Awesome, Nuanced Analysis Of Sokovia And Zemo’s Character!

Amazing work!

6000년만에 메이저잡엇으니까 ㅈㄴ 쳐먹기만할계획

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

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

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

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

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

(I’ll be home soon)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(We’ll be together)

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

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

(I’m home)

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

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

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

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

Our father.

In memory of Sokovia

A little oneshot I thought about while writing Zemo- I’ve decided to put it here.

Zemo tells an audience of children all about Sokovia, how the earth there was rich and matted, and all around them tall grass would spin out crackling sounds.

That if you walk far enough into the rising mountains, till you could only see the tops of the low terrace houses and the smoke spiraling up lazily from your house chimney, and you closed your eyes: you’d hear the rise and fall of hissing grass, they’d turn in huge ocean waves as the wind blew.

He would name all the mountain ridges, from the snowy peaks, all the way to the parts where the ice melted and trickled down into streams, gathering into cold rivers and bubbling springs. The water would be a pale green from afar, and a hazy yellow up close, reflecting the small brown rocks that lined the bottom.

He’d tell them that where the river mouth was, the water was flowing clear and crisp, and children used to drink from it and catch tadpoles. A kilometer down, where the bustle of the town was, the river would be sun-warmed and algae infested, swirling lazily around and releasing the deep grassy perfume of the hills, saturating the air. In summer this was even more so.

When the plum and apple trees were ripe you could pick the fruits as they came bobbing down the river. The children would stand at the banks and fish them out with long nets, and even those that were partially rotten would be taken back home.

When the sun rose you could hear the song of the Stieglitz- the goldfinches, all across the valley. And the Gimplel with their red bellies and the Blaumeise, the rotund little scoundrels with their small beaks.

There’d be roads of crunching gravel and houses built on hills, stacked up like a mound of uneven books, the steps and rooftops cascading down into flatland where the bridge crosses the river and meets land.

You could harvest berries from the mountains, any berry was the right one, all were ripe and burst into sugary water in your mouth. You could pluck them straight from the stems, collect bunches and bunches, eating and spitting out the seeds as you went.

When the apple flowers bloomed he would wear crowns of them in his hair, spun by the maids that worked for his mother and father. They smelt delicate and sweet, like roses but without the dampness, and just a hint of fresh apple skins. When he was young he had thought they were cherry blossoms, for they looked so much alike. And he would tell the children in a conspiratorial whisper, that these were better than cherry blossoms, for they flourished for months and months instead of a mere week.

And then the children, in wonder and amazement, would tug at his sleeves, asking him to point out his country on the map. Zemo’s gaze would drift away, his face would settle into the mould of its suffering... Sokovia was gone from the maps, would only exist in his memory.

Slowly, the children would see that he was drifting away, they would lose interest and run away to play together, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Sitting alone, Zemo thinks of fires burning and towns flying, snow melting under tremendous heat. He remembers water evaporating, berries and flowers crushed under stampeding feet, and the smell of smoke. The grass is no more, the roads and the rooftops are no more, they’ve been covered by wet concrete.

Bro this needs more attention, SO CUTE

Sirene

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

Le notti a cercare buone stelle

Ritrovarsi in mezzo a strane sorti

Quanto siamo storti

HARKANSA PASS, ROMANIA

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

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

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

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

"... Likewise."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's odd?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tastes something bittersweet at the back of his throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

John laughed. "Pretty," he said.

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

John smiled wider and wordlessly turns to the horizon again.

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

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

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

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

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

He couldn't resist - "Pretty."

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

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

Inspiration and images were taken from:

Zion National Park, United States (Utah)

Black Canyon of the Gunnison, United States (Colorado)

Trollstigen, Norway

Transfăgărășan road, Romania

Karakoram Highway, China-Pakistan

Images were taken from Google, not owned by me. Harkansa Pass is not a real location.

Exams are over.

Be prepared for more WalkerBaron, y’all.

I’m gonna unleash everything I have.

These past two days I’ve been writing Zemo and John content based on songs (Daddy Issues by The Neighbourhood, War of Hearts by Ruelle)

I have so many other songs I want to write for, and a main WalkerBaron long fic I’m working on.

Planning to explore other small AUs.

As always if you have any ideas feel free to send me!

Me just looking at all the posts that are going ‘WHERE ARE THE FANFICS???? I want to read the fics ’

And just sobbing because I’m writing a long ass fic that I can’t upload anywhere because the ship is just too illicit

First chapter of my Shang Chi/Wenwu fic is on AO3.

Uhhhhhhh if you ship, check it out.

If you don’t, don’t come for me.

Oh boy it’s a slow burn and it’s gonna be a long one.

Bro…… you are me……. I am you…….

Am I the only one who usually is only capable of shipping one person for one fandom, although I may like a lot of the other characters very much?

* By “shipping” here I mean actively spending time searching gay ships centered around that character and reading fanfics.

(I’m only talking about myself, who’s incapable of shipping heterosexual couples)

For the MCU, although I love most of the heros and villains and even, uh, just normal citizens, I’ve been only interested in Bucky centered ships.

That being said, now here comes the first exception: now I just desperately need some Wenwu gay ships……