Darksoulgemx - DarkSoulGemx

the empress (II)

MY MASTERLIST | PART ONE

This fic is inspired by the Empress card of the Major Arcana of the Tarot

pairing(s): helmut zemo x reader

summary: So You're Babysitting Your Ex's Pet Villain: How to Demoralize Yourself in 8 Easy Steps

words: 5,666

warnings: explicit (18+ MINORS DNI), smut, this part has all the good shit, dom!reader, sub!zemo, unprotected sex (no stated use of contraception), oral sex, cunnilingus, praise kink, degradation kink, roleplay, mistress & servant type thing, exhibitionism, riding, the reader makes zemo her bitch

additional notes: this is the second part of my 12k+ word fic that needed to be broken into two separate posts because it exceeded the word limit by A Lot. It is posted on AO3 in its original format, as a single chapter fic.

taglist blog: @rosemareblogs

.VII.

You don’t sleep that night.

You could blame the alcohol. Or, you could blame the screaming fire in your core, trying to pull you off your bed, out the door and down the hall to where you know the Baron lies in his own bedroom, probably half naked and wonderfully upright.

You slip in and out of consciousness, but never truly give in to the other side of sleep. It’s too hot beneath the sheets. You can hear Bruno’s asthmatic wheezing at the foot of the bed, and it seems like it’s booming throughout the cavern of the master bedroom.

When you rouse early in the morning to let the dog limp out of the room and down the hall, the alcohol hasn’t entirely worked its way out of your system, and has left you with the disorientation of a mild hangover. You’re not stumbling, but you’re parched, and so ravenous that the emptiness of your stomach lends itself to nausea.

Your movements are jerky and a little bit too slow as you move through the kitchen. By the time you rip open a fresh package of bacon, the pain in your stomach is so strong you think you might kill someone.

And that’s precisely when Artemis comes trundling into the kitchen, howling like she’s being tortured.

She hops onto the counter to investigate what you’re doing as you begin slicing the cuts of bacon, a frying pan already heating on the stove. She butts at your hand to try and get at the fragrant meat, giving you an indignant, “MRROW.”

You affect an unamused glare. “What, you think you’re the only horny one in this house?”

“May I offer some assistance?” comes the Baron’s voice.

Your ears start to ring with the rush of blood to your head as you turn to find Zemo standing two feet from you with a coy smirk on his face, holding a glass of water. When you blink at him, he opens his palm and gestures for you to give him the knife in exchange for the water.

You take the glass, and press the flat of the blade into his outstretched palm. He wordlessly nudges you to the side and begins to slice the bacon with such quick, careful precision that the fluid motion mesmerizes you for a second.

As you sip the water, your eyes follow the line of his hand up to his strong forearm, bared to you by his rolled sleeves, and further up until your eyes settle on his face. The scratches on his cheekbone are still bright red, but seem to have sealed up in the night.

The flapping of wings at the window heralds Dodie’s arrival, and you snatch up a piece of the raw bacon before Zemo can manage to cut it. The raven titters at you as you hold the scrap out to it, and you nudge your knuckle affectionately against its plumage. “Good morning, my love.”

You hear Zemo’s meditative hum from behind you. “So that’s who you presume to be meant for love.”

“Please, Baron. Animals are innocent souls,” you tell him easily as you stroke the raven’s beak. “They’re all worthy of love.”

“Whatever happened to ‘Helmut?’”

You pause as Dodie takes flight, feeling your blood humming through your veins with such a fever you think you may be turning red. His voice is quiet, much like it had been when he first spotted Nerissa, like he might not have meant for you to hear him say it.

But you turn to him, and he’s not looking at the stove or the knife, or anything else. He’s looking at you.

“Do you want me to call you ‘Helmut?’”

He considers you for a moment, his sharp eyes scanning you with growing warmth, like you can see a fire being lit within his irises. But then they go cold, and they drop to the stove without warning.

“What I want makes no difference,” he states with clinical detachment. “Perhaps it is best that you call me ‘Baron.’”

“Why is that?”

“Because, I made a promise to James,” he explains, and his voice has garnered a rough edge. “A promise that he told me to remember.”

Bucky’s parting snarl rings through your mind. ‘You remember what I told you, right?’

“What was that promise?”

“That I would remain a stranger to you.” He continues to conduct himself about the stove, tossing the bacon as if the conversation is of little importance to him. “And that if I don’t, it is with the understanding that he will, and I quote, ‘cut off my balls and use them as a hacky sack.’”

A litany of emotions bombard you at once, freezing you in space without any way to reply. First comes flattery, at the fact that Bucky still feels protective of you in some regard. Second, anger, because it’s not his place to be protective of you when he didn’t want to remain with you.

And third, frustration. Because now that he’s successfully gotten under your skin, Zemo’s doing the fucking right thing.

“And you intend to honor that?” It seems ridiculous that he would, considering Bucky’s “warning” sounds more like a schoolyard taunt and less like an actual threat.

But Zemo looks at you, and smiles warmly. “Yes, dragă, I do.”

You nod slowly, eyes falling to the floor, chewing on your lip because you can feel your frustration rising to the surface. “Are you trying to be a good man, Baron?”

He barks a laugh, and turns to look at you.

“In my life, I have been many things. A good man is not one of them.” Though he keeps his face evenly measured, you can see something pained within his gaze. “However, I shall make a valiant effort.”

You suck on your tongue as you watch him turn the stove off and plate the horrendous amount of bacon you’d decided to make in your stupor.

“I’m disappointed,” you say, just as he sets the plate beside you on the counter. He’s not a foot away from you now, and as you stare challengingly up into his eyes, you can see every little deviation his face makes.

“Are you, indeed?” He tilts his head slightly, and his lips turn up at the corners.

“Yes.” Taking the plate from him, you let your fingertips brush his, where they linger on the porcelain. “Here I thought I was supposed to be keeping a dangerous villain in line.”

