’s a warmth in your bones at the thought of it, even if it doesn’t make sense.

“Why me?”

“Schatz,” he walks back to you, petting a finger under your chin, “when I find something I like, I must have it.”

Tagging a few people who seemed interested: @reiaux, @valquiria3000

[rax-writes]

Together, As It Should Be

Fandom:  MCU

Pairing:  Baron Helmut Zemo x Reader

Warnings:  Angst, descriptions of death / dead bodies, MCU-level violence

Notes:  Two Zemo fics in one day? Yes, because I do not trust Marvel, and I just know they’ll probably screw this man over sometime in the very near future, so I’m thoroughly basking in the episode 3 goodness. // Zemo and the reader would naturally be speaking Sokovian throughout basically the entire story, but I felt that it would be redundant and annoying to repeatedly state that. So, their dialogue is written in English, but just pretend it’s Sokovian. // I don’t ever write angst. I truly don’t know where this came from. But, uh... I’m sorry in advance.

Sokovia had always been a modest country; it was never any kind of world power, but it had a moderately successful economy, infrequent wars, and above all, good, kind-hearted citizens. You had been a member of the Sokovian military unit EKO Scorpion, to protect against threats to your dear country, alongside a man named Helmut Zemo.

He was always a very analytical, observant, and intelligent man. Alternatively, you were fearless and quick, capable of deadly aim and precision in both your bullets and your hits to enemies' pressure points. There were countless times where Zemo was still busy reading the room or identifying the enemy's weak points by the time you ended them before they even had the chance to raise their weapon. The two of you formed a friendship as you rose through the ranks of the Sokovian Armed Forces alongside one another, eventually reaching the top as the commander and second in command. You eventually got to know Zemo beyond his cold, calculating exterior, and grew familiar with his dry, quick-witted sense of humor, incredible poker and chess skills, and fondness for music. There wasn't a single criminal who could outsmart or outrun the two of you; the pair of you, and your unit, were unstoppable.

In time, you fell in love with the man – although you never would have admitted it, as he was engaged when you met him, and married by the time you realized your feelings. As much as you wished it were you that he came home to every night, his wife was always very sweet and hospitable toward you, so you could never possibly hold any disdain for her. When his son was born, you knew you needed to get over yourself, get over your feelings for a man you could never have, before it cost you your closest friendship. So, you kept that love for him silent, quiet and close to your heart but never anything beyond that. Zemo even named you his son's godmother, and you attended every birthday party, school play, and soccer tournament of Carl's. He constantly badgered his parents to go over to "Auntie's place," and it was one day when you were returning him to his parents that you saw Zemo's happy little home life begin to crumble.

When you pulled up to the ancient Zemo family mansion, Carl chattering happily in the backseat, you caught a glimpse through the window of Zemo and his wife having a heated argument in the living room, both of them speaking animatedly with their hands and looking angry.

Turning to face Carl after you put the car in park, you donned a smile and suggested, "How about a game of hide and seek outside before I give you back to your parents, yeah? It's a nice day out, I want to play with my best buddy before I leave."

"Yeah!" the boy exclaimed, practically tearing off the car door as he burst out, running off toward their massive car garage to hide as he hollered, "Count to seventy-four!"

You smiled to yourself before walking up to the front door of the mansion, where you could hear the not-so-happy couple yelling at one another. You knocked loudly with the ornate, golden lion's head door-knocker, and the yelling died down before Zemo swung the door open, looking frustrated and fatigued, but as his eyes landed on you, relief washed across his features.

"Where is Carl?"

"I, uh… saw you two arguing through the window, figured it was best he didn't see that. So, he's off playing hide and seek in the garage," you explained, and Helmut nodded solemnly, looking at the ground. "Everything alright?"

"No," he answered honestly, exhaling slowly as he leaned against the doorframe. He glanced behind him for a moment, before returning his attention to you. "Let's get Carl inside, then go to a bar. I'm in the mood to drink away my troubles."

An hour later, you were seated beside Zemo in a quiet little bar in Novi Grad, watching him curiously as he nursed a whiskey on the rocks. He looked pensive, eyes a thousand miles away as he stared down at the amber liquid.

"I'm very grateful that you had Carl today. That entire conversation went far worse than I could have ever expected," he admitted with a dry, humorless chuckle.

"Mind telling me what it was about?"

"She confessed that she's been having an affair with our neighbor for quite some time now, so in retaliation, I told her that I've been in love with someone else for the past five years."

You let out a low whistle. "Yes, that's pretty bad, old friend."

"Indeed," Helmut mused, taking a swig of his whiskey.

As much as you tried to fight it, the question came tumbling out of your mouth against your better judgment. "So, who's the other woman? Do I know her?"

Helmut glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering for a moment, before taking another sip of his drink and setting it back down on the bar, returning his gaze to the movement of the liquor in the glass. "No, you wouldn't know her."

Ignoring the tightness that formed in your chest at the disappointment that he didn't mean you, you asked, "How'd the conversation end? You two going to patch things up?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know. When I brought up a divorce, she suggested couples' counseling."

"An affair goes a bit beyond couples' counseling, in my opinion."

