#zemo x reader

DOCTOR DOOM (VICTOR VON DOOM)

- Doom does not love lightly. He does not love kindly. But he loves. His iron will bends for no one, yet for you, it has shifted—an anomaly he cannot ignore, a flaw he will not permit. You belong to him; a sovereign claim written in the air between you, in the way his gloved hand tightens around your wrist, never enough to bruise, but enough to remind. When you question him, his voice is measured, calm, edged with the warning of a storm waiting to be summoned. “I am your salvation. You will not defy me.”

- You are the only one permitted to see beneath the mask. The weight of it, the suffering behind it, the ruined flesh that others would recoil from—he allows you to touch what no one else has touched. But your love is not a healing force, not for him. You do not soften him. If anything, you are his indulgence, the one weakness he refuses to cut out. And if you were to leave—no, you will not leave. Doom does not lose. Doom does not allow.

- There are gifts, grander than you could have imagined. Lavish, excessive, proof of his power and his devotion. A kingdom at your feet, riches beyond measure, knowledge beyond human understanding. But a golden cage is still a cage, and Doom’s affection is a thing of iron, of walls that do not crumble. You once thought his love might free you. You understand now—it only reshapes your chains.

- You are his equal in name, never in power. He calls you queen, but he is still the god of his world, the ruler of all. He will never bow to you, but he expects you to bow to him, to stand beside him as he burns the heavens and reshapes the earth. And if you resist—if you dare resist—his fury is not loud, not wild. It is quiet. Devastating. “You forget yourself,” he will whisper, and you will feel the walls closing in.

- He would never kill you. Not even in his deepest rage. But he will remind you of what you are, where you stand, who he is. You are his. Not his prisoner, no—but not quite free, either. And somewhere in the depths of his ruined soul, where he will never let you see, he wonders if you will ever truly love him back the way he loves you. Or if you, too, only see the mask.

BULLSEYE (LESTER)

- You are the only thing he has never missed. The first time he laid eyes on you, he knew—knew the way a bullet knows its target, the way a knife knows flesh. Obsession came naturally. Love? Love was unfamiliar. Messy. He was always precise, always perfect, but with you, he is reckless. Your laugh hits him harder than a sniper’s round. The way you say his name? A wound that never quite heals.

- He is chaos, and you are caught in the storm. His moods shift like a blade flicked between fingers, unpredictably sharp. One moment, he is draped around you like a lazy cat, lips at your throat, whispering filth and affection in the same breath. The next, his grip is too tight, his eyes too wild, his smile wrong, like he’s deciding whether to kiss you or cut you. “You like it,” he tells you, and maybe the worst part is—you do.

- Violence is his love language. Every scar on his body has a story, and sometimes, he gifts you the same. Not in cruelty—never in cruelty—but in something warped, something dark. A knife against your skin, not breaking, just resting, just waiting. A bullet casing dropped in your palm, engraved with your initials. “Got bored on a job,” he says, but you know better. You always do.

- He does not beg. Not for anything, not for anyone. But the one time you tried to leave, the one time you thought you could walk away, you saw something raw in his eyes. Something broken. He didn’t chase. He didn’t drag you back. No—he simply waited, appearing where you least expected, watching, watching, watching. “You’re mine,” he said, not a demand, not a plea—just fact. And when you came back, he only grinned.

- You love him, and it will ruin you. But what a way to fall. What a beautiful, burning, all-consuming thing you have become, in the hands of a man who never misses.

TASKMASTER (TONY MASTERS)

- He knows you better than you know yourself. The way you move, the way you breathe, the slightest shift of your expression—he reads you like muscle memory, like a sequence he’s learned a thousand times over. It should make you feel safe. Instead, it makes you feel watched, dissected, like a puzzle he’s already solved.

- There is no normal with him. One moment, he’s charming, teasing, almost easy to love. The next, he’s cold, distant, slipping into the void of who he is—who he’s been made to be. “I don’t remember everything,” he tells you, voice low, almost bitter. “But I remember you.” And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it isn’t.

- He does not show jealousy, but you know it’s there. You feel it in the sharpness of his grip, in the way his voice drops when another man looks at you too long. He doesn’t act on it. He doesn’t need to. A glance, a smirk, a quiet, lethal warning—you are his, and the world knows it.

- He is not cruel, but he is not kind. His affection is measured, calculated, a thing given when he decides, when it suits him. And yet, there are moments—rare, fleeting—where he lets his guard down, where you see something unguarded in his gaze. You try to hold onto those moments. They always slip through your fingers.

- He would never forget you. Even if the rest of the world fades, even if his own past crumbles into dust, you are written into him. And that is both a comfort and a curse.