You watch his pupils dilate dramatically, and a smile breaks across your face. That’s what you were looking for. Last night his eyes weren’t blown completely black because he was frightened of your pet snake. He liked that you were in control.

The low timbre of his voice vibrates through the air around you. “Didn’t you say that I do well when I listen?”

You hum, and slide around him with newfound purpose, allowing your fingers to trail innocently along the line of his belt. “Come to me when you decide who it is you want to listen to, Baron.”

You smile to feel his eyes scorching your back as you exit the kitchen.

.VIII.

The Baron is already out of breath.

You can’t imagine the inner dialogue he’s been through to get to this point, but the look on his face is earnest, like he’s two seconds from begging you on his knees. You allow yourself to smile at the thought.

You haven’t done anything to him. Not yet, anyways, but you can tell by the way he stands at the threshold of the conservatory with his fists clenched at his sides, his chest heaving and his eyes trained solidly on you, that it won’t be long before you do. Because he’s just played right into your hand, as you knew he would.

Bucky knew he would, too. Because the same thing happened with him, and history tends to repeat itself.

“Have you given up your valiant effort so soon?” You recline in your high backed chair, not unlike a queen upon her throne.

“It seems my villainy knows no bounds.”

Nerissa is asleep, coiled into a pile on the shelf of culinary herbs, but you don’t think he cares by the way he threw open the doors with barely contained desperation.

He steps into the room.

“Did I give you permission to enter?”

The Baron halts, hands flexing at his sides. “No, dragă.”

“Dragă?”

Behind you, rain dashes against the darkened conservatory windows, rippling down the glass like a waterfall. In the silence that hangs throughout the room, thunder can be heard echoing from the valley. You wonder how long it will take him to address you correctly, or if you’ll have to guide him there.

“No… Empress.”

You incline your head toward the Baron’s rigid form. “Very good. You are a smart boy. Now,” you cross your legs to tease him with the fact that you’re wearing nothing beneath your robe, “have you decided what you want me to call you? Baron, or Helmut?”

“Helmut,” he says almost too quickly. He’s all too eager, likely from a culmination of years locked in a prison cell without any contact, combined with whatever internal crisis he’s been having all day to break his resolve so quickly.

For that fact, you’re just as tightly wound as he is, the pulsing in your core echoing the way his trousers are nicely tented below his belt. But you’re not going to rush things along. He strikes you as a patient man.

You’d like to test that theory.

“So, you don’t want to remain strangers.” You run the tip of your finger along your lip, mostly to stop yourself from nervously tapping it against the arm of the chair. In testing his patience, you’re also testing your own. “You seem to have an issue following orders.”

“That depends on who’s giving them.”

You raise your eyebrows. Normally you would bark at him for speaking without being spoken to, but you do love to hear his rasping voice. “Do you think you’ll be able to follow my orders, Helmut?”

His eyes glow gold in the dim light. “Yes, Empress.”

“Then you may come closer.”

It’s a dance, trying to hide your own need while also feeding off of his. He crosses the room slowly, trying to conceal how his hands twitch to reach out to you. He stops just short of your crossed legs.

“Tell me, Helmut,” you say, revelling in the way his eyes flutter at the sound of his name, “were I truly a queen, how would you approach me to ask for something?”

His face is darkened with lust, his breath coming in swift bursts. “On my knees.”

“Show me, then.”

Zemo falls to his knees before you, his gaze remaining trained on your face. You keep your expression level as you move your leg with aching slowness and precision, ensuring that it brushes teasingly across the Baron’s growing bulge. He hisses through his teeth, and his hand catches your ankle to hold it there.

You tut at him condescendingly. “Did I give you permission to put your hands on me?”

His nostrils flare with the impatient breath he huffs out as he releases your ankle. “No, Empress.”

“That’s right.” You continue to rub the length of your calf just barely against his hardness, smirking at the strained grunt he gives you. “Remove your shirt.”

His fingers hasten to unbutton his blouse, but once they fumble a few too many times in response to your gentle caress against his trousers, he roughly yanks the closure apart with a growl, buttons flying as the fabric falls from his shoulders and exposes the lean expanse of his chest.

You make no attempt to hide the impish smile that stretches across your face. “Are we in a rush?”

When Zemo remains silent, dark eyes glaring up at you defiantly, angrily, you stop the movement of your leg against him.

“No,” he chokes out weakly, leaning into you to find that friction again.

“I thought so.” Graciously, you resume your gentle teasing against his trousers, and he visibly melts into you. “Tell me what you want, Helmut.”

He hesitates. He seems to contemplate his words before finally saying, “I want to taste and touch every part of you. I want to feel you come apart around me.”

“My god. A poet.” You smirk, dragging your calf a little harder against his bulge. “Run that by me again, and say what you mean this time.”

He sucks a breath through his teeth at the added pressure against his hardness, his voice tinged with a new kind of hunger. “I want to fuck you until you can’t speak. I want to feel you cum on my cock so hard that you beg me to stop. I want to mark you as mine, dragă. And I want the Winter Soldier to know it when I do.”

Your leg halts of its own accord, because his lewd admission has you clenching pathetically on air, the heat of your slick dampening the satin of your robe where it’s seeped from your cunt. You could make him wait longer, simply because he dared to use his own pet name for you instead of the one you’d given him. But you don’t want to.

You uncross your legs before him, then lean forward to grip his chin in a similar fashion as you did to wipe the blood from his face. “You’ll be content with what I give you for now, yes?”

He nods obediently, swallowing hard against your hand before vocalizing, “Yes.”

“And then, if you behave yourself, I’ll allow you the privilege of feeling me cum on your cock.”

You restrain yourself only for a moment, but the sound of the Baron’s stuttering breath prompts you to lean forward and pull his lips against yours. He stays there, allowing you to drink in the small moan he makes into your mouth as his tongue dances between your lips. He tastes sweet, like bourbon mixed with ripe summer fruit, meeting your lips with a fervor you haven’t known in years.