"I am inclined to agree."

"And besides, if you get a divorce, you'd have the chance to be with this other woman, the one you love," you suggested. As much as it hurt that he's not only been married to someone else for the entirety of the time you've been in love with him, but he was also apparently in love with someone besides you or her – at the end of the day, you really just wanted to see him happy.

Once again, Helmut gave you that side-eyed, lingering look, before he sighed and said, "It's not that simple. Besides, I do love my wife. Yes, I love this other woman more, and in a perfect world, I would have married her instead. But I am a man of my word, and I vowed to be with my wife til death do us part."

"Yeah, and she also vowed to be loyal to you, to be with you and only you 'til death do you part.' So, she null and voided that agreement when she became the first to break it."

"You have a point," he mused, finishing his drink as he waved the bartender down for another.

"Look, Z, life is short. You know that. You know how quickly a man can lose his life, we've both seen that in the field. And whether you realize it or not, even if you do get the chance to grow old, you'll find that your life has been lived before you ever realized you were approaching the end. Do you really want to spend what little time you have here married to a woman who chose your fucking neighbor over you?"

Helmut sighed, running a hand through his hair as the bartender sat another drink in front of him, which he thanked her for. After taking another drink, he was silent for a few moments more, before conceding, "You are right as usual, old friend. I will speak with her tomorrow about a divorce. And who knows, I may work up the courage to tell this other woman of my feelings."

"That is a good plan."

Little did either of you know, the next day brought nothing but chaos, death, and destruction, as Ultron arrived and laid waste to your homeland. You were racing into action the second the fighting began, running through the streets to your nearby military base, when you got a call from Helmut.

"Where are you? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Z. Well, for now," you responded, before ducking behind a car to fire a few rounds at a few members of Ultron's fleet. Hearing the gunshots, his voice grew even more panicked.

"Get out of there immediately! Go to my father's home outside of the city, you'll be safe there."

"What kind of Scorpion would I be if I tucked tail and ran, instead of defending my country?"

"A live one!" Helmut bellowed, then groaned in exasperation. "Forget it, I know you're too stubborn to listen to me. Just get to the base and stay put until I get there. We'll fight together – as it should be."

After another few shots at those damn robots, you broke into a run toward the base, letting out a breathless laugh as his words reached your ears through the receiver. "Just like old times then, eh?"

Within twenty minutes of you reaching the military base, a handful of other members of your squad arrived, and finally, Zemo. The moment he burst through the doors, he frantically searched the room until he found you, his white button-up singed and tattered, hair a mess, and tie loose around his neck.

"Bit overdressed for battle, aren't you?" you teased as he ran to you, enveloping you in a bear hug.

"I was so worried that something would happen to you before I could get to you," he admitted in a whisper, face buried in your hair.

"You should know by now that I'm not an easy woman to kill," you replied, patting his back as you ignored the way your heart soared at the embrace. "Where is Carl? And your father? And the missus?"

"Safe, outside the city," Helmut answered, then held you out at arms length to glare at you. "Where I wish you would be."

"Not a chance," you retorted, smiling at him as you threw his military uniform against his chest, which he caught with ease. "Let's go show these robo-bastards who they're messing with."

After a straight hour of fighting for your lives, killing an endless slew of drones and saving more civilians than you could count, your beloved city began to take flight, tearing away from the Earth as it began to levitate. Unknowingly, you were standing at the edge, and Helmut suddenly fell from your line of sight, yelling your name as he fell off the side.

"Zemo!" you screamed so forcefully that it hurt your throat, as you dropped to your knees on the edge. He was dangling there, holding onto a metal pipe that had broken when the city left the ground. You laid on your stomach and extended your hand to him, which he grabbed immediately, and you used every ounce of strength you could muster to hold onto him. Motivated by sheer adrenaline and the inhuman strength associated with saving someone you love, you managed to drag him back up and onto solid ground, and he collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing heavily and wide-eyed.

Zemo gazed down at you, with such admiration and love in his eyes that the world around you grew quiet, despite the chaos of the battle still raging around you. Slowly, gently, he brushed a few strands of hair away from your face, before his fingers lingered on your cheek. Your breath caught in your throat, and your voice was scarcely a whisper when you spoke.

"Helmut?"

"There is something you must know," he said quickly. "My dearest friend, I –"

A sudden blast of blue energy hit the ground right next to your heads, and you looked to the side to see a handful of drones coming your way.

"Hold that thought," you quipped, before the both of you stood and leapt into action, resuming your fighting and navigation of civilians.

A short while later, you heard a few of the Avengers commanding everyone to vacate the floating hunk of Earth. You and Helmut exchanged a glance, before he walked over to them, and began speaking with a man holding a bow.

"Helmut Zemo, Commander of Sokovia's EKO Scorpion. What is going on?"

"Ultron is planning to drop the city at any moment, we need to get everyone out of here immediately."

"Dropping the city will decimate Sokovia," you noted, dumbfounded. "You're a motley crew of super-humans. Can't you find a way to just set it back down?"