VENOM (EDDIE BROCK)

- His love is not singular. It is him. It is the symbiote. A force that wraps around you, claims you, fills every part of your life until you cannot remember what it was like to be alone. And maybe you don’t want to. Maybe you never did.

- He is protective, possessive, primal. The world is a threat, and he is the shield between you and it. No one touches you without consequence. No one looks at you the wrong way without meeting something dark, something hungry. “Ours,” the symbiote purrs, and Eddie only nods.

- He is rough but careful. His hands are big, his strength overwhelming, but with you, he tries. He tries so hard. But sometimes he forgets, sometimes he grips too tight, kisses too hard, loves too fiercely. “Sorry,” he mutters after, and you wonder if he is apologizing to you, or to himself.

- You are his anchor. Without you, he is lost. Without you, the hunger is too loud, the rage too consuming. He would burn the world to keep you, to hold you. And you—God help you—you would let him.

- You will never be free. But maybe freedom is overrated when love feels like this.

CARNAGE (CLETUS KASADY)

- He doesn’t love like a man. He loves like a fire, like a slaughter, like something that was never meant to be gentle. He loves in blood and laughter, in the gleam of a knife, in the way he whispers your name like a hymn before the killing starts.

- You are not a weakness. No, no, no—you are a prize, a conquest, a thing he has decided is his and his alone. “Ain’t nobody touchin’ what’s mine,” he says, and the world listens. The world fears.

- He is chaos incarnate, and you are caught in the spiral. One moment, he’s sweet—almost boyish, playful, crooning about how good you are, how perfect, how he’s never had a reason to be soft before. The next, there’s blood on his hands, and he’s grinning like the devil himself.

- You will never know peace. Not with him. But you will know passion, madness, devotion. You will know what it means to be loved so entirely, so terribly, that nothing else will ever compare.

- And if you ever tried to leave—well. You won’t. Not really. Not for long.

LOKI (LOKI LAUFEYSON)

- Loving Loki is like loving a storm. He is not constant, not safe, not something you can hold onto without feeling the sharp bite of the wind against your skin. One day, his hands are gentle, lips tracing whispered sonnets against your throat, promises woven in silver and silk. The next, he is a tempest—cold, distant, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Did you think you could own me?” he sneers, eyes burning with something unreadable. But he does own you, doesn’t he?

- He loves in illusions. Words spun like spider’s silk, so sweet, so delicate, so convincing that you almost believe them—until they unravel. He tells you that you are the only real thing in his life, that you are the one person he cannot deceive. But then you wake in an empty bed, the scent of him fading, and wonder if he was ever really there at all.

- He is jealous in ways you do not see. Not possessive in the way of mortal men, not in anger or in violence, but in something deeper, something ancient and godly. He does not rage when another looks at you, does not make threats. Instead, he smiles, charming, effortless. And then, days later, your admirer is humiliated, ruined, their life quietly destroyed by misfortune that does not seem like misfortune at all. Loki never admits to it. He doesn’t need to.

- He will test you, always. He will push, he will deceive, he will break your trust just to see if you will forgive him. “If you loved me, you would know,” he tells you, after yet another lie, another disappearance, another game. You wonder if he is trying to prove something to himself, or to you.

- And yet, he always comes back. No matter how far he runs, how many times he swears he is done with love, with weakness, with you—he returns. And every time, you let him. Because you are just as much a part of this game as he is.

GREEN GOBLIN (NORMAN OSBORN)

- His love is a dangerous thing. A poison, slow-working, seeping into your bones before you even realize it. He is charming, confident, the kind of man whose presence fills a room, whose voice makes you feel like you are the most important person in the world. And for a while, maybe you are. Until his moods shift, until his gaze darkens, until the weight of his temper presses against your throat like an invisible hand.

- He is a man of control. Everything in his life is structured, calculated, dominated by his will—including you. You are not a woman, not a person, not a lover. You are a piece of his empire, a treasure that belongs to him alone. If you step out of line, if you disobey, if you dare to question him—oh, how disappointed he is. And Norman’s disappointment is worse than anger.

- There are moments of softness. Moments when he holds you close, when his fingers brush through your hair, when he murmurs that you are the only thing keeping him sane. You believe him. You believe him even when you shouldn’t. Because those moments are rare, and they are beautiful, and you would rather live in the warmth of them than acknowledge the cold that follows.

- You are not afraid of him. At least, that is what you tell yourself. But when his voice lowers, when his eyes gleam with something manic, when the Goblin lurks beneath his skin—you know better. He has never hurt you. He never would. Would he?

- And yet, you stay. Because Norman Osborn does not lose. And you? You are not sure you would survive being without him.