Your own desperation seeps into your voice when you whisper, “Touch me, Helmut.”

He obliges without a second thought. His hands slide up each of your calves, running along the length of your thighs and back down again, as though testing the waters. You kiss him feverishly, drawing him closer to you, his torso slotting between your knees to press against the edge of the chair.

His thumb slides up your inner thigh to brush along your slit, and you nearly let out a noisy whine.

“You are eager, aren’t you?” you force through gritted teeth, tightening your hands on his shoulder and jaw. His mouth breaks from you with a gasp, forehead pressed to yours for a modicum of stability.

“Yes.”

“Such a smart mouth, and all you can say is, ‘Yes?’” The sound of his desperate groan at your words only serves to spur you on, your hips jolting forward on your seat. “Why don’t you show me what that mouth can really do, Helmut?”

He affords two wet kisses along your jaw before he forgoes all propriety, and pushes your robe up to expose you from the waist down, pulling you forward until your hips meet the edge of your seat. Then his hands rake down your thighs as he dips his head between them, and his tongue slides between the lips of your cunt.

You suck in a gasp unexpectedly, grinding against his mouth as your fingers weave into his hair like they’re made to be there. He takes to you like a man starved, his tongue spreading you open and his lips devouring, and a swift flex of your fingers in his hair draws a moan from his throat.

“Such a lovely tongue. It always gets you what you want, doesn’t it?” You release your grip on his roots and stroke gently through his hair, like butter against your fingers.

Zemo hums a response, his lips closing around your clit to suck hard against it. Your back arches, a loud moan finally falling from your mouth, and he chuckles against you just before flicking his tongue across the swollen bud.

“You fucking bastard,” you choke out, nails digging against his scalp as you desperately rut against his mouth. “You like to hear how good you are, don’t you? How much you make me fucking want you?”

Your head tilts up seemingly on its own, pulling you to look at him. He’s watching you from beneath his lashes, looking like an absolute devil as his tongue drags through your folds and pauses just shy of your clit.

You can’t help the way your mouth falls open in a needy gasp, your fingers tugging on his hair once again. “Don’t you dare stop, Helmut.”

He obliges you by sucking your clit between his lips with spiteful force. You’re all too aware that his eyes are still on you, watching your head drop back as the muscles of your core tighten, your legs shaking where they rest on his shoulders.

Your orgasm is ravaging. Maybe it’s because it’s been so long since you’ve had a partner to bring you there, but the pulses seem to constrict every part of your body, hoarse cries stealing from your throat to mingle with the sharp sound of rain striking the windows. Your skin sings, breath shaking when the Baron draws away from you to rest his chin on your thigh.

Then, the fucker has the audacity to say, “Take your time.”

You don’t even lift your head up in order to watch how Zemo flies backward when you use the ball of your foot to shove him by his collarbone, hearing his soft grunt as he lands on his back against the floor.

“You think I’m not taking my time with you, you entitled little shit?” you hiss as you straighten yourself, your hands falling to the tie of your robe. He raises himself on his elbows, watching you with hungry eyes as you stand, shrugging the satin negligée from your shoulders and towering over his sprawling form. “No. If I wasn’t taking my time with you, you’d already be blissed out of your fucking skull. I want to hear you beg for it.”

The look on the Baron’s face is excitable, fearful, his sharp features looking younger and more boyish now as you bend at the knee and begin to crawl tantalizingly between his parted legs, running your palms along the inside of his thighs toward where he strains against his fly.

“Poor thing,” you coo, hooking your finger beneath the buckle of his belt to tug lightly against it, and watch him buck his hips along with it. “You really need me so badly?” You undo the buckle to slip the belt from his trousers, and use two fingers to release the button of his fly before sliding your hand across his bulge as you drag the zipper down. And then, the Baron surprises you.

He whimpers.

It’s not a sound you ever expected to come from him. Zemo is normally so regally composed, stoic and even-tempered with just a hint of malice below the surface. You expect growls and groans, deep, guttural noises with primal connotations. But not this. A pathetic little whimper high in his throat, so soft it’s almost like a sob.

You can’t contain your self-aggrandizing grin as you reach into his trousers to finally relieve him of his restraints, his cock swollen and hard and leaking against your fingers.

His hand comes up to grasp your shoulder at the contact, but you’re not about to let him guide you. You grab him by the wrist and pin his hand against the floor, watching him strain to hold back a moan as you stroke him. You can hear his nails scratch roughly against the floor when his elbows give and he falls back, bucking his hips into your hand.

“Oh, you like that.” You give him a languid stroke, feeling him rigid and pulsing against your hand. Beneath the pleasure of watching Zemo squirm against your touch is the undercurrent of, ‘I want to taste it,’ as your thumb drags the bead of precum down his shaft, and your mouth waters. And who are you to deny yourself the pleasure?

You lick him from base to tip, and feel him shudder against you. You know you’ve wound him up enough that he won’t last if you go at him like this for too long, but still, you close your mouth around his tip and take him in as far as you can, his hitching breath like music to your ears and his salty taste like heaven on your tongue. And then, you draw back slowly, giving him one long, hard suck between your cheeks before your mouth pops off of him, and he very nearly screams.

“No, no, darling, you’re not going to finish like this. Not before I give you what you asked for.” His chest heaves as you dip your head down and slide your tongue up the hollow of his stomach and the line of his ribs, pulling back just at the burst of hair on his sternum. “Do you think you deserve to be given what you want, Helmut?”

His hands land on your waist as you hover over him, staring down into his glassy, dark eyes and carding your fingers delicately through his dishevelled hair. He’s shaking, his skin is burning.

“Yes.” His voice is broken, like it’s been stolen from him and wrung so tightly that he can barely use it anymore. “Please.”

