#carl zemo

[ricas-baron]

Another what if because I love it 👀. I had to see this to ease my mind. But when I counted how long Helmut had not seen his family, I had tears in my eyes. Zemo lost his family in 2015 and TFATWS took place in 2024.

Time: 9 hours of work 🫠

[iobsessoverfictionalmen]

Hunting Roses - Chapter 6

AN: This is a yandere Zemo fic. That means that it will have dark content. I do not endorse these relationships and behaviour in real life. This chapter contains drugs and non-consensual drugging and canon typical attitudes and behaviours for the X men universe when it comes to mutants.

Translations:

“Нет. Вам не нужно входить.” - “No. You don't have to come in.”

“ты не тот, кого он хочет.” - “You are not who he wants.”

The past few hours had passed in a blur for Natasha.  She had half expected Zemo to board a plane with Oeznik and Carl and leave her alone in America to lament her failure to ensure Carl’s safety like she had vowed to Heike.

Instead, she found herself in the back of a car driven by Oeznik with the stoic man not engaging her in any conversation whatsoever.  Not that she had expected him to chat with her the second she was alone with him.  Zemo followed closely behind Oeznik in a car with Carl.

It seemed every time that she thought about escaping the car that she was in, Oeznik would glance at her in the rearview mirror and shake his head with a small smile on his lips.  Natasha heaved a sigh the second time this happened and slouched down in her seat.

They arrived at their destination shortly after and Zemo looked every part the devoted father as he carried a tired Carl through the elegant doorway.  Oeznik climbed out of the car and gestured for Natasha to do the same.  Unwillingly, she obeyed the unspoken command.

She stepped forward and with surprising agility, Oeznik moved in front of her and blocked her way.

“Нет. Вам не нужно входить.”

“Why?” Natasha demanded in English.

“ты не тот, кого он хочет.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Natasha fired back, annoyed that he was choosing to speak to her in Russian.  Not only did it remind her of a past she had been trying to move on from but it also demonstrated that Oeznik and Zemo had done their research when it came to the Avengers.  The two men had to have known that speaking Russian was something Natasha only did with people she trusted deeply.

As Natasha came to that realisation, it dawned on her that the two men must have done their research on you as well.

“That means that they would know how you reacted to the Mutant Registration Act all those years ago.”  Natasha thought.

And then a worse thought struck Natasha.

“What if Zemo is the force behind the Sokovian Accords?  He clearly has the wealth and power to influence people like General Ross and his home country of Sokovia was devastated by the battle with Ultron’s forces.  That would tie in with what Heike and Heinrich discussed when they came to the compound to talk with us.”

Natasha half expected Oeznik to say something else but the man remained silent. 

“Perhaps he thinks he’s given away too much information?”  Natasha thought hopefully.

Her hopes were dashed when Oeznik returned to her side as the elegant doors opened and Zemo strode out of them.

“I apologise for the delay, old friend,” Zemo addressed Oeznik as if Natasha wasn’t there.  “I needed to ensure that I had everything ready.”

Oeznik inclined his head and then looked towards Natasha. 

Dread filled Natasha as she noticed the movement.

“It’s not that he thinks he’s given away too much information but the fact that I won’t be able to remember it correctly!” Natasha amended her previous thought.

“Judging by your expression, you have come to the correct conclusion.  “You might want to ask your Captain about some of the things that HYDRA were planning in the 40s if you can remember to ask.”

“How long do I have?” Natasha asked fighting the feeling of helplessness that was now clawing at her insides.  This was bringing back memories of the Red Room.  She figured that it would be a waste of time to demand how he had dosed her.

Zemo tilted his head, “Not too long.”  He remarked mildly as if he were discussing the weather. 

Figuring that she didn’t really have anything to lose, Natasha addressed Zemo, “You are nothing more than a rat who plays at being a Baron!”

A look of fury overtook Oeznik’s features but Zemo merely looked amused.  “Do you really think it upsets me, calling me a rat?  I don’t mind it.  Rats are very intelligent and they have a strong survival instinct.  And I would argue that I am well suited to my role of Baron and am not as you say “playing” a role.  Now, you may want to get in the car before you lose consciousness.  I estimate that you have about a minute before that happens.  Oeznik will ensure that you reach the Avenger’s compound safely without my son and without any trace of the drug in your system.”

Natasha’s vision was starting to go grey around the edges and her legs were beginning to shake alarmingly.  Very unwillingly, she climbed back into the car and with fumbling fingers, she managed to click in her seatbelt on her fourth try before darkness overtook her.

[shesthejukeboxhero]

ELAYNA’S WRITE LIST:

MARVEL:

STEVE ROGERS

HELMUT ZEMO

KRASINSKI!REED RICHARDS

JACK THOMPSON

STRANGER THINGS:

BILLY HARGROVE

JASON CARVER

STEVE HARRINGTON

KNIVES OUT/GLASS ONION:

RANSOM DRYSDALE

MILES BRON

GREYS ANATOMY:

MARK SLOAN

TOM KORACICK

DIVERGENT:

ERIC COULTER

THE HUNGER GAMES:

FINNICK ODAIR

DAISY JONES AND THE SIX:

BILLY DUNNE

THE OFFICE:

JIM HALPERT

ROCK OF AGES:

STACEE JAXX

THE BOYS:

SOLDIER BOY

HOMELANDER

SHAMELESS:

CARL GALLAGHER

MORTAL KOMBAT:

JOHNNY CAGE (MK11 both versions & MK1)

KURTIS STRYKER

**ALL WORKS ARE X FEM OR X GN READER**

**MOSTLY ONESHOTS, WILL BE INDICATED IF A SERIES**

[lettalady]

The Long Journey Home: Ghosts in the Mirror

My name is Carl Heinrich Rodavan Zemo. I am my father’s son, and I am not dead. My father never came, like I swore he would. I screamed, cried, shouted at my captors with all the might, all the self assurance I’d learned at his feet. I told them: my father would find me and teach them all a lesson.

But he never came.

[ find the story on AO3 ]

[twwcs]

i was thinking if there would be a chance where zemo got to visit his past self which marvel dont need a big budget on cgi, just give that man a razor blade and that's it, baby zemo

[elgaberino-mcoc]

New official video from Marvel Contest of Champions showcases the animations and special attacks of January’s new-release champs: Baron Zemo and Absorbing Man!

[sicko4smut]

Masterlist

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. @smutmaniac -main blog

Marvel

✰ Baron Zemo ✰ Sam Wilson ✰ Bucky Barnes ✰ Steve Rogers ✰ Bruce Banner ✰ Peter Parker ✰ Wanda Maximoff ✰ Vision ✰

Stranger Things

✰ Eddie Munson ✰ Steve Harrington ✰ Jonathan Byers ✰ Robin Buckely ✰

TLOU

✰ Joel Miller ✰ Tommy Miller ✰ Ellie Williams ✰

Harry Potter

✰ Neville Longbottom ✰ Luna Lovegood ✰ Ron Weasley ✰ George Weasley ✰ Hermoine Granger ✰ Severus Snape ✰ Sirius Black ✰ Remus Lupin ✰ Bill Weasley ✰

X-men

✰ Peter Maximoff ✰ Kurt Wagner ✰ Storm ✰ James/Logan Howlett ✰ Scott Summers (older) ✰ Alex Summers ✰ Hank Mccoy ✰ Sean Cassidy ✰ Jean Grey ✰ Rouge ✰ Mystique/Raven ✰

Gotham/Batman

✰ Bruce Wayne ✰ Edward Nashton ✰ Jervis Tetch ✰ Jerome Valeska ✰ Selina Kyle (Gotham) ✰ Ed Nygma (pre-riddler) ✰ Tabitha Galavan ✰ Victor Zsasz ✰ Jonathan Crane ✰

Peaky Blinders

✰ Arthur Shelby ✰ Alfie Solomon✰

Maze Runner

✰ Newt ✰ Thomas ✰ Minho ✰

AHS

✰ Tate Langdon ✰ Vivien Harmon ✰ Violet Harmon ✰

Twilight

✰ Edward Cullen ✰ Alice Cullen ✰ Bella Swan ✰ Jasper Hale ✰ Charlie Swan ✰ Sam Uley ✰ Seth Clearwater ✰

The 100

✰ John Murphy ✰ Finn Collins ✰ Monty Green ✰ Jasper Jordan ✰

TWD

✰ Daryl Dixion ✰ Rick Grimes ✰ Negan ✰ Michonne ✰ Carl Grimes ✰ Glenn Rhee ✰ Laura ✰ Ron Anderson ✰ Maggie Greene ✰

Miscellaneous

✰ Xavier Thorpe ✰ Tyler Galpin ✰ Bill S. Preston, Esq. ✰ Ted 'Theodore' Logan ✰ John Wick ✰ Charlie walker ✰ Ben Solo ✰ Finn (star wars) ✰ Poe Dameron ✰ Maurizio Gucci (h.o.g) ✰ Johnny Knoxville ✰ Luke Castellan ✰

LET ME KNOW WHAT CHARACTERS, YOU WANT ME TO WRITE FOR IN MY INBOX

[therenlover]

Slain (Vampire Hunter!Helmut Zemo/Vampire!Reader)

Chapter One: No Compasses, No Signs

Synopsis: The world undergoes change. Helmut Zemo finds new residence and perspective on his journey for revenge.

Tags: Vampire!AU, Vampire Hunter!Helmut Zemo, Slow Burn, Blood Drinking, Manipulation, Everyone Is Morally Grey, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers

Rating: E (+18) For Later Chapters, Minors DNI

Warnings: Mild Gore, Minor Mentions of Child Death

Word Count: 9,900~

--------------

Her lips were a breath away from his neck, fangs bared, when his weapon found purchase in her heart. She settled there a while, leaning closer into him and the great bolt of wood that sat between them. He stilled as she did. 

One last shuddering breath escaped her lips. “Thank you, Helmut,” It was more than that, though. A confession of love hid itself within her words.

Helmut grimaced. Not this. Not now. 

Before there was even a moment to reconsider, he wrenched the stake free and brought it down again, and again, and again, and again… Better to make sure the job gets done than leave her to suffer. 

He walked from that room into the daylight an untethered man. The hunt was just beginning, though.

Every inch of the floor sat soaked red in his wake. 

———

Sokovia was always most beautiful in the autumn. 

It was a timeless place, or at least that’s what all the brochures had said. After spending the morning exploring old-growth forests or quaint villages, a three-hour car ride could take you straight into the city, filled with modern Sokovian culture and art. The capital city of Novi Grad was bursting at the seams with theaters, galleries, museums, historical districts, and Michelin-rated restaurants serving farm-to-table cuisine: anything you craved on an international vacation, you could find it there. Students the world over chose the Sokovian National University over all others across Europe and the globe for its arts department. People thrived there. 

