If In Thunderbolts, Zemo And Walker Team Up (WalkerBaron), I’m Headcanonising:

If in Thunderbolts, Zemo and Walker team up (WalkerBaron), I’m headcanonising:

- Walker calling Zemo a ‘lil bitch’ on the daily

- Walker raising his shield to protect the both of them from falling debris and Zemo just standing under the shade in mild wonder

- Zemo bitch slapping Walker

- Walker pours Zemo’s finest wine into a cut to ‘disinfect’ it, Zemo letting out an unholy screech, and downing the entire bottle in response

- Zemo bitch slapping Walker again

- Walker trying to undermine Zemo’s authority by looming over him, Zemo responds by purposely walking in front of him and suddenly stopping just to make John crash into him

- Zemo calling Walker ‘Agent’ instead of ‘US Agent’ out of spite

- Zemo sidestepping John’s advances like siiiiiike we gotta be pRoFfEsSiOnAl

Then later justifying their relationship by saying “It’s a mutually beneficial exchange.”

- Zemo always trying to discreetly keep John in his peripheral vision, because that man was his temporary protection and lifeline

Bonus:

Zemo tries to guide Walker down a bad path to justify killing him eventually. Walker takes the bait. But little does Zemo know, the man drags Zemo down alongside him, topples Zemo’s little moral pedestal right into the depths of depravity.

Now that’s a relationship I’d love to explore.

A Confession about Writing

Sometimes I feel that my writing will never be good enough for my own standards. I want to be the next Neil Gaiman, the next Stephen King, the next best-selling writer.

When I read fanfics that others have written and posted on AO3, that are SO incredibly good, there's this sense of moroseness that comes over me, the fear of what if they're younger than me but are already leagues above me?

When I read works from people my age, it always amazes me how beautiful their writing is, how I can never replicate their imagination or their style. Then I have this odd feeling - it's almost as if you're standing on the balcony and the cold night air is blowing over you, there are white lights and unfinished concrete condominiums spread out across your view, and the entire world is silent and unmoving, and there are neither moons nor stars in the sky.

When I see a writer with enormous passion - that terrifies me. That's intimidating to me. Because what if I run out of steam before they do? What if for every thousand words that I write, they can write three thousand more? What if they get to live my dream before I do?

Whoever is reading this, and has ever felt the same way...

Show your fellow writers some love! Even if their stories seem like a thousand-meter wall you can never scale... or a lone flag on a faraway planet out of your orbit. Because your story, the one you think looks like a small patch of wilted daisies, is that shimmering heat-mirage in someone else's desert, that untouchable bloom in the midst of radioactive nuclear waste. Your story may not appear so, but trust me, to someone out there, it is colossal. It is unimaginable. It is a deity.

Who knows if I'll ever reach the likes of Stephen King, of Neil Gaiman? I feel foolish, even now. "Oh I'm just a regular 'ol person writing silly fanfiction, how can I ever elevate myself?" But to hell with all that shit talk. I will write my own stories. I will write the stories of everything else. And I'll live pursuing this craft.

War of Hearts

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You will handle it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. when had he taken off his gloves?

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

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

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

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

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

“Hold still.”

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

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

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

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

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

Sokovian politics

So….in the MCU, von Strucker is german.

But what if, for fanfic purposes, he was Sokovian? Both him and Zemo (at that point still Heinrich, but the point still stands) are barons. They’d both be Sokovian aristocracy. They could be rival houses, with von Strucker bringing HYDRA into Sokovia and Baron Zemo hating it. There would be a lot pf political scheming and manouvering going on, some of it maybe involving EKO Skorpion, Helmut’s team.

20 notes View Post

obnoxiouslylongandboring

3 years ago

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

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

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

🍀🍀🍀

Vulnerable.

a Walkerbaron excerpt from one of my Wips.

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

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

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

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

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

He feels vulnerable.

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

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

Desolation tragedy, but was it meant to be?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12 notes View Post

obnoxiouslylongandboring

3 years ago

Saved.

So, Let Me Guess— You Just Started A New Book, Right? And You’re Stumped. You Have No Idea How Much

So, let me guess— you just started a new book, right? And you’re stumped. You have no idea how much an AK47 goes for nowadays. I get ya, cousin. Tough world we live in. A writer’s gotta know, but them NSA hounds are after ya 24/7. I know, cousin, I know. If there was only a way to find out all of this rather edgy information without getting yourself in trouble…

You’re in luck, cousin. I have just the thing for ya.

It’s called Havocscope. It’s got information and prices for all sorts of edgy information. Ever wondered how much cocaine costs by the gram, or how much a kidney sells for, or (worst of all) how much it costs to hire an assassin?

I got your back, cousin. Just head over to Havocscope.

((PS: In case you’re wondering, Havocscope is a database full of information regarding the criminal underworld. The information you will find there has been taken from newspapers and police reports. It’s perfectly legal, no need to worry about the NSA hounds, cousin ;p))

Want more writerly content? Follow maxkirin.tumblr.com!

450K notes View Post

obnoxiouslylongandboring

3 years ago

Amazing work!