KRAVEN THE HUNTER (SERGEI KRAVINOFF)

- You are his greatest hunt. Not prey, no—never prey—but something just as thrilling, just as dangerous. He looks at you like a predator watching a storm, something wild and untamed, something that he alone has the right to claim. And claim you he does, with hands that grip too tight, kisses that leave bruises, love that feels more like conquest than devotion.

- He loves you fiercely. Too fiercely. It is not gentle, not soft, not something that can be tamed or reasoned with. His love is obsession, possession, a thing that devours. “You are mine,” he tells you, eyes dark, voice thick with an accent that only makes the words more final. “And I will kill any man who dares to think otherwise.” You do not doubt him.

- He is both man and beast. There are nights when he is human—when he speaks of his mother, his honor, the burdens of his bloodline. He tells you that you are his salvation, his reason. But then, there are other nights—nights when the hunter takes over, when his hands are rougher, his words sharper, when he drags you beneath him with all the primal hunger of a lion taking down its mate.

- You run, sometimes. Not away—never away—but just far enough to remind yourself that you can. That you are still your own. But Kraven always finds you. Always. And when he does, there is no punishment, no anger—just satisfaction. “You wanted me to chase you,” he says, smiling. And perhaps, deep down, you did.

- You wonder if he loves you, or if he only loves the hunt. But does it matter? Because no matter how far you try to stray, you will always belong to him.

DOCTOR OCTOPUS (OTTO OCTAVIUS)

- He is not cruel, but he is not kind. He loves you, of course he does—what fool would not?—but love, to Otto, is not a thing of tenderness. It is logic, calculation, the certainty of possession. You are his as much as his machines, his work, his mind. A brilliant, beautiful thing that he has claimed as his own.

- He is a man of ambition, and you are caught in the storm. He speaks of a future where you will stand beside him, where the world will bow, where he will rewrite the laws of science, of nature, of reality itself. He speaks of your place in it, but never as an equal. You are not a scientist, not a genius, not a mind like his. You are something greater—you are his muse, his reason, his beautiful, fragile thing.

- There is jealousy, but it is cold. Otto does not throw tantrums, does not break things in fits of rage—no, his jealousy is quiet. A lingering gaze, a remark too sharp, a conversation steered into dangerous waters. And if someone else dares to look at you, dares to try and steal what is his? Well. Accidents happen.

- He does not like defiance. Not from you. Not from anyone. And when you push, when you try to remind him that you are your own, his temper is not loud but cruel. Words like scalpels, sharp and precise, cutting in ways that cannot be stitched back together. “Ungrateful,” he murmurs, almost amused. “Do you think anyone else could love you as I do?” And the worst part is—you don’t know if they could.

- He adores you. He does. In his own way. And perhaps that is why you stay—because there is something beautiful in being loved by a man who bends the very world to his will. Even if, in the end, he will bend you, too.

SHOCKER (HERMAN SCHULTZ)

- He is not a good man, but he tries for you. He is a criminal, a thief, a man who has never known softness—but for you, he tries. He buys you gifts, leaves you notes in his messy handwriting, does his best to be gentle with hands that were made to break things. “Don’t deserve you,” he mutters sometimes, eyes dark with something unspoken. But he never lets you go.

- He is rough around the edges. Sarcastic, sharp-tongued, impatient. But when you look at him, really look at him, you see the exhaustion, the fear, the quiet desperation of a man who has never had anything good in his life—until you.

- He does not know how to love without holding too tight. He is not cruel, but he is possessive. He cannot lose you. He won’t. And if you try to leave, if you pull away—he doesn’t threaten, doesn’t shout. He just looks at you with something hollow in his chest. “Please,” he says, voice hoarse. And you stay. Because how could you not?

- He is dangerous, but not to you. Never to you.

- And you wonder if that makes you lucky, or just another thing he refuses to let go of.

MYSTERIO (QUENTIN BECK)

- Loving Quentin is like being lost in a dream. A beautiful, haunting dream spun in golden light and smoke, a world where every word he speaks is poetry, where every touch is a promise wrapped in silk. He makes you feel like the center of the universe, like a goddess sculpted from mist and stardust. But dreams are not real, and neither is Quentin.

- He lies, effortlessly, constantly, beautifully. You do not know if he even realizes he is doing it anymore. “You’re the only thing I see clearly,” he tells you, voice thick with something like devotion. But you’ve seen the way his illusions flicker, the way his masks slip just for a second. You do not know if he loves you or the idea of you—the version of you he has created in his mind, the one that exists only in the stories he tells himself.

- You never know what is real. Sometimes, you wake up in the middle of the night, gasping, reaching for him—only to find an empty bed. A trick. A performance. A cruel game played by a man who needs control over every scene in his life. “Did you think I would leave you?” he asks, amused, when you confront him. “You know me better than that.” And you do. That is the problem.