At least they had. 

Now the theaters that still stood sat empty, never to play another film or host another symphony. Museums were looted, restaurants burned, and the university, with a campus several hundred years old, turned to dust as Novi Grad disappeared off the map forever. The bricks that had once built a nation came crumbling down in one final, fatal blow. In the span of one night, the history of the whole country was lost forever. 

Some things still remained, though; things older than even Sokovia had been.

Helmut Zemo just had to find them. 

There was no map to follow towards his prize. There had been once, an ancient thing that sat rolled up tight in a glass case on his father’s desk for all his life. It had been there, untouched, in every memory Helmut had of that office. He imagined his father and grandfather had similar memories there, looking up at the very same desk and pondering the stiff, crumbling parchment above. Not anymore, though. There would be no more young Zemos to gaze up at that sturdy oak desk. It had been found crushed beneath the rubble of their ancestral home. 

In fact, there wouldn’t be any more young Zemos at all. 

Carl had been found crushed in that rubble too. 

It was better that way. He had met a nobler fate than most Sokovian citizens had. Still…

Sometimes it was better not to dwell on things like that. 

Helmut’s father hadn’t had much time to teach him the ways of the family before his passing, but some things came with time and the rest could be gleaned from superstition.

Silver, for example, was plentiful across their vast collection of heirlooms. Those trinkets had become incredibly useful to melt down for bullets and crossbow bolts when he started to hunt. Much more helpful, though, was the fact that the furniture in their homes was often made of fine wood, and some of those handcrafted bedposts and coat racks, when twisted just so and pulled at the socket, would reveal a perfectly sharpened end hidden within. 

Those stakes had come in handy.  

And even if there hadn’t been any childhood lessons on how to slaughter a creature soundlessly in the darkness of the night, Helmut had learned plenty about that in the Sokovian special forces.

After months of little revelations, his preparations were long past done. Now the only thing left to do was follow his father’s footsteps. 

Surviving the journey was a secondary priority. 

Helmut didn’t need his family’s map to know exactly where to seek the first of his quarries. He had heard tales of her for his whole life in nursery rhymes and whispered childhood stories. 

Women, children, and wandering folk with pure hearts couldn’t be led astray, but if a man  with a guilty mind followed the Behnit River, he might just get lost. Thankfully, Helmut had that part covered. Once lost, the poor soul would trek through the winding Sokovian mountain passes, traveling far beyond the shadow of Mount Wundagore until he came across a forest of fog. If the man wandered the forest long enough, evading the great beasts that lurked there, he would find the castle of the Grey Lady. 

Anyone foolish enough to seek her there would see the face of death. 

Now, Helmut Zemo was not afraid of death. He had been intimately acquainted with it from birth as had twelve generations before him. Ever since his father’s head arrived home on the morning of his eighteenth birthday, shipped neatly in an ice-packed crate and wrapped with a red ribbon, the abyss was attached to him like a lover. Not even his wife or child could escape that cruel mistress’s clutches. Without anything left to lose, Helmut found himself in only death’s company. 

Even now, as he wandered the abandoned villages and barren fields of the country he once called home in search of the Grey Lady, he spent his time slaughtering the last stragglers of Ultron’s army and putting any live victims out of their misery before they turned. Neither tended to last long once they were starved, but a few stubborn bastards held on. He liked to think of it as a mercy when he drove his stake through their skulls. 

Death walked beside him like a friend, and Helmut didn’t fear his friends. 

They feared him. 

That suited him just fine. 

To be fair, not everything was bad here. The Behnit flowed through fields of flowers and fruiting trees where all manner of soft, warm, innocent creatures slept, untouched by the horrors of modern civilization. Helmut slept among them unnoticed. He sustained himself off of their sacrificial charity. 

Another silver lining: the longer he traveled along the riverbank the less it seemed to rain, which was appreciated. His coat kept him warm and the stars kept him company. The autumn leaves seemed just as beautiful as they were advertised to be in the travel brochures he used to wipe his ass on the trail. 

He had pitched his tent for the night in a cluster of boulders by the pebbled shore. The greatest of the stones were still jagged from where a slowly dying glacier rended the earth and left a river its wake. Still, they were softened somewhat by moss and time. 

When Helmut woke that morning, emerging from the boulder’s shadows, the once open field that had surrounded the river the night before had been replaced with more trees than could be counted. Thick morning fog rolled in from the water’s edge. Visibility was at almost zero. There were just trees and trees and trees and nothing.

It was exactly as he thought it would be. 

So he packed up his tent, tucked it away in his bag, and freed his wicked, silver blade from its holster- another heirloom coming in handy. Its weight rested naturally in his hand. Then, he walked on. 

Thus began the first leg of Helmut Zemo’s journey towards revenge.

———

Black blood splattered against the cobbles as my ringed fingers slammed into the younger man’s cheekbone again. 

It pooled in the stones’ creases; a thick, stinking ichor that clung to my jewelry and my skin as it continued to dribble down from his face and body. I couldn’t help but lick a stray droplet from my lips. 

He wasn’t quite broken yet. It wouldn’t take much longer, though. My hunger could wait until then. 

The pathetic creature stood his ground in the corner of the darkened stable as his eyes darted about to search for an escape route. 

There were none. I had made sure of that. There was only me and the sturdy walls behind him. Nowhere to go but down. 

As expected, he sunk to his knees after just one more sharp hit to the cheek. 

I allowed my hand to linger for a moment. It may have been cruel, but I didn’t care to think too much about it. “Are you ready to tell me now?” 

His red eyes glinted with tears. Slowly, he nodded. 

“What is your name,” I asked. 

“Pietro,” 

“Pietro,” I repeated the word on my ancient tongue, feeling each syllable roll over the muscle. A strong name. Sokovian. I brought myself down to his level, resting on the balls of my feet before him. My fingers danced along his skin. “How did you receive the gift?” 

“Please, I don’t kn-” 

His voice shuddered and stalled as one of my pointed nails slowly began to dig into the cold meat of his cheek and more sticky blackness coated my fingers. 

I smiled right through it despite the growing unease in my stomach. Maybe a gentle hand would be more helpful…

“You do know, Pietro, even if you don’t think you do. Don’t you want to tell me? To get this over with?” My voice was sickly sweet. The dank stall, once reeking of stale piss and rot, began to match my cloying tone. The air grew thick with a dizzying perfume and Pietro’s stiff posture softened at the first breath of it. All at once his eyes swam with not fear, but relief. He wanted to make me happy now. Nothing would make him feel better than following my command. It almost made me want to vomit more, if I were capable of it. 

The words came soft and dreamlike from his trembling mouth. “Novi Grad, at the university. My friend was a student. We were walking back from the bars to meet my sister and a man was waiting in the alley… oh god. No.” Pietro shook his head. His pulse began to speed. “I ate him. I ate Paul. The man attacked us and Paul tried to run and I- I ate him!”

His story was sad but unhelpful. 

My voice stayed even despite his hyperventilation. It was best to keep him calm for both our sakes. “Who changed you, Pietro? Who was that man?” 

The air grew heavy around us both, blanketing him in warmth and pleasant feelings from all sides. It was calm. It was safe. It was all a deception. 

Pietro leaned into my touch like a young, blind animal searching for his mother and I hated to admit it stirred something more in me than nausea. Whatever it had awoken, and I didn’t care to find out, it was bringing out my mercy. Death no longer waited for him at the first wrong move. I sat quietly at his side, smearing dark blood across his hair as I stroked it without meaning to; a small comfort. Absent tears dripped from his empty eyes. 

After a long while, Pietro decided he was ready to speak again. 

“He said he was a friend of Stark… that he would change the world,”

My voice came in a low sigh. “Starks always think they will,” 

I had known. Even if I hadn’t been absolutely certain, it was hard to ignore the sinking feeling his scent brought on. If I wasn’t in so much denial I could have guessed as much the second even a drop of Pietro’s blood hit my lips. He was of my own flesh in a way, however diluted by distance and time. I had tasted it in him. There was a flavor only attributable to myself under his chemical bitterness and the musk of wet dog. 

Slowly, I let my hand slip away from his face and stood, kicking at a pile of rotting straw on my way up. 

Pietro drooped further into the corner. His sandy hair covered enough of his face that I couldn’t tell if he was still crying or not. “I was just so hungry,” he breathed, “I couldn’t even think, I just kept eating them. All of them. Anyone I could catch. I was just… so hungry,” 

“Are you still hungry,” I asked. 

The stable went silent. 

He nodded. “I’m starving,” 

It was a huge risk, and a stupid one too. I hadn’t taken on a familiar since the 1800’s. It had been much longer than that since I’d created a thrall or spawn, and this… this was much more complex in new and different ways. He was not mine, even if he shared traces of my disease in his blood. Whatever hybrid monstrosity he was—I was almost certain he contained something other than the vampiric curse I bore—it meant he could not be controlled by force as a young spawn could. Pietro would instead need to be tamed to be trusted, much like the legacies of wolves that dwelled alongside me in my woods. 

Pietro didn’t look particularly defiant, though. Keeping him leashed to my side couldn’t be that difficult. Besides, the idea of having some company wasn’t a completely unpleasant thought. 

In fact, I rather liked it. 

I approached him again like I would have approached a wounded animal, undoing button after button on the sleeve of my coat and exposing the smooth flesh of my forearm. It was an offering. An olive branch. He swallowed hard. 

“I will not give you this gift lightly Pietro but I am in a particularly giving mood. You only need to answer one more question, and this can all be over. Do you wish to pay penance for your hunger? Or do you wish to die?” 

His body trembled as the pungent reek of fear took over the room once again. My glamour had worn off well before. It was only fair to let him make this choice with all of his mind in his own hands. “What are you doing?” He asked. His accent trembled on every syllable. 

“I’m offering you a choice,” I replied. “You weren’t given the luxury of choosing what you have become, but now you can choose what you do with it. We’re similar, you and I. We’ve made mistakes. I know from firsthand experience that one needs to learn to control this curse or die before it kills them in the ways that matter, and you don’t look dead to me. At least, not yet. So what would you prefer, Pietro? How does this end?” 

Pietro gulped. His shaking hands were fisted in the soft cotton of his dirty AC/DC t-shirt. “I don’t want to die,”

My face relaxed into a soft smile. That would do just fine. 

“Then drink,”

He attacked my wrist like a mad dog. It didn’t even feel like a pinch as his teeth ripped into my skin. 