"That's the goal, but we don't know for sure that we can," the Avenger explained. "We could use you guys' help getting everyone onto these helicarriers, so we can get them to safety."

"We're on it," you replied, being that Zemo was standing there in silence. As the Avenger walked off, he turned to you with fear in his brown eyes.

"Carl. My father. My wife. They aren't safe," Helmut whispered in disbelief.

You whipped out your phone and began trying to call his wife, but you had no service due to power lines being destroyed when the city took flight. He just stared at you, still shell-shocked, so you placed your hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. "Z, there isn't much we can do for them right now besides try to help the Avengers. The less civilians they have to worry about, the more they can focus on Ultron and getting Novi Grad back on the ground."

Helmut nodded solemnly, and you turned to the nearby members of your unit. "Scorpions! Get as many people onto these Lifeboats as quickly and as safely as possible, and when you've found all the civilians you can, get your own asses on there as well. Understood?"

They all nodded and disbanded, sprinting in various directions to execute their mission. You grabbed Helmut's hand and echoed his words from earlier. "We will fight together. For Sokovia, and for your family." The fear in his eyes was replaced with determination then, and he gave you a curt nod as he squeezed your hand, before the pair of you ran off in search of civilians.

Within a half hour, neither of you could find any more people to evacuate. Both of you were struggling to breathe, from running and from the thin air caused by the high elevation of the city, so you headed for the last of the helicarriers, making you two of the very last to evacuate. Helmut hesitated before boarding.

"I want to help them fight Ultron. Once he is defeated, this will be over, and my family will be safe."

"No, Zemo," you said immediately, brows furrowing together with concern as you took his hand, half worried he'd bolt off. "The primary objective right now isn't Ultron, it's this floating hunk of rock. That is the threat to your family right now. And the quicker we get to the ground, the quicker we can find them and get them further from the impact radius."

Helmut nodded dejectedly before boarding the aircraft with you. As it flew away from the city, you drew in a shuddering gasp as you got a better look at what you'd just been standing on. The amount of land that had been ripped from the Earth was three times the size you'd expected, and although you didn't dare to express it… your hopes of ever seeing dear, sweet Carl again dropped each second you stared at the floating hunk of Novi Grad.

Before you could give it a second thought, the city exploded, sending hunk of rock and debris flying in all directions and rocking the Lifeboat. Both you and Zemo dropped to your knees to brace yourselves, and he shielded you with his body. You looked up the moment it felt safe enough to do so, and saw a barrage of chunks of Earth flying into the nearby body of water, and to the ground below. A few people screamed as they watched the debris collide with land, knowing that countless lives were being lost every millisecond, but Helmut was still and silent, his arm tightening around your shoulders and his jaw clenched. When silence befell the Lifeboat, you turned to him with your hands on his shoulders, his arm still around you.

"Z, there's still a chance they're okay. There's still a chance."

His eyes held a myriad of emotions when he met your gaze. Fear, anger, frustration, sadness, horror. They began to water, before he pulled you into a bone-crushing hug, burying his face in your neck as he held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

It was three hours later before you and Zemo were able to even enter the remnants of Sokovia, forced to wait for the dust to settle fully so you could see. The pair of you spent that time in silence, your hand in his as he looked out over the lake. It took ages to reach his father's place, clambering under fallen buildings and over rubble, and when you finally reached it… it was gone. The entire area was completely obliterated, leaving nothing but crumpled homes, craters, and colossal boulders.

Two days. Two days of digging through the debris, consisting of cement, wood, rocks, trees. Two days spent in silence, aside from you occasionally prompting Helmut to rest, drink, or eat. Two days of aimlessly searching for his family's bodies, not even sure where best to look, as the entire area had been obliterated. Two days before you heard a gut-wrenching scream from a few yards away, where Helmut had been searching. Two days before you ran to him as fast as your legs would carry you, only to stop dead in your tracks as you saw your friend and your love cradling his son's small, bloody, lifeless body from where he'd found it in the wreckage, beside his father and his wife, both of whom were also crushed and bloodied but still partially underneath a few slabs of cement and some rocks.

You removed the debris as quickly as you could from their bodies, allowing Helmut the ability to grab them as well, holding the three of them in his arms as the most heartbreaking sobs you'd ever heard in your life escaped his body. You kneeled behind him, and he leaned against you as he held them, his body too weak from exertion and grief to hold himself up. You tore a piece of fabric from your shirt to use as a rag, and wet it with water from your canteen to clean Carl's sweet little face. He looked as he did when sleeping, aside from the dirt and dried blood at the corner of his mouth, and the way his arm twisted unnaturally. Next you tidied up his father's and his wife's faces, which obviously didn't fix anything, but… just because they were dead didn't mean they had to look dead. You wrapped your arms around Helmut's shoulders, resting your cheek on the top of his head as he mourned.

You left to retrieve some emergency responders, who helped you get them in black body bags as Helmut turned away, unable to watch. They were placed on gurneys to transport them to a funeral home in the bordering country of Slovakia, near one of Zemo's estates there. You stayed there with him, helping him however possible as he made funeral preparations for his loved ones. Each day, you left before sunrise to help in Sokovia, while he stayed at his home and processed his grief. All the while, he remained stoic and withdrawn, exchanging a handful of words with you at the most, but you did not push him.