- He is jealous in ways that are terrifying. Not loud, not violent—no, his jealousy is theatrical. He does not scream when another man looks at you. He does not threaten. He simply makes them disappear. Ruins their lives. Turns them into shadows, forgotten faces in a world rewritten by his illusions. You do not know how many times he has done it. You do not ask.

- And yet, you stay. Because when he loves you, when he looks at you with those dark, endless eyes, when he whispers your name like an incantation—you feel like magic. And isn’t that worth the cost?

THE LIZARD (CURT CONNORS)

- Curt loves you in two minds. One of them is gentle, human, the man he was before. He kisses you with careful hands, calls you his brightest light, tells you that you are the only thing keeping him grounded. But the other—the Lizard—does not know how to be gentle. Does not understand softness, does not understand love as anything but possession.

- There are days when he does not remember what he has done. When he wakes up with your bruises under his fingertips, with your fear still thick in the air, and he does not understand why you flinch. “I didn’t mean to,” he whispers, eyes wide, horrified. And you believe him. Because this is not him. Not really.

- You are afraid, but you do not leave. Because when he is Curt, when he is himself, he is everything. Brilliant. Kind. The man who kisses your fingertips and tells you stories of science and discovery, the man who wants to heal the world. But then the scales come back, the hunger in his eyes, the way he grips your wrist too tight. And you wonder—will there come a day when he does not turn back?

- He begs you to stay. Even when he knows he shouldn’t. “I need you,” he tells you, voice breaking. “I need you more than anything.” And maybe you need him too. Maybe that is why you stay.

- But love cannot fix what he has become. And one day, you will have to decide if you can love a man who is not always a man at all.

CROSSBONES (BROCK RUMLOW)

- Brock does not love gently. His love is bruises, rough hands, the sharp edge of a knife pressed against your throat—not to hurt, never to hurt, only to remind you that he could. He is danger made flesh, violence wrapped in a smirk and a scarred mouth that kisses you too hard, too possessively, like he is afraid you will disappear if he does not leave his mark.

- He is a man of war, and you are his greatest prize. Not a woman. Not a lover. A thing he has taken, claimed, wrapped in his arms and his rage. “You’re mine,” he growls, lips against your skin, voice thick with something darker than devotion. And you know he means it. In the way that means no one else ever can have you.

- He does not understand softness. Not really. But he tries. You see it in the way he pulls you close in the dead of night, in the way he buys you gifts—things he does not know how to give properly, shoved into your hands with a scowl. “Take it,” he mutters, looking away, as if the act of giving is something he is ashamed of.

- He is jealous in a way that leaves scars. Not on you. Never on you. But you have seen what he does to the ones who look too long, who think they can touch what is his. “You don’t need to know,” he tells you, when you ask what happened to them. And maybe you don’t.

- And yet, you love him. Love the way he makes you feel untouchable, love the way he looks at you like you are the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. But love is not enough to save a man like Brock Rumlow. And you do not know if it will be enough to save you.

ZEMO (HELMUT ZEMO)

- Helmut Zemo loves like a king loves his queen. Regal. Absolute. The kind of love that does not ask, does not plead—it commands. He does not need to raise his voice, does not need to threaten, does not need to demand. He simply looks at you, and you know. You are his. You always will be.

- He is not cruel, but he is not kind. He does not hurt you, but he does not comfort you either. If you cry, he does not hold you. If you are afraid, he does not reassure you. “Do not be weak,” he tells you, voice cold. “You are better than that.” And so you learn not to be weak. You learn to be strong. Because that is what he wants.

- He does not trust easily, but he trusts you. And that, perhaps, is the most dangerous thing of all. Because to be trusted by Zemo is to be owned by him, to be a part of his world in a way that cannot be undone. “You are the only one who sees me,” he murmurs, fingers tracing your jaw. And you wonder if that is a gift or a curse.

- He is possessive in a way that does not need words. There are no threats, no punishments, no rules spoken aloud. But you know, without question, that you are his. And if you ever forgot—well, Zemo has a way of making sure you remember.

- And you love him. Because how could you not? How could you not love a man who holds the world in his hands and still chooses to hold you?

MUSE (UNKNOWN NAME)

- Loving Muse is like loving madness itself. He does not speak often, does not whisper sweet nothings, does not fill the silence with promises. He only watches, eyes dark and empty, head tilted in quiet fascination. You do not know if he loves you, or if he simply finds you… interesting.

- He paints you. Again and again. In blood, in ink, in shadows cast against moonlit walls. Sometimes, you wake to find your face scrawled across canvases you do not remember posing for, your likeness stretched and twisted into something almost inhuman. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, fingers stained red, gazing at his work as though it is the only thing that exists. As though you are the only thing that exists.

