Lmao I Was Laughing Nervously In The Theatre Because I Was Like- Guys, That Was A CHOICE 👁👁

I suddenly just did a double take and reconsidered my life choices. Why do I even ship John walker and Zemo? They’ve only interacted once, and here I am thinking they’d be perfectly, perversely compatible, enough to write a fic about it.

What the fuck-

Actually, this reminds me of something my sis once told me:

“You ship a bad person with another bad person because then they can hurt each other.”

And I think that’s so true for this case. I mean, mutually assured destruction is pretty hot, amirite? I think John would pretty much wreck Zemo (and in more ways than one 😜), make him question everything he’s ever known about his own morals and ideals. And Zemo would of course return that favour twofold. The push and pull between them would really be interesting, truly an unstoppable force meets immovable object.

Plus, there’s a heavy dose of sin there as well. John has a wife (oh sweet jesus no), Zemo had a wife, and it would be amusing to see them try and justify their own attraction towards each other.

Then there’s the concept of moving on, avenging, both of them trying to find their own goals in life and realizing that their paths inexplicably cross along the way.

If I ever do get my fic out one day I hope it’s a gateway drug for future WalkerBaron shippers...

Also my blog might turn nsfw real quick real soon 🥴cos oooooooh baby you know I’m like a man slugging thru the desert and daniel is my fountain

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.

I ship WalkerBaron so hard it’s not even funny. I don’t even know why or how. Some part of me started headcanoning how they’d work together in Thunderbolts and it was all a spiral after that.

Someone save me from this fresh hell

😭🤧🤡

Agree completely.

Read the whole thing please.

I'm a say this one time but Wen-wu is a nasty assed butt. (this isn't hate on the actor, I love him)

I don't care how pretty he is or how much pain he is in bc he lost his wife. His kids lost their mom, they didn't go assassin. He should have been their for them. there is never an excuse for abusing your kids.

Example: Hank Pym(mcu) was not right but he wasn't completely horrible. it was the wrong thing to do but he was depressed. But HE didn't (a) physically and mentally abuse his kids (b) train them to be an assassin or (c) blame them

He deserves crap in my eyes. You can't watch a 7 year old punch wood until his hands bleed and think huh his dad's not at fault for basically encouraging this. Ok, but he healed his hands! uwu good dad! He watched as his kid was hit severely, not saying a word, and encouraging it in the name of strength. he watched and did nothing as his kid was whipped for hesitanting to kick wood with a hurt foot. He trained a 7 year old to kill. So many things are wrong with it. He sent a 14 year old to kill a man half way across the world. he neglected his daughter and was just a butt to her. he throws his son down to the stone ground for objecting to what he says, and throws his daughter down for trying to stop her brothers abuse.

and in case someone cries racist please let me inform you that I am currently in a both Asian and abusive household. So if you disagree with this. Block me. and dm me so I can block you back. I don't give a fish fried fuck about the actors face. This forgiving abusers is teaching kids that it's alright, it's normal, your abuser is in pain, they didn't mean it. You missed half the movie if you thirst over him or say he deserves a happy ending for being civil for 5 seconds to his kids. and if you use this as a way to hate on Asians I will fill you liver with uncooked spaghetti. This is the first Asian lead movie you better 👏step 👏it 👏up. You want to do better? reblog this, say it in your own words, hell I don't even care if you copy and paste this and claim its yours. I'm sick and tired of this fandom being like this. Do. Better.

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.

Interviewing Helmut Zemo, Prince of Sokovia

Written under the discord prompt: bird, peach, leave 🍑🦅🏃‍♂️

I had the great honour of interviewing - no, even being in the presence of Sokovia's Prince. He is rather fondly addressed as the Boy King by his fellow attendants, and Teufelchen (Little Devil) by his playmates.

There is not one person in America who has not heard about the great nation of Sokovia. The mammoth cereal brand Sok-Oats comes to mind, as well as Washington DC's obsessive mania over the gigantic feathery dreamcatchers that are infrequently gifted to them as a show of solidarity. I myself have one hung over the bed as a mantlepiece. However, this is not all.

Rather interestingly, Sokovia is one of the two remaining nations with a population of over 80% winged-folk. The other is a small island a few miles off to the north of Ireland, Jarthun Landon. Its size comparable to the Vatican City - the size of a pea compared to the likes of the USA.

Sokovia is a different story. Though less industrially developed than the USSR in 1917, it still resisted both the alluring grip of Communism and our very own Marshall Plan in the aftermath of the cold war, a near impossible undertaking. What resulted was a country ruled under a rather democratic-leaning monarchy (not nearly as tyrannical as old British imperialism).