A week after their bodies were found, the funeral was held, each buried in individual plots Helmut had purchased. It was just the two of you there, standing together in the graveyard, staring at the three spots of fresh dirt before you. The grounds keeper had long since left, and the sun was high in the sky, illuminating the world despite the melancholy atmosphere surrounding you. Truthfully, the graveyard he'd chosen was beautiful; tall stone monuments and elaborate headstones, even a few mausoleums. You were busy admiring it when he spoke.

"I'm leaving."

You turned to him with your brows furrowed in confusion. "Where are you going?"

"I have some business to attend to," Helmut replied vaguely. "I will be leaving you with a key to the mansion. You are welcome to stay in this one as long as you'd like, or in any of the others. Simply call Oeznik, he will arrange your transportation and access to the other estate of your choosing."

"Can't I just go with you? The two of us, together, as it should be – remember?"

"I'm afraid I must do this alone."

"Do what alone?" you asked worriedly, laying a hand on his arm. "Z, are you okay? I mean, I know that's a stupid question, but you're scaring me. Are you going to be okay?"

"I will be fine," Helmut assured you, but there was no sincerity in his words. They were empty, just like his eyes had been for the past week. He then walked away towards his car, being that you had chosen to ride separately, in case he wanted to be left alone at their graves.

You jogged over to him and closed the door of his car just as he opened it.

"Promise me that you won't do anything stupid, and that you'll stay safe."

Helmut sighed before looking you in the eyes. "You have my word."

You kept your hand on the car door for a few moments more, studying him, before releasing it and taking a step back when you determined that he wasn't lying. He stared at you for what seemed like an eternity, and unlike usual, you couldn't read him. He had always been a somewhat reserved man, never the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, but his eyes had always told you everything you needed to know. Until now. They were just so… empty.

"I love you."

The words caught you off-guard. You had been expecting a simple goodbye, not… this. All you could do was stare at him, dumbfounded.

"That's what I wanted to tell you on Novi Grad, after you saved me. I love you. I've loved you for five years – possibly longer, but it was then that I realized it," Zemo explained, taking one of your hands in both of his as he spoke. "You are the love of my life, but fate chose to torment me by giving me these feelings after I had already married another. Now, my heart… it feels like a forest that has burned, all of it reduced to dust, aside from the smallest tree that remains somewhere within the ash, the sole survivor. That is you. My oldest and dearest friend, the keeper of my heart, my angel, my purpose."

Before you could process his confession enough to form a coherent response, Zemo cupped your face between his palms and kissed you.

It was delicate, sweet, and cathartic – exactly what both of you needed, after the horrors you had recently experienced. Your hands gently gripped his forearms, needing something to touch to convince yourself that this was real. The moment you never even allowed yourself to dream of was happening. Zemo kissed you breathless, and when he broke the kiss to gaze down at you, he smiled for the first time in over a week, although it still held a sense of sadness.

"I love you, too," was all you could manage, still stupefied.

"I know." Zemo kissed your forehead before opening the car door again, and sliding into the driver's seat. You rested your palms on the rolled-down window, and he stated, "I will be back before you know it, as a better man, and we will continue where we left off. I promise you that, my love."

"Just remember your other promise, Z. Be careful," you cautioned, and he nodded, before bringing one of your hands up to his lips to place a kiss upon your knuckles.

After lovingly staring into one another's eyes for several moments, you leaned down into the car to kiss him quickly, then took a step back from the vehicle.

As he drove away, Zemo called out, "Until next time, my angel."

But the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach told you that there would be no next time.

And, in the end… you were right.

[starlightsearches]

Knitting and Flower Crowns For Zemo, please :)

Thanks for asking, friend! It's been a while since I've done any of these prompts, but they are some of my favorites.

Flower Crowns - Their favourite memory of their relationship

Not exactly a memory of your relationship, since it happened before you were "together," but it is the first time he let himself come to terms how he really felt about you. Hiding out in one of his many estates, you'd dozed off on his shoulder—finally resting after being on the run for so long. He hadn't slept at all that night, had hardly let himself blink, convinced that if he lost sight of you for even a moment, you'd disappear. Under the influence of adrenaline and exhaustion, he finally admitted—to himself, at least—that his concern for you was more than that normally shared between colleagues. His heart sank. He knew how dangerous it could be to love someone, and how powerless he was to stop it.

Knitting - Their reaction to the first discussion about having kids

It makes him sad, at first. Thinking about children will always remind him of what he lost. But he's also deeply touched that you would even consider him, given everything that he's done. After a quiet, tense moment, he'll sweep you into his arms, just holding you close, letting the feel of your heartbeat echo through his own chest. The kiss he gives you full of longing, and tenderness, his arms wrapped tight around your waist as he whispers, "of course, my love. Whatever you want, I will give it."

weather prompts

[starlightsearches]

…….I’m kind of intrigued by the idea of writing some darker prompts. Does anybody have any requests?

[valquiria3000]

OHHHHHH THIS WAS MORE THAN GOOD, THIS WAS BREATHTAKING, AMAZING!!!!