A smirk twitches on your lips. “What was that?”

“Please.” His eyes are searching, desperate, a look you’ve been familiar with before. He’s not above begging, at least not now. His hand brushes your cheek, stroking a finger along the side of your face with tender reverence. “Please, dragă.”

You take his hand, and press a kiss to his palm. “Since you asked so nicely.”

You skim your hands down the length of his body as you rid him of his shoes and trousers, not really trying to conceal your own haste anymore. Your need is already evident in the way your slick seeps down your inner thighs, wet against your skin as you move up his legs.

Zemo is sitting now, his arms outstretched and grabbing for you like he can’t be without you, pulling you against his chest because he said he wanted to touch all of you, not just your cunt, not just your mouth. He’s peppering kisses along your jaw and down your neck, sucking and biting, nails scratching, marking. He holds you so close it’s like he wants to intertwine himself with you entirely.

His hands find your hips. You make no move to guide them away. You run your palm up his chest as you rub against him, raising your hips to align him with your entrance.

When you sink down onto him, your name breaks in his throat like a swan song.

You, on the other hand, are so overwhelmed with the feeling of finally being filled, you’re clinging to him like he might float away from you, moaning against his neck as your walls tighten around his intrusion.

When was the last time you felt so complete?

Zemo’s hand strokes down your spine, raising the hairs on the back of your neck with the gentle caress, and his whisper is soft as velvet. “You’re divine.”

Your eyes flutter before you finally collect yourself, and you bite down on his shoulder as you rock your hips into his. He groans loudly into your ear, his chest vibrating against yours as you lift yourself up on your knees to pull back again.

And you push him flat down onto the floor once again before you drive yourself back down onto him with excessive force, biting your lip as he strikes deeper within you.

He gasps as you rake your fingernails through his chest hair, scratching deep red welts into his skin that mimic the ones on his face. He’s surprised, and delighted, and one particular swirl of your hips makes his face scrunch so preciously you’d dare to call it cute, if that’s a word that could be used to describe the Baron.

Zemo’s hands grip your hips, moving in tandem with them as you roll down onto him, a strangled whine leaving your lips. It’s been a long time since you’ve done this, and yet, you find that the movement and feeling is not something one easily forgets.

His hips erratically buck to meet yours, a tense sort of culmination building between you as you bend forward over him, your hand coming to rest on the floor beside his head.

“Is this what you wanted, Helmut?” The words fall from your mouth before you’re even able to process them. “For my cunt to be yours for the taking?”

His pants interrupt his words as he speaks. “I hardly think I’ve taken it.”

Your free hand closes around his jaw, a scoff issuing from your mouth. “That’s right. Remember that I gave you this.”

You’re so enrapt in his mouth as you kiss him, it takes a moment for you to register that the ringing in your ears is not, in fact, from your own sensory overload, but that it’s from your cell phone, which sits two feet away on a little antique footrest. You break away from the Baron with a frustrated growl, refusing to stop the rolling of your hips even as you knock over the footrest in your haste to shut the fucking thing up.

And then you see the caller ID.

“Well, well,” you laugh as you grind your hips into the Baron’s, your eyes flickering to his confused visage, “It looks like you really do get whatever you want.”

You push the phone into Zemo’s palm, as Bucky’s call continues to vibrate in his hand.

“Answer it,” you order, your eyes blazing into his as you straighten yourself, trailing a finger down his torso.

Zemo swallows, a hint of terror washing across his face before he clears his throat, eyes steeling and growing sharp. It takes you a moment to realize that you’ve just watched him put on the mask that he wears in daily life; he’s no longer Helmut, he’s Baron Zemo.

Nevertheless, his voice cracks when he answers the phone. “Hello, James.”

You can hear a vague chattering coming from the phone against his ear, his eyes staring up into yours with unadulterated lust as you continue to roll yourself down onto his cock.

“The phone was simply nearest to me.” Zemo speaks clearly now, but his voice is deeper than normal. “Is there something you wish to tell me, zimniy soldat?”

If you listen hard enough, you can hear the cadence of Bucky’s voice over the sounds of your own erotic gasps, watching the Baron’s jaw tighten when he drives his hips up particularly hard into you, like he’s trying his hand at warning you to shut up.

“Is that so?” he nearly growls through gritted teeth. “That didn’t take long at all. I expect you’ll be chaperoning me, then?”

Ah. So Bucky called to tell you that he’s coming to collect Zemo for whatever job he needed the Baron’s help with. It makes sense for that to be the reason he called, but similar to what Zemo’s apologetic expression attests to, you thought you’d have more time.

Might as well go out with a bang.

“Actually, she is right here,” Zemo says, his words coming out thick with anger and desperation. “Perhaps you’d like to tell her yourself?”

He quirks his brows at you, like he’s asking if you want to talk to Bucky. The little inquiry for your consent is almost heartwarming; as you reach to take the phone from his hand, you bend forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

And then you pick up your hips and slam down onto him as hard as you can, making him give out a moan that he strangles to a quiet grunt in his throat before it can be heard over the phone.

“Hi, Bucky,” you sigh into the phone, putting all your frustration into the two words.

“Hey, I know it’s probably late where you are, but I wanted to catch you before tomorrow. Something came up with the Flagsmashers, I need Zemo as soon as possible.”

“Well, that’s what you left him with me for, right?” Your breathing is coming hard through your nose as you try to choke back your own moans, because now Zemo’s hands are truly guiding your hips, and he’s ensuring that each time you fall down onto him, his cock is hitting that perfect spot within you that wants it most. “You don’t need my permission to come get him.”

“I just figured I’d let you know before showing up unannounced.” Bucky’s voice is tense, like he doesn’t like the prospect of seeing you again. “I’m sorry you’ve had to put up with him even this long. I hope he wasn’t too difficult to deal with.”

