First Chapter Of My Shang Chi/Wenwu Fic Is On AO3.

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.

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

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.

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.

Damnnnnnn, tony, stooooooop

You’re gonna make me catch feelings

Tony Leung photographed by Isaac Lam for GQ, August 2021.

THE FINAL PART (Part 3) OF MY WALKERBARON ROADTRIP SERIES WILL BE OUT TOMORROW

ITS THE SADDEST INSTALLMENT YET

STAY TUNED FOR HURT PEOPLE HURTING EACH OTHER

The next one will have a LOTTTTT of disclaimers and warnings so uhhh watch out

@nervous-disaster I hope you enjoy! Thanks for bringing the hype to my writing! ❤️🍀🍀🍀

Simu Liu I need an explanation

(translation on right: my dad is more handsome than your dad)

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.

Bro this needs more attention, SO CUTE