Cool, red blood flooded his mouth in an unholy communion, and, in that moment, I could have been his god. 

Pietro ate like an animal. 

It was clear that nobody had guided him when he was created. No one had sat at his side as he fed for the first time, showing him just where to put his teeth or how to keep things from getting messy. Of course he’d had to kill to eat. There were no lessons on where the major veins and arteries lay: which ones were deadly, which could be pierced and healed, how to heal them… It was a damn shame. He could have been so much more than an animal. 

Now, blood splashed wildly from his mouth as he tried to swallow as much as he could, ripping with his new, sharp molars to try to coax more viscera into his throat. I pitied his lack of understanding. He could barely feed himself, even off of my near-endless supply.

That being said, his desperation was almost cute. 

He drank his fill of me until his eyes glazed over. As a fed man, he was flushed with life again, breathing deeply and gaining color in his pallid complexion with every breath. From the looks of it, a few more hours without a meal would’ve killed him before I could. When he finally detached from my wrist there wasn’t a hint of guilt or shame or fear in his eyes. Instead, they reflected pure satiation into the darkness. His look promised gratitude. Servitude. 

I released a cold huff of breath into the air. “Full?” 

Pietro replied shortly, wiping his mouth with the butt of his palm. “Yeah, much better,” 

“Good,” 

His eyes darted to the wound he’d left. “Are you ok?” He asked. For all of his previous boldness, he now refused to meet my eyes. 

It didn’t matter much to me, but I shrugged, examining the previously mangled flesh. “No harm done.” 

Pietro gaped at the improvement. My skin was already knitting itself back together, though it was working a bit slower than usual. I needed to feed soon myself. 

Strong with a fresh supply, his pulse beat hard enough in his jugular that I could watch it pulse from half a meter away. More thoughts sparked behind my eyes. 

Well… it couldn’t hurt. 

I needed far less than he did to keep myself running. It would only take one bite. One big mouthful. One swallow. I had given him far more than that, so it shouldn’t leave him wanting in the least. 

“Would you do me a favor, Pietro?” Using his name was a manipulation. The air grew thick again with the scent of pear blossoms and juicy, dripping stone fruits. “The first step towards controlling your new form,” 

“Anything,” 

The graphic on his t-shirt was soaked with blood and bits of ripped vein.

“Give me your neck,” 

It wasn’t a question. Instead, I found myself demanding access to him. 

The worst part was he followed me blindly, even with his own understanding of what it meant to feed. Pietro tilted his chin to the sky as if he might begin to wail at the moon and waited. Not a muscle moved as he waited for brutality. 

I didn’t quite know what to do with him anymore. He was filled with too many unexpected surprises.

This man, barely more than a boy, was an abomination, a scientific marvel, living and dead all at once. He never should have been thrust into his creation, but abomination or not he would satiate the hunger that gnawed at every cell in my body better than any other source of blood at my disposal. His blood, however tainted, was warm beneath his skin. It called to me like the predator I was made to be. 

As I moved in for the bite, though, his eyes met mine again despite the obvious effort he was taking to close them and imagine he was anywhere else. I found a new terror overwhelming him there. Something even more ancient than I was sat deep in the dilated pits of his pupils, like a pig finally understanding his purpose as the axe began to drop. I had seen it more times than I wanted to count: The looks they gave when it was too late to squeal or run. Fear, understanding, and acceptance of the end. It was the place they went when there was nowhere left to go as they waited for the slaughter. I could stomach it in animals, a needed sacrifice to sustain myself, but to see it in the eyes of one so much like me, his eyelashes wet with blood and tears… I saw my own face looking back at me. 

Slowly, deliberately, I guided his head back to its front-facing position, patting his unscathed cheek with a cool but soft hand. “You passed the test, now go to the house. Find somewhere comfortable. I’ll meet you there,” 

I wasn’t that hungry anyways. 

Pietro sat still for a moment, eyes shifting warily from wall to wall, but as soon as he realized there were no more instructions to wait for he scrambled to his feet, bolting from the stables almost on his hands and knees until he managed to keep his balance. In a moment’s time, he was shoving his way out the door. Every few seconds, though, he would look back at me until he couldn’t manage to keep me in his sights. 

He still reeked of fear. 

Good. It was best for him to fear me. I would rather keep him in line with fear than with pain, and we weren’t here to make friends. Things would be better this way. 

Brushing wet straw from the thick leather of my day pants, I rose to follow, leaving the bloody stall behind me. I only paused long enough to spare a look towards the piles of rotting, ichorous bodies packed into the adjacent stalls from the months and weeks before. It would need to be dealt with eventually, but not tonight. I continued into the gloom, locking the door to the stables on my way out.  

There was more important work to do. 

———

Pietro adapted to my solitary life far better than I could’ve expected him to.

He mostly kept himself entertained, never lingering too long in my presence, not that he should want to. There was very little of mutual interest between the two of us anyway outside of mealtimes. Still, I kept a close eye on him, from a distance of course. 

The garden had become his main refuge, and that suited me just fine. It had gone neglected for a while anyway. Having a hobby would help him adapt to his new life more smoothly, and hey, a little uninformed TLC at his hands couldn’t possibly hurt the plants that had already survived generations' worth of being harvested but otherwise ignored. 

When he wasn’t scrounging around the loamy dirt, Pietro spent his days patrolling the grounds. He had probably seen more of the expansive property in the past weeks than I had in the past decade. It was a stark reminder of what a homebody I’d become in the past hundred years.

Every night, when the gardening and patrolling was done, he would trot back to his seat at the dinner table, right beside my own at the head, and share his informal report on the events of his day. Once it had been news of the wolves he’d befriended, then a broken fountain that needed repair, then a deer caught in a fence. I figured this was his way of earning his keep, even if I had never asked him to. I had barely done more than feed and house him since his arrival. No progress had been made on controlling his power. His proverbial leash grew longer each day I refused to put in the time (and effort) to discipline him. 

It would be so easy for him to slip away 

I had no more control over him than I did over the weather. If he truly wanted to, Pietro could have run off into the mist the second I let him out of that stable, escaping to whatever fate awaited him outside the bubble of my protection. There was no glamour, no psychic energy compelling him to stay. It would be as easy as him making the choice and enacting a plan. 

Still, he came back each night like a hound with a rabbit in his teeth, sometimes literally. We shared the details of his day over light, meaningless conversations each dinner time until he fed from my wrist once more and shuffled off to rest. 

Despite everything, the time I spent with Pietro in the evenings was the most fun I’d had in ages. 

Not that I’d ever admit that. There was still a certain air of decorum and fear-based respect that hung between the two of us and I refused to bridge the gap. He was my ward, after all. Or… manservant? No, he didn’t do enough around the interior of our home to warrant the title. Housemate indirectly threatened with death upon his departure? Whatever. The semantics of what he was to me were unimportant. What he wasn’t was a friend or equal. I lorded above him in every way: age, knowledge, sheer supernatural power. It wouldn’t do either of us any good to pretend we were closer than tentative acquaintances. 

That didn’t mean I couldn’t privately relish in the meals we shared, though, and the brief bits of humanity he coaxed out of me somehow with his presence. Our quiet companionship would perfectly toe the line to keep him respectful but less fearful. At least, I hoped so. 

It would be painfully miserable to be alone again now that I’d remembered what it was like not to be. 

My own days hadn’t changed much, with the exception of my evening meals. Dawn was spent in the animal pens. I fed and watered the pigs and chickens and lambs before taking their offerings: the sheep were sheared on seasonal rotation, the chickens laid in the mornings, and every once in a while, a pig would grow round and tired enough to be culled. Mostly I would toss anything slaughtered and drained to the wolves to keep them happy, but on occasion, I’d leave with a lamb of my own to quench my unending thirst. Not often these days. Instead, I supplemented my diet with wine in the hopes that, eventually, I could overcome my hunger entirely. It hadn’t happened yet. I hadn’t given up hope. 

Once the beasts were tended, the rest of the day was spent curled up in one nook or another attempting to pass the hours with whatever useless activity was available. If I stayed put too long, I had learned my flesh would begin to petrify, so I forced myself into monotonous, limited activities each day. Recently that meant embroidery, which made its way into the rotation once every few decades. Before that, I’d organized the library alphabetically by the author’s names (before it had been by book title), taken up oil painting until I ran out of paint, and spent a small stint attempting to design my own clothes for the hundredth time. It turned out as well as it always had. That was to say, every single design was awful and/or impossible to sew with the materials at my disposal. Even the garden Pietro loved so much had once been a time-sink to keep me from turning to stone. After almost a thousand years, though, nothing kept my attention long. 

Nothing new was left to discover here. On rare occasions, a new hobby would arrive on the body of an interloper, like the Game Boy with its drained batteries that sat next to my bed, but even those didn’t take long to break or lose their novelty. 

Besides, visitors had become a rarity as soon as cars and highways came into fashion. 

Who would spend their days wandering down old forest paths when they could take their new vehicle down a well-mapped road instead? It was quicker, cheaper, safer- and then came the airplanes and the busses and the high-speed rails. By my nine-hundred and eighty-seventh year of immortal life, I was lucky to get a lost hiker at my door once or twice a year that the wolves didn’t shred before I found them. 

Things changed for a bit after the world shook. Suddenly, it seemed as though there was a wave of new bodies wandering the wood every dusk and dawn. No companionship could be found with those maddened newborn creatures. They were like only one man-made monster I had ever witnessed, almost seventy-five years before, but they were mindless with the endless tug of their starvation, an unprecedented side effect of their disease. Always so hungry. Few retained any scraps of humanity by the time they made it to me, sunburnt and emaciated and so very confused. 

After a while, though, even they became rare. It was as if they had all been sent in a great burst before whatever event that bore them was over. The whole situation concerned me. I wondered if they weren’t coming to me anymore, where were they going? There must have been more of them than the ones who had come to my door. If this hadn’t been an attack on my home, organized to finally rid me of my life, why were they created? And if so many had made it as far as my castle, what had become of Sokovia? I feared I would never get an answer. 

Pietro was the last. 

I couldn’t have known it when I spared him, but no more followed in his footsteps. He himself had arrived almost a month after the young man who came before, and he had taken a few weeks to find me after the one before him. Then, after Pietro, there was nothing. If he hadn’t been spared, I would never have known of Ultron, or the children he sired to prove himself to Stark, or the bomb Stark had dropped to rid the world of the vampiric plague that would descend upon it.

Maybe it was the renewed scarcity that made me pause when I first saw him stumbling through the bushes. That split second of indecision before I gutted him on sight, was it curiosity or loneliness? Or was it luck? Whatever it was, and I didn’t care to dig too deeply into any of my feelings on the matter, I was glad for it. 