- You are never afraid. Or perhaps, you have simply learned not to be. You have learned that fear does not matter. That love, to Muse, is not about touch or words—it is about obsession. About the way his hands shake when you are not near. About the way he does not kill when you tell him not to, even though you know he wants to.

- He is not jealous. But he is possessive. He does not threaten those who look at you. He does not hurt them. He simply… removes them. And when you ask, when you demand to know why, he only blinks. “They did not belong,” he says. And somehow, that is enough.

He set the mug of chamomile tea he’d brought down on the nightstand, letting his fingers brush yours in a grounding touch. “Then tonight will be about care, not forcing sleep,” he said gently, and began.

He fluffed your pillows just right, tugged the blanket snugly over your shoulders, and drew the curtains just enough to dim the city lights without making it feel closed off. The aroma of the tea filled the air, sweet and warm, and you wrapped your hands around it, feeling the first flicker of comfort.

“I’ll read to you,” he said once you had taken a sip, settling beside you. “Pick something familiar.”

You handed him a book, a safe story, and he read slowly, deliberately, each word a steady current that calmed the edges of your restless mind. When your thoughts scattered, he whispered, “Breathe with me,” counting softly alongside you, the rhythm pulling your heartbeat into a gentler rhythm.

Eventually, he guided you to lie back down, pressing you close to his chest. His fingers threaded through yours, brushing your hair away from your face, pressing gentle kisses to your temple. “I’ll stay with you,” he murmured. “All night if you need.”

Hours passed—or maybe minutes—you didn’t know—but the tight knot in your chest began to loosen. Sleep crept in, slow and hesitant, but for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t alone in the dark.

By the second night, a rhythm had begun to form. Zemo had learned your subtle signs of agitation—the fidgeting of your hands, the restless bouncing of your legs, the tiny sighs of frustration. He anticipated your needs: adjusting the room temperature, fluffing pillows, tucking the blanket just so, even brewing your tea exactly the way you liked.

“I brought something new tonight,” he said one night, settling beside you. A soft playlist of ASMR sounds filled the room: distant rain, quiet tapping, faint whispers. Normally, such things would overstimulate your mind, but with him, it was grounding.

He read to you again, letting the words wash over you. When your mind ran away, he hummed low and steady, brushing your hair behind your ear, pressing soft kisses to your temple, whispering small reassurances. You curled into him, pressing against his chest, letting the restlessness ebb away.

By the third week, the rituals had become second nature. He knew your favorite positions: how you liked to curl into him when your thoughts became too loud, which hand needed to be free to fidget, how your body relaxed if he hummed low enough. You began to anticipate his movements too—the perfect tuck of the blanket around your feet, the gentle press of his thumb over your knuckles, the subtle brush of hair behind your ear.

One night, when you woke in the middle of the night, panic fluttering in your chest, he didn’t scold or urge sleep. He simply whispered, “I’m here. You’re not alone,” and guided your breathing, pressing his body against yours so you could feel the steady rhythm of his heart. You mumbled your worries, the jumble of thoughts you usually kept trapped inside, and he listened, patient and calm.

Sometimes, when you couldn’t settle, he mirrored your movements subtly—the fidgeting of your hands, the curling of your legs, the restless twitch of your shoulders—a silent conversation that let you feel understood and not judged. And gradually, you realised it wasn’t the sleep you craved most—it was the closeness, the care, the quiet presence that made the dark hours feel safe.

Weeks passed, and the nights grew richer. He brought small touches of care: adjusting the room’s temperature, massaging your temples as you sipped your tea, guiding you through gentle stretches to ease tension in your shoulders and neck. He whispered jokes or nonsense words to make you smile when panic threatened to return, and sometimes he would nuzzle your hair, letting soft, accidental kisses brush your temple or jawline.

“You make this easier,” you whispered one night, resting your forehead against his chest.

“I just stay,” he replied softly, brushing your hair from your face. “I’ll always be here.”

And indeed, he was.

Months passed, and though insomnia still visited, the nights no longer held the same terror. Even awake, the hours became softer. There was tea, gentle ASMR, whispered stories, hands intertwined, murmured reassurances, humming, light massages, playful nudges, and warmth. Every restless moment became a shared experience instead of a solitary battle.

One rainy night, you awoke yet again, thoughts spiraling, heart racing. Zemo was already awake, watching you, and he reached for your hand. “Hey,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’ve got you. Come back to me.”

You let him guide your breath, feel the steady warmth of his body and the rhythm of his heart beneath your ear. Gradually, the storm inside your mind settled. You curled instinctively against him, and this time, sleep didn’t creep in tentatively. It enveloped you completely, secure and gentle, cradled by the presence of someone who had learned to navigate your darkness with patience, care, and unwavering attention.