“On the contrary,” you gasp out as you sweep your hand up the Baron’s chest, taking in his face as he gazes up at you with what can only be described as adoration, “he’s been a very, very good boy.”

At your words, and a particularly well aimed rut of your hips, Zemo lets out a groan that you’re sure can be heard through the phone.

Bucky is quiet for a moment, before he says in the most disappointed tone you’ve ever heard, “You didn’t.”

This time, you sigh a quiet little moan of your own into the speaker. “Don’t be too hard on him, Bucky. He made such a valiant effort to resist me.”

You feel Zemo twitch within you as you rock down onto him, his fingers tightening on your hips as you toss your head back at the sensation.

Bucky’s voice is enraged now as he growls, “Empress…”

Your head snaps forward, and you stare directly down into the Baron’s dark eyes as you say, “I’m not your Empress anymore, Bucky.”

And you end the call as Zemo jerks his hips up ungodly hard into yours. You squeeze the phone in your hand just before your core tightens, and you launch it across the room and through the open door with a ridiculously loud cry, like everything you’ve been holding back all evening is coming out all at once.

You catch yourself on your hand before you can collapse against him, allowing your release to seize you entirely. You jolt forward into it, feeling your cunt pulse around his cock with your eyes screwed shut, searing heat exploding in your belly and sizzling through your veins.

You hear Zemo’s harsh cry at the same time as you feel his hands tug you further onto him, and then the warm rush of his release, sprung forth with the sensation of you cumming around him.

He hasn’t quite finished his orgasm when his hands slide up your sides to pull you down against his chest, his arm winding around your waist and his hand cradling the back of your head, hugging you to him as he continues to moan out his release. Your head dips into the crook of his neck, lips pressed to his collarbone while you’re lost in the aftershocks of your muscles pulsing against his hardness.

You lay atop him, breathing him in. It’s the only thing you can do. You can’t seem to form words. You suppose he’s managed to get what he wanted in that respect as well; you’re dumbstruck at the intensity of your orgasm, the fact that you’ve thoroughly debauched yourself in the proverbial face of your ex, and that in less than eight hours, the man holding you like a treasure will be whisked away by said ex, likely never to see you again.

You try to burn it into your memory that Helmut’s sweat-damp body tastes of salt, and smells of sandalwood.

You remain like that, with his arm hugging you to his body and his thumb stroking circles against the back of your head, while he slips from you and his breathing slows.

Eventually, you’re able to find your voice again when he croaks out a gentle, "Thank you."

“It isn’t always like that with me, you know,” you mutter, your voice echoing in the dip of his collarbone.

“Is that so?” His voice vibrates against where your mouth is pressed to his skin.

“Yeah. Sometimes, I like to be on the receiving end.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

You raise your head, your nose brushing the stubble on his jaw as you find his eye. “Next time?”

“Yes, dragă.” His thumb continues its gentle caress of your head as his eyes search your face. “There will be a next time, if you desire it.”

“Of course I desire you, Helmut.” His breath audibly stutters when you say his name, his arm tightening around your waist.

“It… relieves me to hear you say that.” His eyes flutter shut when you press a kiss to his jaw.

“But you have to leave in the morning. And Bucky might actually kill you.”

“Don’t worry about that. I believe I can talk down our zimniy soldat.”

“I have no doubt about that,” you say with a small laugh, and rest your head in the crook of his neck again. “But he’s definitely not going to be bringing you back here, that’s for sure.”

“Have no fear, dragă. I know where to find you.” Helmut’s hand strokes down the back of your neck, beginning a gentle descent along your spine. “One trait we villains have in common is that we know a good thing when we see one.”

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darksoulgemx

3 years ago

hello dark mode users :)

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🔭

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darksoulgemx

1 year ago

im a person who wants to do lots of things trapped inside a body that wants to SLEEP at all times

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darksoulgemx

3 years ago

Opposites attract • Niki Lauda Imagine •

The marriage had been talk of the racing tracks and the racing media for MONTHS now. No one could believe the fact that THE Niki Lauda, rule follower asshole extraordinaire, had not only married a woman half his age, but one such as HER. Covered in tattoos, metal in her face, and a crazy personality to boot. They were such opposites that everyone thought it was a play for attention. His rivalry with James Hunt was getting heated and in order to keep the attention on him, he'd gone out and done something crazy. But that wasn't true at all. Your relationship with Niki was real.

You stood by his side and supported him no matter how crazy the plan or how much of an asshole he was. You would gamble that you were the only person who DID check him on his attitude towards you at points. You understood it was his defense mechanism especially when he was stressed. But you made it VERY clear that it gave him no right to treat you like shit. That if he needed to vent you were always there. But do NOT take it out on you. And he was flabbergasted at your outburst at first, but then he began to change his attitude towards you and he would rant but not AT you. Rather TO you. And you were happy to listen and throw the occasional cuss word or insult in there as well in agreeance.

He loved the way you weren't scared if anyone's opinion of you. How you did and said what you wanted and when you wanted. He especially liked it when James was insulting him and you unleashed your firey forked tongue and gave him the insulting of his life infront of his women, taking him down a few pegs. He liked the fear in Hunts eyes as the fire in yours sparked to life and you stepped towards the blonde as if you were death herself coming to drag his soul to the depths of darkness. It made his heart swell to know you were fiercely loyal and protective of him, he'd never had that before.

He loved the way you listened to his concerns without blowing him off as arrogant or scared of losing. You had begged him not race that day. Told him that it was OK if he sat that one out. That it didn't matter what the other drivers thought. Trust his gut. Don't do it. But his arrogance had pushed him to get into that car and on that wet track even though he knew there was more than that 20% chance he didn't usually push. And he had crashed. He felt the flames licking his skin as he was dragged from his car. And he felt your hand in his the whole time he was unconscious. He heard you tell the priest to "kindly fuck off cause he's not dead yet." He wanted so badly to chuckle but he couldn't move. Couldn't respond. Could only rattle what little air he had in his lungs. But you were there through it all. The painful bandage changed and procedures. You didn't flinch. You held onto his hand with deadly determination in your eyes and looked at him with nothing else but pure love, giving him pep talks that would cause nurses and doctors to look at you with pity and confusion. But you didn't care. He was YOUR Niki. And he was gonna kick ass.