The pair of us kept each other company. Fog rolled in each morning and the moon glowed full each night and the world kept turning, but things were new now. The same china and linen and dining table I had stared at for hundreds of years seemed to have new detail in it every day. 

We had peace. 

Until the morning Pietro came wailing through the study doors with that mangled wolf in his arms. 

“There’s a man!” He gasped, blood running down his front and into the deep auburn of the rug at his feet. The poor thing was long dead. From a few feet away I could tell it had gone quickly to whatever had felled it. Even still, Pietro’s eyes were wild with something more than fear at the sight of the corpse’s state. “He-“ 

I cut him off, rising from my chair. “Where,” 

His eyes darted to the dripping gash in the wolf’s neck. 

“The front walk,” he said, “I didn’t see much of him, just a shadow, but he’s armed with something bad, something that felt wrong. There are more dead too, too many to carry, but I thought she might make it. I thought I could fix her,” Pietro was babbling now, talking faster than he could even rationally think. It was evident that he had never seen a slaughter like this. At least, he had never seen a slaughter like this without a driving bloodlust that would drown out every thought other than hunger. A slaughter that wasn’t his own to make. 

I crossed the room to him. “Watch the house,” 

“But-”

My eyebrow raised. I was chillingly calm, tutting at him softly. “Do you think I am incapable of defending my own home?”

“No, no, but he’s just… I… how can I help you?” 

Despite his fear, Pietro still so desperately wanted to do what was helpful. His moral compass was strong. I appreciated it. He was already making progress all on his own. I didn’t need him though, not for whatever awaited me in the woods. There were few people who had any knowledge of my location, and fewer still who would be able to enter and hold their own against my defenses. Knowing what I knew of Ultron, I was prepared for my feud with the Starks to come to an end. Besides, he would just be a liability, a clear weakness in my rock-solid strong persona. He was still too young. 

Teeth bared, I let out a soft growl. “Like I said, watch the house. That is how you can help me, just in case someone else attempts to enter while I’m distracted,” I gestured towards the door into the greater hall outside. “Eat, then keep watch. I would only judge you if you wasted her body. If I need you, I’ll whistle,” 

“How will I hear you from so far?” 

“I have my ways,” 

Without waiting for confirmation, I started my warpath towards the front of the house, leaving the sounds of sloppy tearing in my wake. 

———

As soon as I was out the doors I could feel him at the end of the walk, but it wasn’t until he had broken the tree line, several hundred yards away, that he noticed me waiting for him. 

Not a word was exchanged. That blurry body on the horizon shifted, reached back, postured, and- snap.

One soaring arrow cut through the air and found its target in my chest. 

He wanted violence? I would give him violence. It had been so long since I had someone to toy with, someone who had the capability to even try to resist the toolbox of horrors that my nature had lent me. I grinned. This was a game, and I was a sore loser when my life laid on the line.

Time turned to mist in my grasp. 

All at once, I was acutely aware of the bolt that had shredded through the shoulder of my coat. It stayed embedded there, the tip jutting out just below my shoulder blade, but the shaft sat too high, missing my heart by a significant margin. Stoney flesh burned all the way through the wound. When I tried to send a tendril of energy through the tunneled muscle, it fizzled out and died. 

The damn tip was silvered. 

This was a clever one; more than just another mindless, bloodthirsty drone in search of a throat to rip. This man had knowledge. He was a craftsman. A hunter. 

My revenge awaited. 

With a speed that defied the laws of the natural world, I greeted my opponent. 

I moved with the wind. Every molecule of my body sang as I pulled them apart and brought them together at will, drifting over his shoulder in an amorphous cloud of smoke. Blood thrummed under his skin like thunder even if he could not actively comprehend my presence. 

He was mortal. 

I could feel the loose amalgam that made up my mouth almost watering at the sheer feeling of a human pulse so close to me, however slowed in the wake of my speed. Every bit of him was lean muscle, too, wrapped up in leather and military-issue kevlar. It would rip like butter under my predator’s teeth. He didn’t know that, though. In his mind, he was blissfully protected from the things that went bump in the night. 

A quick scan with the looser edges of my cloudy form revealed that, despite his silver weapons, he wore none of the metal on his person. 

This man may have been a hunter, but he was also a fool. He wasn’t a Stark, either. No, he smelled wrong, not a note of wolfish musk surrounded him besides the stench of dead dog in his wake. A wild card, then. Or something I couldn’t quite recognize without my nose all put together. 

Plum, perhaps. 

A sword, silvered like his crossbow bolts, was strapped high on his hip, but it didn’t take much maneuvering to undo the clip and send the blade clattering to the ground. Next came the crossbow itself. Taking something from the man’s hands was a little trickier, but nothing was beyond my grasp, especially when I unleashed this power. Usually, it was kept close to my chest. It was a secret truth I couldn’t even burden myself to recognize. I was ancient. I was so much more than any living soul could be forced to comprehend, I was-

The seal on the crossbow caught my eye. A badger posed regal, gnawing on the snake in its dripping teeth. My snake. Their crest. 

Oh. 

Oh.

The game had just become so much more fun. 

I felt the air, bringing my nose together enough to sniff at it. I had to be certain. There could be no mistakes if it was who I knew it had to be. And it was: It was like a perfume I could never quite wash out, a song that always resided in the back of my head, as familiar as my own name after all of the years I had known it. Maybe, just maybe, I knew it better than my own scent. 

He was a Zemo. 

Twelve generations I had killed over that stupid attempt at a takeover to expand their barony. Twelve fathers of twelve sons, each more horrid and twisted than the last, had willingly walked into the lion’s den on the eve of their eldest son’s 18th year to fulfill their end of a bargain struck by the first of them all in the hope to spare their bloodline from total annihilation in my wake. One by one they sought me out of their own free will. Every time they believed they would improve on the failings of the last, finally besting me, but their pride was their fall. They were cocky and stupid enough to think they knew enough to defeat me. 

Every single son had died for their gall. 

They didn’t have to. If one had simply disobeyed or learned mercy, I would have let them go without a second thought. It wasn’t as if I could leave this forest to find them. Nothing compelled them besides their own hubris. 

And now, the thirteenth was there to take his place at the grave. 

This was wrong, though. An unshakeable feeling gripped my mind more than even my rage at the damned bloodline before me. Maybe not wrong, no, but not quite right either. He was far too young. 

It wasn’t as if he looked exceedingly youthful. The man’s eyes held a certain wisdom that only came with time. I was sure that, if I were capable of seeing my own reflection clearly, it would be a trait we shared. His face showed age too. A thick but well-trimmed beard decorated his cheeks and chin, obscuring the thin line of his scowl. I spent what felt like hours memorizing those features— searching for hidden signs of age, of course, or other features that might give away his weaknesses. 

The point wasn’t to admire him, though, or let his features become the focal point of my focus. This was not a man who had raised a man.

He had simply come too soon. 

There was no reasonable explanation I could find to explain him birthing a blood son who had reached the age threshold to fulfill our bargain. To take a father from his child… the thought haunted me. Even with the acrid stench of death and dog permeating my home from all sides, with the culprit all but waiting for release in my hands, I couldn’t do it. My standards remained. 

It just… wouldn’t do. 

I let loose my tight grip on time, letting each shred of my body come together into its correct place like the snap of a fresh rubber band. It was always dizzying to find time’s proper flow again but I leaned into the exhilaration of my physical form’s newness. My voice escaped my lips- at last, my real lips. It was a bone-chilling whisper. To him, I seemed to appear at his back in an instant, traveling with the breeze that froze him. 

“Next time, son of Heinrich, you’ll have to aim better than that,” 

He went stiff at the feeling of my cold breath on his neck, like every hair on his body had stood at attention the second he became aware of my closeness. It was more than just a startle, though. That fear was genetic, bred into him by father and father and father before him. It was in every drop of blood that rushed to his face in my wake. He masked it as well as he could have. His expression remained schooled even as a freezing hand came up to brush against his neck. I knew better, though. I saw things humans could never dream of comprehending about each other. 

Minutiae. Breath and pulse and scent and temperature. Predator senses. 

“You were expecting me,” he said. It wasn’t a question. 

“And you weren’t expecting me,”

Zemo laughed, a bitter thing. “Perhaps not. None of the others have been quite so… fast,” 

I tossed his crossbow aside. It landed in the nearby brush and shattered as it slammed against the ground. My own strength was unknown to me. I could only pretend it had been intended. “Your father should have taught you better than this. This is a disappointment,” 

“He might have,” he said, “but he didn’t live long enough. So, I believe you are to blame for his inability to mentor me in the rules of your little game. 

My pulse raced even as my mind paused. His dark eyes took in the surroundings, surely searching for something to get him out of my grasp and back into the upper hand. Little did he know that uncertainly was creeping below my skin. 

Men. They were all the same. They lacked the sight. 

“You’re free to believe that if you choose,” I replied, “but eighteen years was plenty of time for the rest of them. If it was not enough for you, well, I can only call that greed. Of thirteen men, you are only the second to lose your weapon before even crossing my threshold. That and the fact that the first was not your father, it seems, means it is your father’s failing that he did not pass on the wisdom he had learned.” 

“How long did he last?” 

“He lasted more than six hours of combat before I gutted him. It’s a shame you couldn’t do the same. At this rate, you won’t survive the hour. What a bore,” Slowly, and without a wince despite the burning at my fingertips, I snapped off the end of the bolt in my shoulder and placed the silvered tip in my pocket, patting it softly through the fabric once it settled at the bottom. Extracting the rest of the solid metal rod was an easy feat from there. His eyes remained trained on me over his shoulder as it joined his bow on the ground. 

Zemo, to his credit, mastered his fear beautifully. 

His pulse had stabilized some, though its steady rhythm still rushed through my nostrils and into my dizzy mind like an intoxicating symphony. He was a cocktail of emotion inside his well-kept exterior. The scent of sudden horror was now morphing into surprise, perhaps even curiosity. His gaze only escaped mine to examine the blood dripping lazily from my shoulder to my feet.  

“Confused?” I taunted. 

He shook his head. “Not confused, no.” 

“Then what are you?”

I wanted to know him. I wanted to rip the deepest secrets of his mind from his chest and devour them. I wanted to taste it. It would be so much sweeter if I didn’t have to take it, though. If it were given freely. 

“Learning,” he replied. 

It was my turn to be unprepared. 

I stalked around him, coming to face him head-on, and he held my gaze again. His pulse stayed steady despite the fact that the space between us was near nonexistent, as if he thought of himself as a predator too, just like me. Still, those damn eyes examined me like some sort of experiment, not like prey. Questions sat unsaid between us in the fog. 