(if you aren't taking any more requests from the smut prompt list, ignore this ^_^)

19 + 100 from the smut prompt list with zemo pls and thanks

19 and 100 from the Smut Prompts List

Inspired by this gif

Zemo x femme! reader

Warnings: 18+ Only (Minors DNI), PIV sex, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected sex, virgin! reader, sex work, prostitution, praise kink, soft dom/sub dynamics, creampie. Please be aware of the warnings!

It's strange to stand like this—so stiff and detached, practically naked in the lingerie and robe the madam had picked out for you. You're used to sitting coyly on the edge of a couch until someone makes their approach, skin glittering prettily in the partial darkness of the club. The room looks much too large when it’s flooded with the emergency lighting—used during the daylight hours when the club is closed—and the air is chilled with the lack of bodies.

The mysterious patron, who had everyone in such a fuss this morning, is making his way down the line with the madam at his side—a quiet, thoughtful frown on his lips. It’s difficult not to stare, but your instincts keep your eyes from resting on him for too long. You’ll have to settle for the small details you catch in glimpses.

He's well-dressed—a long coat thrown over his shoulders, and a well-fitted turtle-neck sweater beneath it. It sits snugly over his torso, hinting at a muscular build. The rest of him is unkempt in comparison; his hair just a bit shaggy, a few tendrils curling against his forehead. Most of his face is taken over by a dark beard, and he can't keep his hands away from it, scratching at his jawline beneath or dragging a palm down over his mouth. He must not be used to keeping facial hair.

"And who is this?" He stops before you, his voice low and pleasant, carrying an accent you can't identify. You do your best to look demure, glancing up at him shyly through your lashes as the madam gives him your name.

Dark brown eyes trace over your features carefully, the seconds melting into minutes under the warmth of his gaze. The intensity brings a heat to your cheeks; you find yourself staring at your reflection in his well-shined shoes.

“How much?”

The madam clears her throat awkwardly, but it's all part of her act. She could smell money on a man like blood in the water, and she always knew which veins to open first.

"You wouldn't want her, Baron," she says, trying unsuccessfully to usher him down to the next girl, "we're charging quite a price for her first time. Why don't I introduce you to Cassandra here—"

He stops her with a raised hand, tilting his head curiously. "Her first time?”

"Oh yes," the madam confides. She leans in, whispering up against the shell of his ear, so close it’s incredible she doesn’t leave traces of her bright red lipstick smudged against his skin. "I have a few loyal customers who are quite eager to, let's say, take her innocence."

She pets her bony fingers down the side of your face, and you purse your lips, trying hard not to roll your eyes. You'd hardly call yourself innocent.

“How much?”

The madam's lips stretch open over her too-white teeth, and she whispers again in his ear. He doesn't pause to think on it.

“I’ll take her.”

Your eyes grow wide, jaw clenched tight. No doubt the number she named was outrageous, preparing for his attempts to bargain. Accepting the very first offer would be insane.

"Perfect." Her voice is dripping with glee when she addresses you, "why don't you show our guest to one of our private rooms?"

You nod, taking him by the hand. The main floor of The Elysian is a veritable minefield of chintz cushions and plump couches, and you weave with him between the empty furniture, hoping he doesn't notice the growing layer of perspiration coating your palm.

The silence between you grows more noticeable as you shut the door to the sound-proofed room, the plush carpet crackling with every step.

You glance around. You haven't spent much time here, but you’re glad to see that the private rooms are a little more tasteful than what you’re used to. There's a leather couch up against the wall, and a large, low bed with silk sheets, a few multi-colored lanterns hanging from the ceiling, throwing specks of light across the bed.

He busies himself near the couch, oblivious to your presence—removing his coat and draping over the back, taking the watch from his wrist and placing it in the pocket. He pushes the sleeves of his sweater out of the way next, revealing toned forearms dusted with bronzed hair.

You clear your throat, brushing the top of one foot over the back of your calf, unsure if you're meant to be doing something.

This is your first time, after all. You were hoping for some direction.

"You may take a seat," he says, nodding towards the bed, and you do as you're told immediately, perching on the end of it, hands folded in your lap.

"I am Baron Helmut Zemo," he says, coming to a stop beside you and dropping to one knee, "but you may call me sir."

His fingers wrap around your bare thigh, hand shifting back and forth as he caresses your skin, acclimating you to his touch. He has nice hands—long, thick fingers and clean nails, and his palm is warm and soft.

"Thank you, sir," you say, addressing his hand.

"Look at me," the command is gentle, but it is still a command. You tilt your chin up just far enough that you can meet his eyes. "Is it true that you're a virgin?"

Your mouth is dry. "Yes, sir."

His fingers flex subtly, hand shifting higher. You try not to squirm.

“You don’t need to lie to me.”

Given how much he probably paid, it would be in your best interest to lie to him. If you weren’t already telling the truth.

"I am a virgin—" you confirm, and he quirks one brow, waiting for you to remember, "—sir."

The baron hums, deep in his throat. "That is good news. You see, I had selfish reasons for my choice. It has been a long time since I have been with a woman. I did not want to embarrass myself."