Even when the sleep refused to come, the darkness no longer held power over you. With him, it became intimacy, trust, and quiet love. Tea sat steaming on the nightstand, blankets tucked just right, whispered murmurs and soft hums filling the silence. He adjusted pillows, pressed kisses to your hair, stroked your cheek, held you tight when thoughts raced too fast, and stayed awake, vigilant, until your restless body finally surrendered.

And you realized, as months of sleepless nights turned into shared, tender rituals, that the insomnia didn’t matter as much anymore. What mattered was this: Zemo, steady and patient, attentive and warm, his presence a tether in the dark, and you, finally feeling safe enough to rest in his care.

⟢ swears in sokovian whenever he’s stressed/under pressure

⟢ rarely wants you to join in on dangerous missions, but with enough back talk from the both of you he finally admits defeat

⟢ always keeping it professional on the job, treating you the same as everyone else on the team

⟢ when the two of you gets home he showers you with words of affirmation, telling you just how good you were

⟢ likes to read on the couch with you laying in the other end with your legs over him. he keeps a firm hand on your feet, making sure you’re not going anywhere

⟢ zemo loves to show you off, always keeping his hand on your waist, hips, neck, anywhere he can reach

⟢ hot steamy make outs ;3

⟢ sometimes even keeps his mask on during sex

⟢ fucks you slow and gently oftentimes, but when he’s just in the mood to let out some steam he can get quite rough (but that’s how you like it) and tells you to just suck it up and take it like a good girl

⟢ let’s you sit in his lap, which often rather than not leading to you slowly grinding down on him, making him suck in air trying to compose himself

⟢ calls you his kitten <33

A scream tore itself from your throat as something exploded to your left. You squeezed your eyes shut in time to feel the blaze of heat on your skin, the tremor of the ground beneath you. You didn’t remember covering your head with your arms. Then, there was another round of gunshots. It was clearly an automatic weapon this time, the sound ricocheting in your head long after it stopped.

You’d only gotten wrapped up in this mess because you’d had the misfortune to be seen with the trio by a member of the Flagsmashers. They had incorrectly assumed you were working with Sam and the others and decided the best course of action was simply to kill your fairly defenceless self. In the heat of the moment, the only certain way to keep yourself safe had been to actually go with them. And since no one knew who could be trusted, you had travelled from Germany to Madripoor, a city you hadn’t even known existed, on a Baron’s private jet, which was an experience you never would have believed you would have. Your count of being shot at had gone from zero to lost-count in a matter of days, and now you were trapped in the middle of a shootout with no training and no idea of how to ensure your survival.

A plume of acrid smoke billowed towards you, stinging your eyes and burning your throat. You coughed without meaning to, rubbing at your eyes in an attempt to see through the tears clouding your vision. The sound of gunfire was getting closer. Your breathing grew heavy, chest starting to heave as a weight seemed to press down on your ribs with the realisation that you might actually not make it out of this situation at all.

Someone cried out, visceral and raw, and the sound cut off abruptly in the space of the next gunshot. Your breath caught in your throat. That was an entire life, ended in a split second just yards away from you. One of many. One of a list you were probably going to join because if you tried to make a run for it, someone was going to shoot you. If you stayed put, someone would eventually find you and most likely shoot you. The only people who could possibly help you were simply gone, if they had even survived this long, and –

“Schatz, we need to leave. Now.”

You gasped and flew backwards, whacking your wrist and the back of your hand against the container you were hiding behind through your flailing. Zemo never hesitated. He followed your backward trajectory as you blindly tried to get away from him, not yet recognising who was in front of you. You only registered it was him once he was crouched over you, grasping your shoulders to pull you up to standing.

You blinked and your hands were on his chest, fingers curled into the fur collar of his coat as you tried to steady yourself. You couldn’t focus properly on what was happening around you. Somehow, in spite of everything, what you noticed was the way the sunlight changed the Baron’s appearance. It caught his eyes and revealed they were actually hazel, not a dark brown, and highlighted streaks of his hair to give them an almost auburn glow. The deafening sounds of violence faded to nothing for a moment as his arm wrapped tight around your waist to keep you close to his side. He immediately broke into a run without giving you time to recover.

“Come, quickly,” Zemo muttered, but his gaze wasn’t on you.

He didn’t raise his voice; he never had in your presence. But his rough tone belied urgency. He was looking around all the time, searching out potential threats and avenues of escape with impeccable accuracy. The Baron moved through the chaos with the rhythm of a man who knew this world like the back of his hand. He set a quick pace, completely steady, utterly in his element. There was too much going on for you to realise that the quiet which had come over your frantic mind was a feeling of safety, or to analyse how it was Zemo of all people who was making you feel safe. To understand that you trusted him implicitly, absolutely, to get you out alive and unharmed.