And when he finally did come back to the track, you were right by his side. Ever the overbearing wife. "Niki, did you take your pills?" "Niki, it's water time. Drink up." "Niki, don't forget to change your bandages before the race." But he couldn't bring himself to be the tiniest bit angry or annoyed. He was grateful you were by his side keeping his already fragile health in mind. And he knew it was so he would be able to keep racing. He knew that was your motivation. His motivation. So when James Hunt made his was into his bay and began speaking to him, you weren't happy. At all. The accident was HIS fault. And Niki confirmed that to him. But when Niki decided to forgive him, you begrudgingly did too. If Niki could, you could too you supposed.

But when that damned press conference happened, you were uneasy. You knew these fucking reporters were like vultures. And one of them would manage to engage you by being an insensitive fuck. And you were right. "Niki, what did your wife say when she saw you? how do you expect your marriage to survive this?" The heat that surrounded your body as your blood rushed through your ears was almost unbearable. You clenched your fists and took a deep breath. "She said, sweet, you don't need a handsome face to drive, only a left foot." The room laughed in acceptance but the reporter pushed and it was enough to make what little patience leave you body. "Im serious. How do you expect your marriage to survive when you look like that?" You stormed towards the table Niki was sitting at, reporters turning towards you and gasping. You leaned down next to where Niki was sitting and moved the microphone towards yourself as he looked up at you in confusion. "Im sorry I'm not that shallow to think that looks is all that makes up a relationship. And if you do, well, God do I feel sorry for your wife. I told the priest Reading his last rites to fuck off because he wasn't dead yet. And here he sits. A marriage is until death. Through thick and thin. Sickness and in health. Though I wouldn't expect you to understand that. Fuck you. Press conference over." You said and grabbed Nikis hand, pulling him up and out of the room as cameras flashed, Niki following behind you in a daze.

When Niki decides to race in Japan you feel a anxious sickness building up in your stomach watching him get into his car. These conditions were way worse than the ones that caused his accident. And whilst you didn't say anything, not wanting to cause an argument, Niki could see the fear on your face. And that's when his plan cemented in his head. He would never again put you through that sickness that settled in your stomach whenever you thought back to the crash. He would never again leave you wondering if you'd be a Widow before you even got started. He would make decisions with you in mind from now on. So when he pulled back into the bay after the first lap and killed the engine, pulling off his Helmut you jumped into his arms and he caught you with a smile on his face. He would never again leave you. No matter what.

The day his father came knocking, wanting to reconcile now that his son had made something of himself and made him eat his own words, you were having none of it. You made it VERY clear to Niki that this was a power play. Not a 'I miss my son genuinely' move. He was torn. But you explained to him that you had lived around narcissistic people your whole life and they would leave when you had nothing to offer them and then come crawling back to drain you when you did. And after a long talk between the two of you, he declined his father's offer of a renewed relationship, to which the man angrily spat insults which hit Niki where it hurt and left him in peices once again. Peices you were left to pick up and reinforce with love. You wouldn't ever let anyone hurt Niki again. You swore it.

When Niki began to teach you how to drive F1 cars, it was a debacle. You were a MESS. It took everything he had to not throw his hands up and walk away, giving up. And eventually, you got it. He often got annoyed at how silly you acted doing it but he came to realize that whilst his happiness in his car was strictly business and hidden, yours was a childlike joy that you had no issues showing. And he accepted it wholeheartedly and even came to enjoy it. Soon it was a hobby for you that you both partook in in the off seasons for fun, much to the Ferrari teams amusement. Enzo Ferrari himself even visited the track a few times to watch you two horse around in mock races on his track.

The next season you two are back on the race track, this time with your new knowledge of the cars and races and a brand new, Ferrari red jacket with the 'Y/N Lauda' across the back of it over top the giant Ferrari logo. Officially apart of the team, though just starting out in the F3 leagues with Nikis help. This drives the media CRAZY. No one saw this coming. Not even you. The press fights over interviewing the both of you together, the dynamic duo, the Laudas. Husband and wife Formula One and Three racers. What a sensational story.

A/N: this one just kinda flowed. Hope you like it!

Vikings Masterlist

Tall tale: Ivar x Reader One-Shot

Endless Love: Modern Ivar x Reader One-Shot

The Olive Branch: Modern Ivar x Reader One-Shot

Falling Together (Complete): Ivar x Reader In which Ivar and reader are wed for an alliance. Part 1/ Part 2/ Part 3/ Part 4

Contending the Flame (In Progress): Ivar x Nun!Reader Part 1/ Part 2/ Part 3/ Part 4/ Part 5/ Part 6/ Part 7/ Part 8/ Part 9/ Part 10/ Part 11/ Part 12

Chase the Sun: Modern Floki x Reader

Saturated: (One-shot) Ivar x Reader Ivar thinks he’s found a daughter of the goddess Ràn

Will continue to update frequently!