That’s a surprise. A man as handsome as him shouldn't have any trouble finding someone willing.

You chance some contact, stroking your fingers lightly over his shoulder, hoping you’ve found the correct balance between sympathy and flirtation. "Why so long?"

"I've been in prison for many years. A high-security facility called The Raft, for only the most dangerous of criminals."

Your hand stops.

He watches you, waiting for a reaction—surprise, or fear. You certainly feel a bit of both.

But which does he want? Some men certainly liked to feel you shiver, liked to murmur violent stories low in your ear as you perched on their laps. The feeling of their hands never left you, phantom limbs still gripping at your waist, ensuring that you couldn’t pull away, laughing at the way you squirmed. Fear sated better than sex ever could for men like that.

The baron doesn’t seem that way.

"Really?" you ask, sounding a little more naive than you feel. He seems to like it, moving his hand to the back of the neck, thick fingers wrapping around it, hot and tight against your skin.

His eyes bore into yours; with the way he's holding you, you can't drop his gaze. "Do you know what I missed the most while I was there?"

You manage the slightest shake of your head. His skin is dotted with freckles where the beard doesn’t reach, and there are dark shadows like fingerprints beneath his eyes.

“This.”

He breathes the word, breath warm with the scent of money and men, and then he's kissing you, mouthing gently at your parted lips.

Oh. It's not like you'd never done this before—you hadn't gotten such a dedicated customer base batting your eyelashes—but he is leagues better at it than the others, his beard a little rough against your cheeks, the cashmere of his sweater soft beneath your fingers.

He groans faintly, pressing closer, the tip of his nose digging in against your cheek as his tongue finds its way between your parted lips. His hand shifts from your neck, cupping your jaw, and he uses that leverage to his advantage—adjusting your movements to his liking, controlling the pace. Your fingers encircle his wrist, hoping to keep him there.

It’s not like you to get so caught up in something like this, but you find the more you touch him, the more you want to feel—a warmth like whiskey blossoming in your stomach at the thought of the full press of his body against yours.

He shifts off his knees, pulling away from your lips despite your attempts to keep him close. His thick fingers are at the buckle of his belt, unlatching the metal and pulling the leather strap free. Your thighs press tighter of their own accord, an unfamiliar anticipation enveloping your core.

“You may be a virgin, but given the circumstances I'm sure you're not completely ignorant,” he says over the metallic jingle of his belt buckle and the rumble of his zipper, “show me what you know.”

The baron steps forward, looming, coming closer and closer until your eyes are level with his waist, your line of sight filled completely by the thin sliver of skin and coarse, shining hair that stretches up from the band of his dark black boxers. Your gaze trails lower—slowly—examining him like a fine work of art, lips parting in surprise when you spy the thick bulge straining against the expensive fabric. He’s bigger than you expected.

He must notice your apprehension, a smirk on his lips staining the words he speaks next.

“Go on,” he encourages, taking your hand delicately in his own, leading you where he wants, pressing your palm against the hard length, the rush of blood and heavy weight of his cock solid beneath your fingers.

Your lips part with a pop, mouth flooded with saliva that coats your tongue. You press it between your teeth, wetting your lips, picking up the latent taste of him. It’s irresistible. You want more.

He exhales sharply through his teeth, bracing himself with a hand in your hair as you pull his cock from its confines.

Jesus, he’s thick. Even half-hard, he’s bigger than most—the tips of your fingers just barely brushing your thumb when you stroke him experimentally. You’re not sure how much of him you’ll be able to take, throat aching at the thought. The air in the room is heavy in your lungs.

“Don’t tease me, hase,” he admonishes, pulling you forward until your mouth brushes against the tip of his dick, painting your lips with sticky pre-cum. “I have no desire to be patient right now.”

Swallowing, you pull closer, taking the tip into the warm center of your mouth, tonguing softly at the slit, sealing your lips and pulling your cheeks in tight. He sighs, shifting his hips forward, filling your mouth and stretching your jaw, pressing down until your lips meet your curled fingers. Spit pools against his skin, and you spread it with your hand, stroking in the space where your mouth can’t reach.

You can feel him growing thicker, the muscles in his fingers tensing against your scalp as you begin to bob your head, sucking your cheeks in tighter.

“Oh, you’re a very good girl, aren’t you? Just like that, hase.”

You can hear the smile in his voice, it’s brightness echoed in the warmth at your core. It’s easy to imagine how he must look, those broad shoulders dropping lower, neck stretched long and tense, his molten eyes leaving cigarette burns on the backs of his eyelids and his lips parted in prayer.

As soon as you’ve pictured it, your body screams for more—desperate to watch him fall apart in your mind’s eye, addicted to the idea of undoing such an enigmatic, powerful man. Your fist tightens around his dick, and you stretch yourself farther, taking more and more until the head of his cock nudges your soft palate, eliciting a quiet gagging sound with each press. Stinging tears pool at the corners of your eyes.

His fist tightens in your hair, urging you away from him with a few whispered curses, pouring from his lips in a language you don’t understand. You do as he asks, pulling back until you’re only connected to his cock by a few strings of saliva.