Wilhelmina Zemo was a Queen who carved her name onto to the wall of fame in history, lying beside the likes of Germany's Otto von Bismarck, China's Sun Yat-Sen, and Britain's Winston Churchill. After taking the throne of Sokovia, she sent the country into a transition into statecraft (ie. strategies for securing national interest in the international arena). In eight years, she had built up a missile defence system modelled after Israel's Iron Dome.

However, the world was encountering another change. With a slippery launch into the 21st century, wings were starting to be seen as clunky, primitive contraptions rather than the sky-soaring, apex-predator tools as they once was. What was once regarded as a second limb for us had now become a burdensome weight, lead weights rather than a propellor. To quote the infamous poet Allen Duten, "Wings are the tools of destruction, of anarchy. They are unnatural. They represent elitism, classism, every antithesis to meritocracy. Would we turn those with chicken wings into poultry? Would we give a gun to every eagle-winged and tell them- 'off you go, this is what you were born for'?" Mr Duten's concerns were understandable, given that he himself had been born with the wings of a dodo bird.

Eons ago a kilometer square of air space could safely hold no more than twenty free-flying avian-folk. Now, it can hold three planes, and one plane can hold three hundred.

Additionally, after WW2's atrocities with Nazi Germany, it was understandable that eagle wings fell out of style as fast as the toothbrush moustache.

Wilhelmina's son, Heinrich, anticipated this change and prepared Sokovia for a long hibernation of isolationism. The monarchy was determined to preserve the avian-folk. While the rest of their world's wings grew small and brittle and shrank (suffering a fate similar to the tailbone), citizens of Sokovia preserved their original lifestyle and never underwent a similar change.

Currently, this country the size of Singapore, faces a slow population decline. Today, I will dive deep into the heart of Sokovia and figure out some of the most controversial questions involving this nation.

Heinrich's son, the sixteen year-old Helmut Zemo (aptly named after his grandmother - both their names translate roughly to helm or protection in Germanic) has reached out to me to hopefully answer some of those questions.

--------

As soon as arrive at Sokovia, I was escorted in a black military truck to the palace. Sokovia forbids all filming, so unfortunately no footage was captured.

A young man greets me. From the photos, I already knew what to expect - yet he still took me by surprise. He had no suit nor tie nor fur collar coat, nothing but a wide-brimmed hat and liquorice curls of amber-brown hair below that. Yet this young man had all the makings of a young royal - his eyes were nearly black in their intensity, and the catlike curl of his lips graced him with an enigmatic, inscrutable air. He gazes at me like observing an exotic creature, then steps to the side to converse with the guards in hushed whispers and minute gestures.

Of course the second thing I noticed about him were his wings. The Sokovian aristocracy was a long line of Eurasian magpies. And before this, I had never known that a magpie's feathers had that iridescent shimmer, now magnified to match the scale of a young adult, which shifted from purple to green to blue with every rustle and twitch. A joyful fluttering of the wings by the young prince revealed a stark white underside.

"Come with me," he says, and walks into the shade of the palace gardens, his feathers fading in their colour, a layer of vibrating black oil spilling over his shoulders and down to the back of his calves. It is times like this that I wonder whether we as a species were rather foolish to lose these magnificent gifts of nature.

"Did you enjoy the journey here?" The young prince asks me. His voice is clear and sweet, with the compelling style that is distinctively crafted for nobles and royalty. Faced with this gentle question, I felt a sudden urge to both reassure and impress him.

"I thoroughly did. Sokovia is even more beautiful than the pictures," I added, feeling rather pleased with my lie.

Much to my surprise, the young prince let out a silvery peal of laughter. "Nonsense. As soon as you came out of the airport, we stuffed you into a windowless shuttle bus for three hours. You must be tired."

He left me in the dust, completely bewildered. This was not the innocent cherub of a young prince that our media depicted him as.

"You're different from what the papers depicted," I told him dryly, feeling very foolish from stumbling into his trap.

The little prince slowed his pace and narrowed his eyes (although I spied a dangerous little smirk dancing on his lips). "Well, you're here to set the lies straight, aren't you?"

It was at this moment that the nickname Teufelchen started to make sense to me.

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

To the person who was once called @niki-fucking-lauda, even though your account is deactivated now, I’m happy for you and I hope you’re in a better place off tumblr.

If you still happen to see this, all the best and good luck.

🍀