The two of you had no sooner rounded the corner of the next container when someone bolted out with a gun raised, aiming to kill. The Baron’s reaction was instantaneous. The arm that had been at your waist locked in a bar over your stomach, shoving you back and behind him before you could blink. He followed, the force of his movement enough to drive the air from your lungs when your back collided with the wall of yet another container. He raised his free arm and killed your attacker with a single shot from a weapon you hadn’t even known he was carrying, his precision impeccable. It struck you that the gun was as natural in his hand as a delicate cup of tea.

“Come,” he told you simply, his arm returning to your waist to direct you where he chose.

You went without question, watching him over anything else. He stopped again just a moment later, slipping through a set of open double doors with you. A gleaming Pontiac Firebird waited in the dark on the other side. Zemo manoeuvred you into the passenger seat of the car easily before taking his own place behind the wheel. The engine purred to life and you pressed yourself back as soon as you realised what he was going to do, your hand flying to his wrist where his own held the gear shift.

The Baron tilted his head towards you in question, his expression neutral. You swallowed hard. You were suddenly afraid of sounding silly in front of him.

“It’s a convertible,” you mumbled, not brave enough to meet Zemo’s gaze but equally unwilling to release his wrist. “What if they’re still shooting?”

He shook his head minutely, offering you a small smile. His manner was light enough to convince you to look up at him.

“Sam, James and Sharon will have taken care of the rest by now. It will be alright.”

After a moment of hesitation, you nodded. You didn’t want to contradict him, because this was so clearly his element and he sounded so confident. But your heart was in your throat. As he pulled out onto the dock, Zemo turned his palm upwards and slowly curled his fingers over yours, his knuckles now resting on the gear shift. He didn’t acknowledge the movement, the offer of reassurance, but it was more than enough to make you look down at your hands. And to realise how badly yours was shaking in his steady hold.

It was only when Zemo pulled up in front of the others that you could begin to trust that the fighting was really over, like he had said. He explained away the very nice car with a smirk and a comment about it being supercharged, and ignored the rather pointed looks he received from both Bucky and Sam. You knew the silent commentary was about you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to worry. You were putting all of your efforts into focusing on how Zemo was half-holding your hand, lest your mind ran straight back to how close to death you had just come.

The Baron, possibly the most talented reader of people you had ever met, no doubt knew this. And he allowed it anyway.

You stayed silent on the drive to the airport, only moving at all once you arrived because Zemo lightly tapped your hand to draw your attention to him.

“It is time to leave,” he told you quietly, again ignoring both Sam and Bucky’s silent disapproval as he encouraged you out of the car and onto his private jet. You took your seat onboard without any problems, but that changed as soon as you were in the air. Finally safe for the first time in days, everything that had happened during that time crashed down on you with an almost disorienting weight. You really had almost died. Sam, Bucky and Zemo had each had more close calls than you wanted to count. Other people had died, often at the hands of those who you were relying on to protect you.

You couldn’t say you were afraid of Bucky, but the man in Selby’s bar hadn’t been him. The Winter Soldier had still been just a ghost story to you, something which had been mentioned once or twice on the news a few years back. To see him up close, every bit the cold, emotionless killer he’d been described as, had been terrifying. You still hadn’t recovered from being forced to watch the injuries he had dealt out in the process of playing the role. Then Selby had been shot by a sniper, right in front of you, and the spray of blood which caught your arm had still been warm.

You had been at the wrong end of every single gun in the bar before you even met her, barely escaped with your life in the manhunt for you which had followed, and then that final fight on the docks –

Sam and Bucky continued their heated debate on the other side of the plane, turned away from you lest you were to overhear something sensitive. They hadn’t yet noticed how your vision was tunnelling, or the way your chest heaved under an imaginary pressure which you couldn’t breathe through. When their hissed words faded into white noise, neither one looked up long enough to see the silent tears tracking down your face.

But Zemo clocked and catalogued your every single unspoken cue, seeing the oncoming panic attack before it really even started. He finished his whiskey at the plane’s minibar and casually stepped over to you from where he had been preparing to pour himself a second glass. You hadn’t noticed how violently your hands were shaking or how your nails were digging into the expensive leather arms of your seat, but it became apparent as soon as Zemo gently slid his hands around yours. You looked up sharply, surprised, but stood without question when he indicated that was what he wanted you to do. Your hearing cut back in, sudden enough that your own breaths sounded like thunder.

The Baron was full of an easy, relaxed confidence, watching you steadily and catching you up in his gaze without effort. You stammered, your lips moving even as you failed to produce a single word. Zemo’s hands were warm where he had only recently taken off his gloves, but he didn’t seem to mind that yours were cold and clammy. You again found yourself staring at his eyes. They were dark now, in the relatively low interior lighting of the plane. You couldn’t pick out the golden highlights in his hair either. He lightly smoothed his thumbs over your knuckles, never once glancing away from you. The coat he had yet to remove blocked your view of Sam and Bucky, and you were grateful that you didn’t have to worry about them for a moment.