“God, schatz—” he strokes his thumb over your wet and swollen lips, “you are beautiful.”

Your nails press crescent moons against your thighs. He’s breathing heavily, standing before you like a god, or an emperor. He’s the kind of man who could have you willingly on your knees.

“Thank you, sir.”

He strokes his hand down over your shoulder, eyeing the delicate lace that covers your body. “Lay down.”

You shift back against the pillows as the baron stands at the end of the bed, stripping off his sweater. He’s well-toned, but not bulky—arms corded with muscle he’s clearly put to use for more than just vanity, broad chest peppered with ruddy hair, and constellations of freckles on both his shoulders.

“Do you like what you see, hase?” he asks once he’s fully naked, standing before you without shame. He observes you closely, noticing the way your eyes travel over the ruddy skin of his neck, the gentle swell of his stomach, his cock hard and thick and ready for you. Your cunt aches at the sight of him.

“Yes, sir.” You’re unable to control the shift of your hips, the way your body yearns. You want him on top of you, want his hands at your waist, want his lips against every inch of your body.

You want him inside you.

He climbs onto the bed, stradling your body, and you support your weight on your arms in an attempt to bring your face in closer proximity to his own. His eyes wander over your features, lingering against your lips. You resist the urge to close the gap, despite the overwhelming strength of your desire. You're here to meet his needs.

But maybe your needs align in this moment—or maybe he likes the hint of desperation in your features—because he cups your jaw in his warm palm, eyes exploring the recesses of your soul as he pulls you in.

You kiss him back eagerly, letting your hands caress his neck, stroking your ankle against his calf until he grants you the contact you've been hungry for, his chest and hips against yours, forcing your body further into the mattress. You relish the wandering burn of his hands, the wildfire path from your hips to your waist to your breasts. His touch lingers there, and your skin grows warm with a rush of blood as he pinches at the stiffened peaks of your nipples.

The air punches out of your chest, and the sound it makes is embarrassingly close to a whine, your hips canting off the sheets. He leans back, watching your lips tremble as he continues his ministrations.

"I think it's time for this to come off," he whispers, leaning in towards your thudding pulse as his hands reach for the clasp of your bra. The lace tickles at your skin, stripped forward until you're bare. He tosses the garment to the side, pressing firm kisses across your jaw, down your neck.

"I may have lied before, hase," he says, and the air is filled with quiet reverence as he stares at your naked breasts. "This is what I truly missed the most."

There’s no space for you to reply before his lips are on you, lavishing the tender skin of your chest with hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses, the gentle bites in direct contrast to the sharp burn of his beard. He's fully engrossed in the task, ignorant of the way you watch him partake in this thorough worship, nibbling meticulously at the surrounding area before closing his lips around your aching nipple, sucking it between his teeth. Your back arches harshly, head thrown back, and you let his strong arms support your weight as he turns his attention to the other breast.

You dig your nails into his skin, gripping the back of his neck, hard enough to make him bleed. Maybe if you peeled the skin from his bones, he'd finally feel close enough.

“Oh god, please,” you grind against him, your voice going shrill when the tip of his cock nudges haphazardly at your cunt, “please, sir. I want you inside me.”

He pauses his assault, stills his hips which had been rocking against yours with the same unchecked desire. He stays still enough for you to catch the gold flecks in his eyes, the wet shine of spit coating the dark hairs at the corners of his mouth.

There’s a tremor in his throat, a subtle shift as he adjusts his hands, pulling one arm tighter at your waist to give the other range of motion. His fingers tremble in the corner of your vision, and whatever it is he plans to do, he hesitates.

“Of course, schatz. Whatever you want,” he whispers, committing to the movement, stroking the tips of his fingers down the curve of your cheek, and you finally understand. Tenderness like that doesn’t belong in a place like this, between people like you.

He cups the back of your neck as your spine meets the cool sheets, his other hand at your hip, sliding the lace of your underwear down off your thighs and tossing them to the side.

“God . . . you’re so wet for me.” He strokes one thick finger between your thighs, just enough pressure to part your lips and gather your slick on the tip of his finger. “Are you always this wet, hase? Do you get like this when you're fucking yourself?"

You shake your head, although you can tell based on his tone that he already knows. He adjusts, shifting the bulk of his weight onto his thighs, removing his hips from yours and you stifle a whine at the loss. It breaks through your parted lips moments later as he presses the head of his dick against your swollen entrance.

He lingers there for a moment, stroking gently between your folds; there's not enough force behind the movement for him to slip inside you—only enough contact to make you squirm.

“Do you think you’re ready for me?”

You’ve never felt more ready for anything.

You can feel the pressure of his eyes, and so you know he must see the way your brows crease as your cunt stretches to accommodate that first, thick inch, must notice the rhythmic tensing in your core, the tremors in your thighs. You know he hears the strange cry that bursts from you—an intoxicating mixture of pleasure and pain—because he stops, petting a hand over your hair.

“You can take me, hase. I know you can. Relax.” His breath is hot against your neck, and there’s a hand at your hip, holding you in place. “Relax.”