What makes you different? What makes you special? What makes you tick?

Stars above, he made it so easy. It was impossible to keep from smiling just a little at the absurdity of it all as he took in the sight of my neck and the puckered scars that littered it. This was nothing like my dinners with Pietro. This was dangerous. Almost fun. 

Everything I gave to him he shot right back at me in spades, almost as if he was toying with me too and deriving his own sick satisfaction from the electricity in the air. It reminded me a bit of the great bacchanals that had been thrown here in my youth, when the castle halls ran red with the blood of my victims, both unwitting and all too willing to die by my lips. I hadn’t been alone then. There were faces to entertain me around any corner. Even when the party ended and the bodies ran dry, my creator waited patiently for me in the bedroom as dawn broke each morning. It was horrifically, terribly, irredeemably fun. I wanted to forget it so badly that I almost had.

Now, though, the memories were fresh. 

How long had it been since I’d really spoken to someone without their fear leaking from every pore? Since there had been someone to laugh with? To bounce off? To feed from?

My throat twitched shamefully at the thought. 

Blood was a varied thing. No two feeds would ever taste exactly the same, even if they were almost interchangeably similar. Every emotion, every dietary choice, and every passing second spent aging would affect the profile as it hit my taste buds. Omnivorous or herbivorous animals tended to be brassy and harsh on the tongue, yet somehow watery. Overall, unfulfilling. Carnivores left me a bit more satisfied, but not much, and definitely not in terms of flavor. Other vampires were more substantial than animals, but bitter depending on their age. A young vampire tasted a bit like a berry that wasn’t quite ripe. 

Humans, though… humans were uniquely human. There were no words to describe it. Mortals could not comprehend the kind of sensations that fresh human blood would fill me with enough to create the vocabulary to depict it properly. Some were savory, some were sweet; some were stomach-churning and heavy and some lighter than water on the tongue. They were ephemeral. Unique. Devastatingly addictive. 

There was one unchanging fact about the taste of blood, though, that haunted my waking dreams on my worst nights. 

However disgusting they had been in life, every Zemo had been orgasmically delicious in death from the very first. 

I resisted the urge to unleash my glamour and drain him dry right there and then heroically. I was not that woman anymore. I had to promise myself that, at least, to keep it all reined in. The last human I’d fed from had been his father and before that his grandfather. It would do me no good to give in to my basest urges which I had fought so hard to suppress. He would die with honor and dignity when it was his time, and it wasn’t. 

Not yet.

So, instead of ripping his throat clean out, I dragged a nail down the column of Zemo’s neck, relishing in the gooseflesh that raised at my touch. 

“Do you always play with your food?” He asked. 

I shrugged, playing the persona he needed from me to keep his dignity. “Only with your family. It keeps me young,” 

And suddenly, that little playful light in him died. I didn’t quite know what had set him off, or how, but it was as if a switch had been flipped on his mood. 

“I would appreciate getting on with whatever this is, then, if you wouldn’t mind,” He hissed. Zemo took a sharp step forward, closing the space that lingered between us in one swift motion. My nail pressed dangerously close to his jugular. “I am not your toy, nor was my family. This little game you’ve played with us is finished. It’s long past time. No more sons,” his nose was almost brushing my own as he spoke. I could taste every lick of hate in his breath. “This ends here.”

Even now, at my mercy, he was spending his last moments protecting his son from meeting the same fate. Not even once had any of the other men who came before even mentioned them. Not even in passing. 

For a moment, I almost let him go. 

The first of the Zemos had deserved it. The second had almost deserved it more if such a thing were possible. The generations seemed to snowball through the decades like some sort of horrid disease. Each man had found their way through the warding around my forest, and that in and of itself was evidence of their crimes in my eyes. The weight of guilt in their hearts had guided them to me like the light of the north star. Once they’d arrived too, every man had only continued to prove themselves unworthy of life. Every time, I thought maybe I could impart a lesson. 

Twelve men had failed to understand their own failings, though, and until they did, I had doomed them to pay the same price, over and over, in an unrelenting loop of loss.

But I was so tired. 

So, so tired. 

Who could say if they’d ever learn? The blood I spilled might have taught them nothing at all, and it might never teach them. How many years would I spend alone, haunting the halls of an empty castle, waiting for them to learn? 

Always starving. 

Always hurting. 

Even the guilt was gone. It was just… 

Emptiness. 

Deep down, I had to wonder if I was really doing it to teach them a lesson, or if I was just glad to have a warm meal and a conversation these days. When had it started to become less about them than it was about me and my own feelings?

Thirteen men. An unlucky number, but a prophetic one. 

Maybe it was time to let go. 

I took a deep breath and crossed my arms, letting my hand slip away from Zemo’s neck. “I have to admit, son of Heinrich, it takes a lot of nerve to demand anything of me,” I sighed, reluctant, “I’m impressed,”

He quirked up an eyebrow. “This sounds like the beginning of another game, vampire,” 

“You might find out if you let me finish,” 

Zemo stayed silent. I could almost hear the whispers daring to escape him as he licked his lips. Around us, the fog sat heavy and thick. 

“As I was saying,” I cleared my throat and my stomach turned. When was the last time I’d been so nervous about something? When had I last felt anything at all? “You want to end the games? Fine. Lay this bare. Why are you here? Thirteenth son of Zemo, what brings you to me? Why risk your life, your youth, for this?”

I did not dare unleash my glamour to pry the truth out of him, nor did I need to. His words came easily from the very depths of his soul. 

“Revenge,” 

His eyes glossed over as he said the word. No longer was Zemo looking at me, though, even if his eyes were trained on my own. Instead, he was looking somewhere distant. A wrath that moments before had seemed so personally tailored against me and my existence now resided not within me, but far beyond me… Interesting 

I could work with that. 

The whole situation was incredibly delicate. One wrong move from me and he would be lunging for any remaining weapon in the vicinity. I walked the razor’s edge, the snake in Eden. But would he bite?                                                   

My voice came low like a prayer.

“Against who? Me?” 

“Against all of the monsters in this world,” Something akin to madness pushed through the man’s demeanor. It smelled inky and burnt on the skin: a human crematorium. Loss. “The things that roam and kill without a second thought, bloodsuckers like you who thrive off the deaths of those around them. Mostly, though,” Zemo grimaced, “I want to put a silver bullet between the eyes of Tony Stark and every monstrosity he’s ever created,”

Tony. He had a son. 

Despite the palpable tension in the air and the pang of shock that hit me at the mention of Howard’s offspring, the wrong Stark, I shrugged my shoulders, keeping up my unbothered persona as long as I possibly could. Anything to keep this moving forward. Anything to keep him talking and not attacking. Any excuse to keep him alive just a few minutes more. “You aren’t the first person to wish for a Stark’s demise,” 

He stilled. “Maybe, but I will be the last,” 

“What makes you so certain that you will succeed where even I have failed?” 

“He killed my wife and son,” 

After all the years I’d spent surviving off of the sacrifices of others, I had thought my heart was stone. That there was nothing left, just petrified muscle and dust. Somehow, though, I could feel it thump and ache for him. Ache for his wife, his child. All at once his early arrival made all the sense in the world. 

There would be no eighteenth birthday to wait for. 

No more sons, he’d said. Not now, not ever. 

My voice shook ever so slightly in the mist. “I’m sorry for your loss,” 

Zemo shook his head. Greasy, unkempt hair fell over his eyes, shading them, hiding them away from my prying gaze. “You say that now, and yet you were the one who killed my father,” 

Touche. 

Uncomfortable emptiness filled the air. Neither one of us made a move to continue the banter. 

It would be as easy as breathing for me to put him out of his misery. I could drink my fill of him and forget. After a few decades, my imagination would stop being haunted by the chubby cheeks of a boy who would never find a calling, fall in love, or have chubby-cheeked babies of his own. Zemo could have destroyed me too, in that moment, just as easily as I could have destroyed him. He couldn’t know it, but I would have let him. It would be as easy as lunging for his unbroken sword and ending it all. I wouldn’t dodge. I wouldn’t dare. Not when the guilt I had hidden away so well was finally rearing its ugly face.

This one felt different. He was like nothing I’d encountered in all of my long, miserable years of life. Maybe he was even more needed than Pietro had been. 

If I were to end my empty existence at his hand, I could die happily.

The idea came clear.

It had been foggy before, a half-assed imagining. I could overpower him, control his fragile mortal mind, and keep him tucked away somewhere where I could covet the feeling of his resistance against me, all to ease the endless, aching loneliness I still felt every day. He didn’t need to come willingly. Just like Pietro, I could break him to my will. If I could do it to another vampire, how hard could a stubborn mortal be? 

Now, though, I saw a different path through the darkness. It was a terrible idea. Self-destructive. Awful. 

The worst part? It might just work. 

“Howard Stark stole something from me too, once” 

Zemo scoffed in disgust. “Your wealth?” 

“No, my blood,”

My deepest secrets flew plainly from my lips like they were nothing more than facts. We lapsed into momentary silence once again. 

“So those creatures in the countryside…”

“Are a part of me, yes,” I mindlessly fiddled with the hem of my coat pocket, feeling the weight and heat of the silver within. “I have regretted trusting him every day for the last seventy-two years,” 

Zemo stepped back and I let go of the breath I’d been holding for what felt like decades. Finally, someone else knew. The jig was up. In its wake, he seemed pensive. Thoughtful. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but he seemed lonely too. 

This mess was my fault, that much was plain. I hadn’t set foot outside of this damned forest since 1943 and yet, somehow, the choices I had made back then had led to the destruction of my mother country. No amount of solitude could pay the penance I owed for the crimes I had committed now, no matter how desperately I had tried. 

The worst of it all was that so much was still unknown. If so many of those hybrid spawn had made it here to my home, how many more had ended up elsewhere? Was it just Sokovia that was overwhelmed by them? Who made it out? How many women and children had died at the hands of my own blood?

I rid my head of the poisonous memories as best as I could, shoving down the growing pool of guilt and regret that had been threatening to boil over for longer than I thought I could have swallowed. 

One thousand years of death was finally here for its vengeance, and it was fast approaching; finally catching up to me. It was poetic, though, for it to come from him. 