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darksoulgemx

2 years ago

Targaryen takeover •Ivar The Boneless•

When the guard had burst into the dining hall yelling about an army of men and women breaching the shores of Dragonstone they hadn't been too concerned. When asked what banners flew on these ships the guard had said that he did not recognize them and that the ships had been oddly shaped. Daemon had snorted and stood, pulling dark sister from its scabbard and motioning for the guard to show him. The two had left the dining hall to find a window to look out of and Rhaenyra and her children had followed. When they did finally gaze upon the ships they were indeed odd. They weren't ships. More like giant boats. With bright colored sheilds lining the sides of each and long oars coming from small windows to manually propell them and serpents with open mouths open in a roar carved in the front and back. And the people were dressed oddly in leather and chainmail, carrying colorful Shields and axes, swords, and Warhammers. They were easily slaughtering the small army dragonstone boasted as they disappeared into the courtyards below the Keep. Daemon turned to his family with a grin on his face. "I have never seen anything like these people. But I have heard stories. Vikings they are called. They sail to any land they can and they plunder and conquor. Which means they don't know about us or our Dragons." Rhaenyra was a bit more worried. "What do we do?" Daemon just grinned wider. "We give them a fight. We show them they have severely underestimated us. Mount your Dragons. Its time for a battle." He said.

Ivar had been the first one to enter the courtyard, crawling on the ground and taking out the few soldiers that were there before sitting against an abandoned wagon. Blood covered his face and he clapped his hand against his bloodied axe in madness as more came rushing at him. "Do you know who I am?! I am Ivar the Boneless! You can't kill me!" He threw one of his axes and it lodged itself into a nearby soldier. The group moved forward but froze at the overhead roar that was heard along with the sharp sound of great flapping wings. The soldier in the front only smirked at the cripple before he began to back away, his men following. Ivar didn't know what was happening. And before he could move an inch, a hulking shadow flew overhead and another roar was heard, deafening him as he finally looked up just as a great horned white dragon landed a few feet infront of him. He didn't get to register what was happening before the beast opened its maw and roared into his face, hot breath fanning his entire body.

Saelerys was more than happy to oblige when Daemon had told her to land her dragon in the courtyard because he was the smallest and could fit. Overhead she could see one lone viking leaning against an abandoned cart. She guided Centurion towards where she wanted him and the great beast gave a roar to alert their knights to get out of the way. Once they were she wasted no time in landing in front of him. Allowing Centurion to roar in the vikings face. When Centurion closed his maw and leaned his spiked head down so she could see, she was met with a bloody face in clear shock. The first thing she noticed is how handsome he was. Even covered in blood and wounds. The second was that both his legs were strapped together with a bunch of buckles. She furrowed her brows and frowned as she tried to work out why. But she didn't get very far before her attention was pulled from him and to the left of the courtyard where vikings began to pour into the open space. Centurion straightened up and let out a low rumble which seemed to catch the leaders attention. He stopped dead in his tracks and so did the others. He looked truly terrified of the scene in front of him. Which would make sense if what Daemon said was true about these people not knowing about Dragons. She stared the man down as Centurion began to back away from the one on the ground, his large feet causing the ground to rumble beneath him. He swished his spiked tail and it hit a bridge behind him, causing a divet and rubble to rain down. She held tight to his saddle and watched the way they all quickly lost confidence and realized how big of a mistake they made as her family came into view above them, caraxes dwarfing all of the other Dragons with his massive size, making them all look like babies compared to him. "Surrender or die by dragonfire. Your choice." She called down to them. It took a few seconds before they began throwing down their weapons. "Seize them all!" Daemon called down from above and the remaining knights moved in quickly, grabbing everyone they could. As one stepped forward to the man still on the ground she spoke "Not that one." The knight looked at her before giving a nod and moving off to help his fellow soldiers. The man looked at her in what she would swear was awe. "You will be coming with me." She undid the straps that held her legs in the saddle and slid down Centurions great wing. When her feet hit the ground she turned to the dragon and caressed his giant face. "Good boy." It nuzzled into her touch and huffed through its nostrils before blinking its great eyes at her and taking to the sky again when she stepped back. She turned to the man. "Welcome to dragonstone, Viking." She said sarcastically.

"I'm curious. What prompted you to decide to raid Dragonstone?" Daemon asked the man, who was now propped up in a chair in the war room, as he popped a grape into his own mouth, his dinner having been interrupted. Her mother was behind Daemon, ever the regal and stoic vision. Saelerys was on the left of the man gripping the war table and leaning forward, removing red peices and leaving the amount that now made up their army numbers. The man said nothing but continued to glare at Daemon. But Daemon just chuckled like it amused him. "You know, I like you. You're much like me. I admire the confidence and bravery. I do. But unlike me, you don't have legs that can help you escape your current prison. And I'm not a patient person. So if you'd like to keep the use of your other limbs, I would start talking." The man seemed to contemplate before he answered in a heavily accented voice. "We were told of a place. Westeros they called it. They said there was treasure beyond our wildest dreams. And that if we could conquor it, we'd be powerful. In charge. Of all of it." Daemon gave a thoughtful look. "This person was right. However they missed one tiny detail. Can you guess?" He glared at her uncle. "The flying beasts." Daemond nodded in fake enthusiasm. "Yes! Dragons! That's correct! And do you know something else?" Silence. "Only our family, the targaryens, the Velaryons, can tame these Dragons. Can ride them and command them. And can you guess who sits that Throne you seek?" More silence. "Yes. Targaryens. And there's far more Dragons where you were headed. Dragons bigger than what you just saw. Hundreds of years old. They have known war and wiped out entire civilizations. So I would say whoever gave you this information either wanted you to die on this adventure of yours or they were just stupid." The man clenched his fists. "Now, what do they call you?" Daemon asked. "I am Ivar the Boneless." He said proudly. Daemon raised a brow and smirked amused. "Clever." He mused. "So Ivar the Boneless, who gave you this information?" Saelerys knew what Daemon would do with this information. They would go to war with whoever it was.