The longer he just stood quietly with you, patient and understanding without you needing to say a word, the more your thoughts turned to Zemo himself. To how unafraid he was to be seen comforting you, even with Sam and Bucky right behind him. How he hadn’t hesitated to find you at the docks and get you out safely. How he’d used his own body to shield you when the shooter had come out from nowhere.

Then, your tears started falling for a whole different reason. You realised, finally, that he made you feel safe because every time something had happened, he had protected you. Your lip began to tremble to your own horror, and you dropped your head quickly to avoid having to see Zemo’s reaction. Except he wouldn’t allow that.

He slid a finger beneath your chin and rested his thumb against your jaw, gently tilting your head back up until you had to meet his gaze. Your tears continued to well over despite your best efforts, but he wouldn’t let you look away. His expression softened and he tilted his head just a little as he offered you a small smile. The result was something lightly mocking, though he clearly didn’t mean it in any vicious way. He looked like he thought you were cute.

“Schatzi,” he cooed, drawing the pet name out for an unnecessary length of time. “You are safe now, hm? Now is the time to be relieved, not afraid.”

You couldn’t pull yourself together for long enough to even pretend to be insulted, but it didn’t matter because Zemo released you to slide his arms around your shoulders and back, pulling you close to his chest. He was quite content simply to cradle you there, his hand finding its way to the back of your head to stroke over your hair. Your arms curled around his waist in return as you tried to relax into him and let him help you to calm down. Without meaning to, you found yourself focusing on his sharp, expensive cologne.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?”

You flinched violently as Bucky snapped at Zemo, though thankfully you were too hidden in the Baron’s coat for anyone to notice but Zemo himself. He turned you both easily so he could face the supersoldier, keeping your head tucked into his chest.

“They are a civilian James, what did you expect?”

Zemo’s rough voice rumbled pleasantly beneath his ribs when he spoke, and it soothed you more than you would have expected.

There was a pause during which you could practically sense Bucky grinding his teeth. His next words were directed at Sam, accusatory.

“I told you we shouldn’t have brought them-”

“And I told you were couldn’t just leave them to be killed by the Flagsmashers because of us,” Sam interrupted. “I know this isn’t ideal, least of all for them. But we don’t have another choice.”

You personally chose to keep your face hidden against Zemo’s chest when you felt the weight of at least one gaze on the back of your head, possibly two. There was a moment in which nobody spoke. And then –

“Fine. But they stay with us.”

Bucky clearly intended for you to go and sit on what had become his and Sam’s side of the plane. You had no intention of being subjected to their arguing all the way to Latvia, so in an attempt to avoid addressing the situation, you said nothing. You tried to ignore the resulting hot prickle of embarrassment crawling up your back and neck – you were a grown individual after all, and you were standing there hugging a war criminal in favour of having a conversation with a couple of Avengers. But if you spoke to them, you would have to acknowledge that Zemo was in fact doing a very good job of calming you down. And then that you needed both the comfort and reassurance after everything that you had seen.

Sam, being used to counselling people with trauma, might have accepted that and offered you some advice. Bucky, on the other hand… That admittance would just be one more thing he didn’t want to have to deal with. You hadn’t wanted to be involved with this particular illegal mission either, and the last thing you wanted was to make any of their lives more complicated, but here you were.

You became hotter and more uncomfortable as the moment progressed, trying frantically to figure out what you could say to make yourself seem less of a fragile idiot in front of three soldiers. But, once again, Zemo stepped in and saved you from having to say anything at all. His hand was still cradling the back of your head.

“I suppose that answers your question, James.”

It was the same tone of voice he’d used when he’d brought up the notebook he had somehow managed to steal from Bucky, low and soft and meant to provoke. It worked – naturally – and there was a short scuffle during which you inferred that Sam had stepped between Bucky and Zemo (and yourself) before the supersoldier could start anything.

“Bucky, look,” Sam muttered, sounding pained. “If they’d rather be with him, then just let them. We’re on a plane, man, nothing’s gonna happen.”

You considered that with your earlier assessment of Sam – that perhaps he would have simply offered you advice – you had severely underestimated the man. He didn’t want you to seek comfort in Zemo any more than Bucky did, but he was willing to let it slide. You vowed to come up with some sort of reasonable explanation for them when you didn’t feel quite so exhausted.

Having apparently reached some sort of a begrudging understanding, Sam and Bucky started up another quiet argument as Zemo pulled back from you just a little.

“Accompany me to the galley, hm? You can choose your preferred blend of tea.”