“I am willing to listen to your proposal,” Zemo said. “Let’s get on with it,” 

“Alright. I’m offering information about the Stark family; everything I know about their affliction, my affliction, their plans to use it, the weaknesses of the monsters that will stand in your way. Anything you want, anything I know from all of my years in this life, is yours for the taking,”

He replied plainly, eyes suspicious. “I won’t spare your life,”

“Did I ask you to?” I stepped towards him. We were nose to nose again. “You can’t kill me. It wouldn’t even take a second for me to snap your neck and leave you here to die in paralyzed agony—it would be so easy—but I’ve decided against it. I’ve already had my fun for far too long, so stay here and learn all you must know from me for as long as you’d like. If you ever manage to learn enough to kill me, we shall duel honorably as your forefathers did before you. Either you will die here a failure, or you will leave here with all of the information you need to become the deadliest hunter in history. Once that’s completed, your revenge will be all but guaranteed,” 

Ever the skeptic, he tilted his head to the side. “But what do you gain from this? Why would you decide against getting rid of me before I become a threat?” 

“Companionship, stimulation, absolution; take your pick,” 

“A meal?” 

“Not until you die. Not unless you ask,” 

Stroking his beard, Zemo took a step back and looked me over with a discerning eye. He had examined me intensely before, but it was like a canine scoping out its prey. Now, though, he searched me for signs of verity, any reason to distrust the suspiciously beneficial deal I had all but laid at his feet. Around us, the world seemed to pause for him as it might have for me. 

“As soon as I have the power to kill you, you’ll be dead,” he muttered. 

And so my final deal was struck. 

“I look forward to you trying,” 

--------------

Thank you for reading! Once completed, the next chapter will be linked here.

This work has been crossposted to Ao3

[daniel-bruehl]

"We need to plan something for Carl's birthday next week. He says that you promised him an xbox, he is very excited... I'm going to bed. I love you. Come home soon."

Daniel Brühl starring as Helmut Zemo Deleted Scene | Captain America: Civil War (2016)

[morguevampire]

(Un) Fortunate Encounters - Chapter 6

Masterlist for this fic

summary:  Fighting boredom and missing genuine human interactions you make it your mission to find out more about the Baron. He ignores your questions but tension builds up eventually, when you don't stop prying.

warnings/tags: fluff, smut, angst, mentions of kidnapping, mentions of torture, drinking, mild alcoholism, dark themes, slow build romance, not really Stockholm syndrome but that’s up for interpretation 

chapters: 6/?

word count: 1.934k 

pairings: Helmut Zemo x fem!Reader

author’s note: 

Uhhh, it's been a minute. Whoopsie.

Here's the usual excuses of being busy with uni and real life responsibilities but if we're completely honest I did not really feel like writing and I think I needed a (quite long) break from this story but I am back and i had fun writing this! Wrote this chapter pretty fast, so excuse the mess lol. As usual, english not my first language bla bla bla.

Feedback is always appreciated and THANK YOU to whoever is still reading this and has not given up on me. I have the intention of finishing this... i just need time. But as Zemo said: I have experience. And patience. A man can do anything if he has those.

Muchos besos mis amores <3

You can also find this work on https://archiveofourown.org/works/43158162/chapters/119680711

The more time you spend talking to Zemo, the more intriguing it becomes to find out more about his person. He’s like a closed book, not giving you any more information than is visible on the cover. Little side notes sometimes helping your brain in forming a genuine personality around him. But it feels like a one-sided game. He asks you questions about your family and friends, your hobbies, your feelings and your morals but in return you get almost nothing.

Mentally you make a note to pay extra attention when talking to him. Taking in all the crumbs he gives you about his private life. It almost feels like a game, and it does keep you entertained.

With time you get bolder in returning his questions. Simple little inquires, which aren’t too intimate but when answered could reveal something.

It’s obvious that they annoy him, most times he won’t answer or even leave the room in a sort of nonchalant way which makes you even more curious. As if he didn’t hear you. But his ignorance doesn’t stop you from prying. He’s fast to tell you his values and morals in a general sense, yet he will not go into specifics about his actions or his past.

On one occasion, it was during your dinner-routine, he seemed to be in a particularly chatty mood and gave you quite a few personal insights, so you figured it might just be okay to ask him about his family. You were both indulging in some whiskey and at the beginning it seemed to have lifted some of his secretive nature. You even catch him smiling at one point. Like a full-on laugh. But that changes immediately once you ask him about his son.

“So, what was Carl like? That’s your son’s name right? I think I read it in a news article somewhere?”

The noise of his cutlery clashing against the porcelain plate startle you. You immediately fix your gaze to your own plate, not wanting to look at his furious face and be reminded of the incident in his study. Your intentions were innocent enough but you knew you had overstepped a boundary. Instead of rage or screaming, his eerie soft but sharp voice tells you it’d probably be best to retire for the night. You mumble a quiet “sorry” but he’s already out of the dining room.

With that you’re left alone, food half eaten and the light mood of the evening ruined.

It bothers you. The way his mood changes so dramatically. It was difficult to navigate. On one hand you feel welcomed and heard and safe in his presence and on the other hand you feel like walking on very thin ice around him.

You were also sick of apologizing for asking questions. He seemed to know everything about you, yet you had no idea who the man you were staying with was. For the next day he was nowhere to be seen. Your trust had been broken.

You decide to distract yourself with books and a cup of tea, spiked with rum to ease your nerves. That evening you eat dinner on your own. Sulking in your own stupidity in thinking such a manipulative, egoistic man would open up to you. You still couldn’t even figure out what his intentions with you were. What did he want? Why were you still here? After all, it has been two weeks or so.

Time seemed to fly by when you were in company with either the Baron or Oeznik, but when you were alone it was like living in a never-ending dream. Not necessarily a nightmare, but the sort of dreams that made you feel stuck and anxious.

After dinner you decide to lounge around the living room, nursing a glass of the expensive liquor stashed in a cupboard next to the bookshelves. Alcohol helps pass the time, you figure. You were staring at the words in a random book, absently touching the stitched up wound above your left eye when his voice interrupts your aimless thoughts.

“We should probably take out those stitches. The wound seems healed enough.”

It wasn’t a question or a request. It was a command to get up and follow him into the downstairs bathroom.

He instructs you to sit down on the edge of the bathtub, where he kneels in front of you, unpacking the medical kit which seems to have magically appeared. You feel yourself caught in a sort of haze, intimidated by the situation. You’ve never been this close to the man before.

Perhaps that time in the warehouse where he carried you towards safety but having him in front of you, on his knees, face so close you could feel the ghost of his breath on your cheek not only made you blush, but also tense up.

You try avoiding his keen stare, rather just looking down at your sweaty hands fumbling around nervously.

When you dare to look up for individual short moments you notice light freckles on his skin. Also some stubble on the cheeks. But his face seems soft, even with his focused gaze, eyebrows furrowed to assess the wound on your forehead.

Whenever you feel your staring becomes too intense or obvious and you look down again, his smell overtakes your senses. His cologne smells citrusy, mixed with notes of cedar wood. 

You curse yourself for being so desperate. It must be your lack of social interaction with other humans besides him that makes you so overwhelmed with the closeness. Needless to say, it is an invasion of your private space, whether you appreciate it or not, you can’t really tell just yet.

After assessing the healing process of the wound Zemo mumbles a simple “looks good” and proceeds to take out tweezers and medial scissors.

It’s in that moment that he briefly catches your stare. For some unknown reason, instead of avoiding his eye, you decide to look right back at him. It’s probably only a fraction of a second but it feels like minutes of staring into each other’s eyes and by the time he finally concentrates on your forehead again you’re a wreck. Shaking even more than before and trying to breath as quietly as possible. What was wrong with you? Why did he have that effect on you?

He must have noticed your discomfort as he tells you that “it’s alright, just stay calm and relax” while he’s preparing to remove the stitches.  

It really just isn’t that easy to relax when your brain decides to completely eliminate the function of self-control and all you can think about is the fact that your kidnapper/host/new-friend-who-also-happens-to-be-a-Baron-AND-a-terrorist is actually quite an attractive man and very caring and gentle when he wants to be. His fingers just ever so slightly ghosting over your skin, giving you goosebumps all over. Underneath all those rigid, strong features definitely lies something soft and vulnerable.    

You try to calm yourself down, you really do. Closing your eyes and easing your breathing when Zemo suddenly burst your meditative bubble.

“He loved Turkish delights.”

Your eyes snap open, finding Zemo’s but he’s not looking at your confused expression, but instead focusing on the wound above your left eye. He senses your confusion though.

“Carl. My son.”

Now you were even more stunned. He was actually opening up. In all of the possible situations, he chooses to tell you about his son while being mere inches from your face. But you didn’t want to break the spell. Staying quiet and assuming he talked to distract you, why he chose such a personal topic, you didn’t know but you appreciate his story.

He tells you about how Carl was a tough kid. Nothing ever hurt too much and he wasn’t scared of anything, besides maybe wasps. But he most likely got that from his father. 

  He would come home from playing outside spotting bruises and cuts from branches or wounds from falling from his bike but he’d be so casual about it. Simply asking for a band aid, just to rip it off again after a few hours because it was “annoying on his skin”. 

His mother was worried he’d be too reckless, but she knew he’d learned from his father to always calculate the risks. 

It was only once, when he suddenly came running from playing with friends outside. When jumping over a little stream somewhere in the woods surrounding the Zemo’s Estate he must have slipped and cut himself quite deep on his shin on a sharp rock. The ever cool Carl he was, he told his friends it was nothing, just a scratch and he’d just get a band aid real quick.

  He really did try to hold back the tears, but when he spotted his father sitting on the balcony and alarmingly getting up when he saw his boy limping towards him, blood running all over his legs, the tears came, even for tough Carl.  

The wound was quickly fixed up, the tears dried and the mood lifted with a treat of Turkish Delights. 

“With all my efforts, I've always encouraged him to freely express his emotions. And not to shy away from embracing his weaknesses.” He sighs.

“But then again, I suppose I wasn’t much of a role model in that regard.”

You don’t know what to say. You want to say something. Anything. Mostly you want to thank him for opening up. For telling you about something so intimate. Essentially telling you about his own failings. Making himself vulnerable, right in front of you.

“I think he still really looked up to you. And I don’t think you failed.”

It’s all you say.

Zemo has long finished taking out the stitches but he’s still there. Not having moved from his position and it seems you’re back to simply staring at each other. In that moment he looks like a normal man. A bit of a broken man but a genuine one. An open book, really to be read and ready to be understood.  You catch yourself wanting to touch him then. Just softly run your hand along his cheek, or just give him a hug, a long one. You search his face, wanting to take in as much as possible, before the moment expires or worse: it turns out to have been a dream. He’s doing the same, his stare dropping to your lips in an almost antagonizing rhythm. It takes everything in you not to reach out. You’ve never been one to make first moves, and you feel it isn’t your place to take action or advantage of his vulnerability. So you wait, and continue to stare and hope he just leans in and kisses you already. You know it probably isn’t a good idea, but you also feel it to be something you both would need at the moment.

