War Of Hearts

War of Hearts

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You will handle it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. when had he taken off his gloves?

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

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

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

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

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

“Hold still.”

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

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

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

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

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

More Posts from Obnoxiouslylongandboring and Others

obnoxiouslylongandboring

3 years ago

Omg so fudging 🥵 hot

Bro ur art is amazing

🦊

79 notes View Post

obnoxiouslylongandboring

4 years ago

Awesome, nuanced analysis of Sokovia and Zemo’s character!

Been thinking a bit about Zemo’s character arc & tragic backstory.

As a member of Sokovian nobility, he was ostensibly raised to be proud of his country and heritage. He joined the army out of patriotic duty (it’s not like he needed the money). He could trace his lineage back generations; his son was going to be his future legacy.

And then all the things he loved or fought for in his life turn to dust.

Been Thinking A Bit About Zemo’s Character Arc & Tragic Backstory.

His entire family dies, and his homeland gets smashed to bits and absorbed by neighboring countries. Suddenly, he’s a dying breed - there won't even be Sokovians in a generation or two, as ethnic Sokovians get acculturated in the diaspora. The language and unique customs will probably die out. It’s only been a few years since the Ultron catastrophe, and nobody even visits the memorial to Sokovian dead. The world is moving on.

At first he latched onto revenge, targeting the Avengers… and then what? Where does all that energy go now? He’s got nothing left to live for, but he’s always been a very disciplined man, so he’s still planning, plotting, calculating. He might as well start some shit. Revel in the chaos.

And if it kills him in the process, so be it. He thinks he should have died years ago, anyway.

154 notes View Post

obnoxiouslylongandboring

3 years ago

Wowowowow 🥵

121 notes View Post

obnoxiouslylongandboring

3 years ago

Yup 🥺👉👈🚶‍♀️

tumblr friendships are hard to maintain like im sorry i know i havent talked to you in 5 months but you’re still super rad and i still consider us friends im just dumb

1,207K notes View Post

obnoxiouslylongandboring

3 years ago

Agree completely.

Read the whole thing please.

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

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

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

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

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

153 notes View Post

obnoxiouslylongandboring

4 years ago

Where is WalkerBaron, you may ask?

...it’s somewhere

I’m currently working on my main fic now and haven’t got time to write crack 🥲

UNFORTUNATE!!!

However, I do have the entire storyline of my main fic planned out (Act 1, of course). All I need to do is write it. After writing it, I am planning to go through 2-3 rounds of complete editing and revamping before releasing it. During the editing process I am going to seek feedback/advice from my sibling and friends. This is projected to take around 3-4 months.

I might start to use this blog as a way to keep my characterization consistent and log my mistakes as they happen. Right now, writing the first draft, I’m not going to look back. I know my writing is shit, I don’t care, I just need to get it out ASAP and at least have a product to work on.

Additionally, I think it is also important for me to continue reading books in order to help with sharpening my writing skills. After each draft I’m probably going to read 1 book and apply the new skills to the next draft.

In the meantime, maybe I’ll post a crack or two here? Although rn I’m not confident about the quality of my product.

As always uhhhhh drop me an ask anytime :) I’m always up to satisfy curiosity 😛😝

1 note View Post

obnoxiouslylongandboring

3 years ago

I don’t know the fandom but this artist’s stuff is amazing! ❤️❤️❤️🙏 love the washy black and white style

23 notes View Post

obnoxiouslylongandboring

3 years ago

A Confession about Writing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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