He mouths at your neck, tracing a meandering path to your lips. He moves closer, and closer, the tension draining from your body, putting a slight shift in your hips.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he warns, but the message is lost on both of you, his mouth fully on yours in a messy, desperate kiss. His thrusts grow more fervent, a little chorus of moans echoing in the space between you—his deep with attempted restraint, yours high and aching. You can feel the thrum of his heartbeat under your hand.

"You’re doing so well, hase,” he says, once he’s finally fully seated inside you, “tell me how it feels.”

You manage a breathy moan. The world is dark on the inside of your eyelids.

He gives you a moment to adjust, and you need it—overcome with a fullness you can’t quite comprehend. Your cunt bears down on his cock, muscles clenching like you’re trying to find the edges of him in the dark, like you’re trying to keep him in place.

You close your eyes tightly, hard enough that white spots appear in your vision, jaw open wide. You can’t imagine how devastating it will feel to be empty again.

His hands are harsh at your cheeks, biting against your skin. “No, hase. Keep your eyes open. Look at me.”

You don’t dare disobey, not that he gives you the opportunity to do so, his grip on your jaw tightening, the full force of his eyes on yours. He doesn’t let go, thrusting in and out of your dripping cunt, filling the room with the measured sound of skin against skin. His hips never stutter, his pace never fails, pounding you into the mattress as the friction builds into a white hot heat in your core.

He’s absolutely relentless.

He stares openly, intent on cataloging your every expression—from the slightest twitch in your temple to the wide stretch of your lips. You watch his eyes roam your face, watch the thin sheen of pride and sweat bead across his forehead with every successful moan he loosens from your throat. You’re only getting wetter—each thrust echoing with the wet splash of your cunt. You can feel it dripping down the curve of your ass, pooling beneath you.

He grunts, the first hints of his restraint fracturing, his jaw tight. “God, schatz. You are a miracle.”

His body moves against yours, adjusting your position, positioning your body like a marionette with his free hand, his other never leaving your jaw. Your knee presses higher towards your chest, and you feel the burn of the stretch at the mouth of your pussy, every sensation heightened as he thrusts into you at this new angle.

Your neck stretches back, forcing your head against the pillow, and you can’t decide if there’s a ringing in your ears or if those noises are coming from you, in time with every thrust. The borders of your body grow blurry, dissolving as more and more of you is consumed by the feeling of him. Every muscle in your body goes tight. He’s so deep you can feel the head of his dick nudging at your soul.

“Are you close, hase?” he asks, and you nod into his palm, tears dripping from the corners of your eyes.

His whisper reaches you through the oceans of your pleasure. “You can cum, schatz. Go on. Let go for me.”

The light inside you breaks once he’s given permission, pouring out in jagged shards, leaving no part of you untouched. Chill air brushes against sweaty skin, your back arching from off the sticky sheets, cunt clenched tight around his cock, holding him deep inside you. You feel remade, taken apart and put back together by his steady hands, forged anew under his warm, soft lips.

Your body fizzles, the result of some chemical transformation you don’t understand, only partially aware of his continued thrusts, the warm spill of his cum as he’s buried tight in your pussy, chest heaving against yours and his hand at your neck.

Puffs of hot air from his lungs dissipate against your collar bone, cooling the thin sheen of sweat that coats your skin, and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you over him like a blanket holding you close until long after it dries. His fingers trace soft patterns over skin, playing a melody only he can hear.

You give up on keeping your eyes open. His chest makes a comfortable pillow, with the untroubled beat of his heart and the safe harbor of his arms. It’s tempting to allow yourself to drift off; your heart twinges at the idea that you could fall asleep and wake up in his arms.

Like every other man, he must be able to sense the thoughts of commitment, because he sits up, shifting you from his lap—gently, at least. You can’t help the whine you let out when he slips his cock from inside you; your body left emptier than it had been before.

He smirks, sitting at the edge of the bed with his eyes directed between your thighs. Your skin grows flushed—feeling the slow drip of his cum slide down your thighs. Your thighs move to close, a sick feeling crawling over your skin. It feels wrong to have him look at you now that he’s gotten what he paid for.

He slips his fingers in the space between just before your thighs close, catching the dripping spend on his thumb, spreading it across your swollen cunt, just barely brushing your clit. Your lips part with an unbidden moan.

"Still so needy, even after i just fucked you, hase?” he asks, the corner of his mouth turned up proudly, “that's good. I like my women insatiable."

He stands, all business as he grabs his clothing from the floor, reassembling his wardrobe. “We should be going,” he says, “there are places to be; I can have someone collect your things.”

He doesn’t notice your confusion, shrugging his coat over his shoulders, only turning back to you once he’s reached the door.

“Aren’t you coming, hase?”

“Coming? With you?”

“Of course, if you’d like,” he says. “You’d be taken care of, for as long as you choose to stay.”

There’s a warmth in your bones at the thought of it, even if it doesn’t make sense.

“Why me?”

“Schatz,” he walks back to you, petting a finger under your chin, “when I find something I like, I must have it.”

Tagging a few people who seemed interested: @reiaux, @valquiria3000