It could be your imagination but you feel as if he was leaning even further into your space, ever so closer, breath hitching and heart beating too fast, too loud in your chest….

“Right… the scar should heal quite nicely.”

It is pure disappointment. The way he pulls back in the last second, right before you could have tasted his lips, mumbling whatever about your scar. You just nervously clear your throat and thank him.

He’s stood up and is out of the bathroom before you can even think about saving the situation.

Needless to say, that night you can’t sleep. And for once, it’s not because of nightmares.

You lie there, wondering if his thoughts are circling around as well.

[undercoverpena]

I read the post that we can send prompts soo... pouting Zemo bcs you have been ignoring him all day

honestly, anon! I'm always down for more Zemo in my life. hope this is ok? (Part of the sleepover)

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helmut zemo x reader summary: he's not sure what has stolen your attention, but he knows he doesn't like it. wordcount: 1k

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Helmut Zemo isn't sure what you’re doing, but just knows you're not doing him.

Hidden behind a door you have locked shut, a simple handwritten sign telling him to not disturb. And, even if he shouldn't be, it annoys him.

Very little gets to him after all the loss he's already experienced. But sharing you is something which rattles him. He despises it, in fact. 

He hated it from the moment he met you.

Because, even if he tried not to, he found himself vying for your attention. Trying to find innocent reasons to talk to you without James or Sam.

Not knowing or realising that you liked talking to him—just him. Having a soft spot for him, as much as he did for you. Being rewarded with a kiss for being persistent and so much more for being a gentleman.

And now he's competing with something—or someone—all over again.

This time, though, he isn't entirely sure what he's fighting against. Drained by the idea of it all again, annoyed with himself for forgetting that you'd have moved on in the short time he'd been locked back up.

Annoyed because he knows he should be grateful. Relief that it's you he's bound to, on house arrest in the confines of your home for a reason no one can adequately explain to him. But he can't complain. And shouldn't, either.

Because the moment James left him in your capable hands, he found himself with his own hands full. And they have been, from time to time, for the last two weeks.

Until today. Today, you’re hiding from him.

Locked in your office. His hand brushed over your cold sheets when he woke. Descending the stairs to find cold coffee in the pot. The wisps of your perfume in the air, but no person, not even a sound.

It wasn’t that he slept in particularly late. A trait of his time in the military and the schedule he’d been on when Carl had been young. But, as of late, you were up earlier than him. 

Something you rarely ever were before. You liked and needed lots of sleep. Became a nightmare without it. You grumbled and became irritable, half-depending on naps even if the world was on fire. He'd found it cute, even if your friends did not.

His mouth shifts as he remains lost in his mind, not recognising he was even pulling an expression until he saw you in front of him. Lifting his eyes, taking you all in.

“Are you… pouting?”

“No,” he says too firmly, too quickly. Continuing to stir his fruit tea with a spoon.

But, your arms are folding, brow arching, and he knows before it appears that you'll smirk. And you do.

He both loves and hates it equally. Because on one hand, it makes your eyes twinkle, but it also informs him he’s been caught. A smirk you first sent him when John Walker handcuffed him; a similar smirk he sent back when he broke free with ease.

"Why are you pouting?"

He shifts his face, attempting to quickly bury it.

Hating he even had been, never mind been caught.

“Ze," you continue quickly. “Don’t do the head tilt…”

He swallows. "I hadn't been about to."

He had. But, he rather hated that you knew him so well. Saw through him when he felt he'd only just begun to scratch the surface when it came to you.

The things he did know, mainly how insatiable you were, had presented themselves easily. The rest, it feels like he moves further from learning the closer he gets.

"You're a terrible liar for a criminal mastermind."

He quirks a brow.

Not that you notice, too busy moving from your position to darting around your kitchen. Likely for food since it's long past lunch.

 "So," you continue, pulling open cupboards before rustling fills the air, "Why are you pouting?"

His mouth opens, almost ready to spill his secrets. Thankfully, he refrains. Managing to catch the words before they're even said, likely looking more idiotic the longer he stands there.

So, he places his spoon in the sink, returning to lean against the counter, taking a sip, even if it burns his tongue.

And then you say his name. Not a nickname. Not Zemo, Zee or Hel. But Helmut.

In that soft but stern way, you do when you want an answer. One he's heard so often directed at others.

"You have been gone. All day, in fact."

He hears you hum. A short sound, one having brewed at the back of your throat before you close the cupboard door, holding nothing.

"And, I'm guessing that's bothered you?"

Annoyance and embarrassment descend over him.

Because he's not been this weak, this needy, in a long-time. Not required attention from anyone.

"Immensely," is how he answers.

Sighing afterwards, hoping to exhale his emotions.

It doesn't work.

It never does.

His eyes catch you nod before moving closer. Finding you leaning against the counter beside him in the corner of his eye, your hands fall to your sides. For a second, there's nothing else, and he feels irritation growing in the places his other emotions haven't touched.

And then your fingers brush over his.

"I hope... I hope that doesn't bother you," he adds, quieter than he originally intended. "I've grown used to your company, is all."

"Grown implies I've worn you down."

He snorts, placing his cup down, before turning his head to face you. "A poor choice of words on my part, Liebling."

You smile. "I know, Hel." Your fingers weaving with his. "I'm not going to apologise for leaving you to stew and pout, though."

"Truthfully, I hadn't expected you to."

You nod. "Good. Because if I'm going to continue wearing you down, I need you alive."

He raises his brow as you shake your head.

"Another time. For now, I feel I have some attention I need to give." Your body moves from beside to in front of him, fingers remaining connected as his free hand slides over your hip. "How would you like me to make it up to you?"

He considers many things.

Some involve bed sheets, and some involve staying curled against you without removing a single item. Half-torn over what to choose.

"Don't move," he says, gripping your waist a little tighter, "Not for a moment, at least."

[free-for-all-fics]

Random Zemo thought but all this talk about and love for Zemo’s coat makes me want a Selkie AU fic!

Zemo is a Selkie and reader gets his coat. Whether he gives it to her, she finds it, or she gives it back to him, up to you. I’m just thinking about Zemo claiming reader as his wife, whether she willingly knew about Selkie coats or not. Could be dark with Zemo pretending to be human and tricking her into marriage, or could be fluffy with them meeting on the beach. I just love monster AUs so much and I wish there were more for Zemo. 💜

“Sometimes it is revealed she already had a first husband of her own kind.” Maybe Selkie! Zemo already was married to Heike, also a Selkie and they had their son, Carl, but he lost both of them tragically. He’s a widower and he wants another wife, another chance at a family. A human wife, so that she’ll be safe from hunters who are after seal skin and he can protect her from other dangers.

“Male selkies are described as being very handsome in their human form, and having great seductive powers over human women. They typically seek those who are dissatisfied with their lives, such as married women waiting for their fishermen husbands.” Perhaps Selkie!Zemo is dark and either manipulates reader into coming with him and takes advantage of her vulnerable emotional and mental state while she’s dissatisfied with her life, or he’s fluffy and his intentions are pure when he comes to save reader from her life on land.

[iobsessoverfictionalmen]

Hunting Roses - Chapter 5

AN: This is a yandere Zemo fic. That means that it will have dark content. I do not endorse these relationships and behaviour in real life. This chapter contains mentions of guns, Natasha's time in the Red Room, fear, persecution, and canon-typical attitudes when it comes to mutants in the X men universe.

Translations:

"der Sohn" - "my son"

A small part of Natasha was relieved when Carl fell asleep early into their journey to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.  It wasn’t because she found it hard to interact with the child, on the contrary, Carl was such an adorable and sweet child.  She suspected that the rain may have also played a role in lulling Carl to sleep.

No, the reason for Natasha’s relief was much simpler and a tiny bit selfish.  She enjoyed the quiet as it allowed her to gather her thoughts and plot the safest course to Xavier’s School.  Due to her time in the Red Room, Natasha could quite easily decide on a course of action during a chaotic situation but in the past, she had discovered that she made her best plans and decisions when she had time to consider each angle carefully.

As Carl slumbered on, Natasha made a considerable effort to regulate her breathing as her body tensed and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was playing right into Zemo’s hands.   When it came to similar situations in her past, Natasha had found herself pursued rather quickly once she and the person she was escorting at the time had left the safe house.

This time though, despite the fact that the road Natasha and Carl were travelling on was what she would normally consider a main road, there weren’t very many cars travelling on the road with her and Carl. 

The first time a police car sped past her with silent sirens, Natasha didn’t pay too much attention to it.  A few minutes later, when the next police car accelerated past her also with silent sirens, Natasha sat up straighter in the driver’s seat and stared at the rapidly disappearing car.

When the third police car sped past, Natasha knew that what was happening could not be dismissed as a simple coincidence.  Additionally, she and Carl needed to quickly change the route that they were travelling on because they were now being pursued.

Natasha glanced at where Carl was sitting in the back seat to double check that Carl still had his seatbelt on.  Once she was satisfied that Carl was safe, she refocused on the road in front of her and prepared to yank the steering wheel hard to the right which would take them off the road.  Natasha would then have to dodge the trees while maintaining her speed and hopefully, she would find a quieter road which they could travel along.

The Black Widow wasn’t too thrilled about this course of action as it meant that Carl’s arrival at Xavier’s School would be delayed by an unknown amount of time but she couldn’t see any other option that wouldn’t compromise her and Carl’s safety.

Had she been travelling by herself; the Black Widow would have had no problems engaging with the people attempting to subdue or delay her.

“It may still come to that,” she thought as she noticed yet another police car.  At the same time that she yanked the steering wheel to the right, the fourth police car turned in a semicircle, intending to block the road.

There was no doubt about it.  Someone (and Natasha had a few guesses as to who) was trying to stop them from reaching Xavier’s School.  Luckily for Carl, this wasn’t Natasha’s first time in a car chase.  Just as she’d planned, Natasha navigated through the trees only to come face to face with the other three police cars.

“They know how I think,” Natasha realised.

A police officer climbed out of one of the cars with a megaphone.  Holding the megaphone to his lips, the megaphone made a noise that Natasha associated with TV static before he even began to speak.

“NATASHA ROMANOFF!  IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE SOKOVIAN ACCORDS, WE ORDER YOU TO TURN AROUND AND RETURN TO THE AVENGER’S COMPOUND WHERE YOU WILL AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS REGARDING YOUR DUTIES AS AN AVENGER!”

The police officer’s proclamation woke Carl and the boy whimpered as he brought his hands up to cover his ears.

“Hurts.”  The boy sniffled, “Want them to go ‘way.”

Before Natasha could blink, two large dinosaurs materialised in front of the police officers.  Amazed, Natasha barely registered that one of the dinosaurs was a tyrannosaurus rex and the other was a pterodactyl.  Natasha took advantage of the distraction and pressed her foot firmly down on the accelerator while the police officers tried to dodge the ferocious dinosaurs.

She had just squeezed past the blockade that the three police cars had created when she saw one of the police officers reaching for his gun.

“CARL, LAY DOWN NOW!  KEEP YOUR SEAT BELT ON!” She commanded.  Without complaining, the boy did as she ordered.  While Natasha was fairly sure that the police officer was going to aim his gun at one of the dinosaurs in an attempt to defend himself, Natasha didn’t want to take any chances with Carl’s safety.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a police officer crouching down by the side of a police car.  Natasha first thought that the police officer was trying to avoid being detected by the pterodactyl as that dinosaur was the closest to the officer but then Natasha noticed the police radio that the officer was squeezing tightly in his fist.

“WE HAVE A CODE 2003!” He roared into the radio, “I REPEAT: THERE IS A CODE 2003 IN THE CAR WITH NATASHA ROMANOFF!”

“What’s a code 2003?” Natasha wondered briefly.  Then it dawned on her and she planted her foot harder on the accelerator.

Silence permeated the car as Natasha used every trick that she knew of to ensure that she and Carl remained hidden.  She tried not to think about what the dinosaurs would do to the police officers because Carl had been scared when he created them.

Natasha was reminded of a conversation that you had with her years ago when you had told her that too many mutants had used their powers in an attempt to escape situations like the one she and Carl had just escaped from only to be persecuted because they had used their powers.  As Natasha drove, the colours of the sky changed from light blue and cloudy to a dark purple with red and orange streaks.  Natasha could still see the clouds.

“Are the bad men gone?”  Carl asked softly.

Natasha glanced at him in the rearview mirror, “For the moment, yes.  The men are gone.  You can sit up now.  We’re going to be okay.”  She purposely ensured her voice was the same volume as Carl’s and even though she didn’t feel it, she tried to maintain a calm tone.

Natasha was still watching Carl in the rearview mirror and so, she saw the moment his expression changed from a worried and scared one to a joyful one.

“OEZNIK!  DAD!” The boy cried out ecstatically.

Natasha’s gaze snapped back to the road only to see that two men were indeed standing in the middle of the road.  Helmut Zemo was exactly how Heike had described him and he looked entirely too calm as he stood in the road next to the other man who Natasha now knew was Oeznik.

Natasha yanked the steering wheel again and the car left the road.  Dirt, gravel, and rubbish flew up into the air as the tyres disturbed the ground.

“THAT’S MY DAD!” Carl yelled as they passed Oeznik and Zemo.  “STOP!  I WANT TO BE WITH MY DAD!”

Natasha’s heart clenched at Carl’s plea but she had promised Heike that she would escort Carl to Xavier’s School, “We’re not…” She began but was interrupted by a loud whoosh of air.  A flicker of movement caught her eye and she saw Zemo lowering a nail gun.  She immediately understood what Helmut had done.

Gritting her teeth, Natasha fought to control the car as her foot remained on the accelerator.   Zemo must have realised that Natasha didn’t intend to stop and so he raised his arm and fired the nail gun again.

There was another rapid whoosh of air and this time, Natasha felt the car sink a few inches into the ground.  The car only sunk a few inches but the ground was still slightly wet from the rain earlier and it was enough to bog the car.

Natasha unbuckled her seatbelt and she fought the temptation to reach for her guns in her boots.  She didn’t want to use them when she was too close to Carl and she also got the feeling that Zemo wouldn’t take too kindly to seeing her near Carl with her guns.  For now, the best course of action for her would be to surrender to Zemo and Oeznik.  That way at least, she might be able to stay around Carl and when an opportunity presented itself, she could escape Zemo’s clutches with Carl and take him to Xavier’s School.

She climbed out of the car and held up her hands to show that she wasn’t holding any weapons in her hands.

“Wise decision.  Oeznik, watch her.” Zemo commented smoothly as he strode past her and opened the car door that separated him and Carl.  The excited boy had already undone his seatbelt and as soon as his dad opened the door, Carl flung himself into his father’s arms.

The Baron stumbled slightly but chuckled.  “Id missed you, der Sohn.”

As she gazed at the reunion between father and son, her earlier feeling of being manipulated by Zemo returned.

[marvelmusing]

The Spider Incident

Pairing: Single Parent!Helmut Zemo x Reader

Summary: Despite the fact that you and your coworker Zemo bicker regularly, the two of you are slowly becoming friends. One evening you offer to babysit his son Carl, to which Zemo agrees. (An AU where Zemo is just a regular single dad)

A/N: I’m not actively writing for Zemo anymore but I found this little drabble and thought it was cute

My Masterlist

»»---------------------►

You’re awoken by someone nudging your arm. You shift slightly, careful not to wake the boy snuggled up beside you. You blink blearily in the lamplight, before your eyes settle on Zemo.

“You are aware he’s old enough to sleep on his own?” He whispers. You scowl at him before sliding out from Carl’s grasp.

“Of course I am. There was a spider in his room.” You explain quietly. Zemo’s eyes flicker down to his son in concern, before looking back at you as you lead him to Carl’s room.

“And you couldn’t handle that yourself?”

“I did handle it.” You argue, a hint of pride shining in your voice as you open the door. You gesture towards the laundry basket overturned on the floor. “I’ve trapped it.” He glances down at the basket, then back at you.

“How you’ve survived as an adult for this long, truly astounds me.”

“In a good way, right?” You tease with a grin. He shakes his head,

“Whatever helps you sleep at night Liebling.” As he approaches the basket you shift your feet warily. Zemo notices and looks back at you. “Would you prefer to stand on the bed?” You smile sheepishly at him before nodding. You jump up onto the bed, peering down at the floor.

“It was huge.” You explain, before showing him with your hands how big the spider was. Zemo plucks a tissue from the box on Carl’s desk and advances towards the basket. When the basket is lifted and the creature scuttles out you can’t help but recoil. When Zemo spots it he drops the basket and jumps onto the bed beside you, clinging onto your arms for support. You grab hold of him to prevent the two of you from crashing to the floor.

“Told you it was huge.” He hums in response, not wanting to agree with you, but certainly recognising the monstrosity he’s just released. “So what’s the plan?” You venture.

“I’m going to use you as an offering.” You tighten your hold on his arms.

“Don’t you dare.”

“It’s a necessary sacrifice.”

“It’s really not.”

“What do you propose?”

“We could evacuate the house?”

“Is that not rather drastic?”

“And using me as a human sacrifice isn’t?” You seize a large encyclopaedia from Carl’s nightstand.

“What are you doing?”

“Solving the problem. You’re going to hit it with this.” You tell him, waving the book for emphasis. He shakes his head slightly before he meets your hopeful eyes. He sighs, taking the book from you. After a few failed attempts on the spider’s life, Zemo finally drops the book onto the creature. As he’s flushing the remains down the toilet and cleaning up the bedroom, you scoop Carl up into your arms before returning him to his own bed. When Zemo looks for his son, he finds you tucking him in with a tender expression on your face. Zemo hovers in the doorway, watching the rather domestic scene. You turn to look at him, a rather embarrassed smile adorning your face as you stand up. You gesture slightly towards Carl’s bed and Zemo nods in understanding. The two of you swap places and you lean against the doorframe as he crouches on the bed. He bends down to press a kiss against Carl’s forehead, smoothing the blankets down as he stands. He turns the lamp off, and you hold the door open for him as the two of you step out into the hallway. You both make your way down the stairs quietly. Zemo looks back at you as you walk,

“Thank you, for tonight.”

“You’re welcome. And anytime you need someone to watch him, I’ll be free. He’s a sweet kid.” He seems rather taken aback by your offer.

“That means a great deal to me.” You smile gently at him. You’re about to reach for your coat when he asks you, “Would you like to stay? For a drink?” You hesitate at his offer.

“I shouldn’t, really. I have to drive home.” He nods,

“You could stay the night?” You hesitate again.

“Okay.” You say with a small smile. “If you’re sure it’s not a bother?” He shakes his head.

“Not at all.”

[tobiasdrake]

So many people have shared their opinions about the shield by this point. So many different interpretations of what it means, what it represents, and what should come of it have all entered the conversation. But there's one very important opinion that Sam never got to hear.

And I love that he goes straight there. The shield is back in his control. Its symbol belongs to him again. His first response was that he didn't want this responsibility. It didn't feel right. His second response was that the shield should have died with Steve.

Now that it's back in his power, before he can truly decide what should become of it, he needs to hear from Isaiah Bradley, the forgotten Super-Soldier erased from the history of Captain America. What he hears is not encouraging.

It doesn't feel right to comment on Isaiah's story. Once again, Carl Lumbly deserves so many awards for this performance. It's a highly cultural examination of the relationship between America and its black citizens, and I don't want to be Zemo over there talking out of his ass about capturing the African American experience.

This scene, this entire scene, isn't for me. It moves me. I can feel the tragedy and the hurt and the horror of every word. But if I live to be 100, I will never be able to fully grasp the complete social context that this scene was written in, nor is my voice the right one to convey it.

But it is a critical and a necessary piece of the conversation. On the topic of Captain America, Isaiah deserves to be heard. Even when what he has to say might not be what you want to hear.

[illicien]

So. The necklace Zemo wears. Let's talk about it for a sec.

I've seen plenty of speculation that it's probably personal jewelry of Daniel's - which is very cool, glad they were willing to accommodate that. However, for the purposes of fic:

Given the state of Sokovia, I had a whole long moment to ponder where the rest of the Zemos would be buried. If Heinrich, Heike, and Carl were all at Heinrich's estate at the time, that suggests there's a high likelihood that (given they're a noble family) their family crypt / etc. would probably have been about as destroyed as everything else.

So now I'm sitting here looking at Zemo's necklace like... cremation jewelry. That there? That's not just some necklace, that's literally the only way he could safely maintain a memorial to his family.

Now, with that said, my brain is enjoying imagining that the necklace itself looks a little different. He had a whole year of planning his revenge to do, and cremation jewelry that simply holds ashes can decay with wear like most jewelry. However, ashes can be made into diamonds in 3-9 months depending on the intended size of the diamond, and diamonds? Diamonds are fucking durable as hell. Plus, if he has something like that, then at least when he dies (as he intended) he knows he'll be buried with his loved ones.

So yes. From now on, in my head, he has a necklace with three diamonds on it, one each for his father, his wife, and his son.