She watched the vikings get back onto their ships and their men load onto their own ships, all flying the targaryen banner with the red 3 headed dragon. Her grandsire had been alerted to the threat and had agreed it needed to be dealt with swiftly. He had sent men of his own to meet them on dragonstone, flying the green 3 headed dragon banners. Daemon had offered the Vikings a treaty. They both now had a common enemy. Work with us to take them down and we let you go free. You may return to dragonstone if you wish in the future and you may call upon us for help just as we may do to you. In exchange you will leave westeros out of your ambitions of conquering and plundering. Ivar the Boneless had agreed almost instantly. It was too good of a deal to pass up. He wasn't stupid. And so his people and brother were freed from the dungeons and taught how to fight side by side with the Dragons and the knights. Hvitserk had been untrusting and hesitant at first but he quickly learned that Targaryens kept their word. He started to relax once he'd seen his brother be fit for new leg braces, courtesy of Rhaenyra. She had seen him crawling around and had asked if that's how he always traveled. He had told her about his previous leg braces that had been lost at sea and she had ordered a new pair be made from the finest velarion steel. Both Ivar and Hvitserk had been shocked at her generosity and friendliness. But they both had come to know that this was the way they were. The only time they were anything but was in the face of a threat it seemed.

Everyone was loaded and ready to set sail. Except Ivar and Hvitserk. The two had been given an opportunity they couldn't pass up. And that was to travel on the backs of Dragons. They had gladly put Floki in charge of the boats and had stayed on land as they set sail. They watched Daemon and the Velaryon siblings say their farewells to Rhaenyra, who wouldn't be joining as someone needed to stay in Dragonstone before they began the walk to the dragon pits.

The dragon pits were warm and dark. The grumbles of the Dragons filling the silence. The brothers watched as dragons were led out one by one on long chains, like loyal dogs. Watched as each rider mounted their respective dragon, as their chains removed and the beasts calmly walked from the pit and into the open salty air before they took flight. Before long it was their turn. Hvitserk would be riding with Lucerys. The youngest of the Velaryon children. He was skeptical at first, a child controlling that huge beast thousands of miles in the air? But he had watched the two interact and it was clear that not only did they have a bond, but his dragon, Arrax, was an extension of himself. So he climbed onto the dragon after the boy, stumbling a bit and struggling at first to pull himself up but once he did, Lucerys reached down to buckle Hvitserks legs into the saddle. He trusted Arrax. He didn't need them. They were off before they knew it. "SOVETES ARRAX!" And Arrax obeyed, climbing steadily into the sky, Hvitserk letting out a yell of surprise. And then it was Ivar and Saelerys turn. She mounted Centurion and settled herself before being handed both Ivars braces and his crutch, his weapons and sheild having been already attached to Centurion earlier. She moved to secure them tightly so they would even move as they flew. And then she made Centurion get on his belly before she leaned down and took Ivars hands in her own and pulled him up whilst the dragon masters pushed him up from his legs, carefully as to not break any bones. Once he was settled she strapped his legs into the saddle and ordered Centurion to fly. "SOVETES CENTURION!" And he did.

Ivar had never felt better in his life. The wind on his face and the slight jerking of the beasts body beneath him as it flew and swooped down so they were right over top of his viking ships. He looked down at them and caught Flokis eye as the man laughed like mad seeing Ivar flying. He'd never felt this free in his entire life.

King Harald didn't know what had hit him. They had come at night. And since Herald hadn't known he wad being marched against, he hadn't been prepared. The foot soldiers breeched the land first. And they fought majority of the soldiers that were sent out to meet them. But once the Dragons had revealed themselves, most of his men refused to fight, dropping their weapons and fleeing the dragon flame as it scorched the land as they flew overhead. King Herald himself had tried to flee. But Hvitserk had caught him before he had hit the Woodline. He was forced on his knees infront of Daemon, caraxes behind him. "You are the one that sent them to westeros?" He asked. He could see it register on Heralds face. "Hmm." Daemon hummed knowing his answer. "Tell me, did you send them knowing about us?" Herald glared into his eyes. "Yes." Ivar cursed and began to move forward but Saelerys placed a hand on his shoulder. A silent warning. Let Daemon handle it. You will have your turn. He swallowed hard but stayed still. "And what did you hope would happen?" "They would do the work to conquer westeros and I'd wipe them out and take it for myself, or they'd be roasted. Either way they would be out of my way." He spit. Daemon laughed. "And how did that work out for you eh?" Herald said nothing as Daemon backed away. "Hes all yours. He's not worth my dragons breath." He said. Hvitserk dragged him up and between two posts in the ground and began tying his arms and legs to each post.

"So that is called a blood eagle?" Saelerys asked Ivar curiously from her spot standing next to him, watching the punishment. "Yes. It is because with his lungs pulled out that way he looks as if he has eagle wings." He explained. She nodded. "I see." He turned to her. She was quite beautiful. With her silver hair and Lilac eyes, Pale Skin and full lips. But he was a cripple. No one that beautiful and powerful could ever love someone like him. He'd heard it all his life. So he put his walls back up.

After a few nights in camp they decided to make their way back to Kattegat. And the Targaryens decided to follow. "When in strange lands.." Daemon had said. Ivar had once again decided to travel on Dragon, loving the feeling of freedom. But Hvitserk had decided to go by boat, citing that it wasn't for him. And by the look of his green face when they'd landed the first time he had to agree. He could see the crowd waiting up ahead on the docks as their ships docked first with the targaryen ships docking last.

Hvitserk was met by his mother as he stepped off the ship and onto the docks of kattegat. She immediately embraced him, having been worried about him as she'd dreamt of him and Ivar fighting and dragons. She thought the dragons had been a symbolic imagery. That is until: "where is Ivar Hvitserk?" She asked worried because she didn't see him anywhere. He pointed up "up there." She wanted to question it more when everyone around her began yelling and fleeing as giant shadows dwarfed the docks. She looked up. And to her shock not only where the dragons real, but there was her crippled son on the back of one them. And he seemed to be having the time of his life.

Some of the Vikings helped Ivar dismount the dragon, as Saelerys began to unpack his braces and crutch. Once he was set on the ground, she haded the braces to him and watched him quickly attach them. She grabbed his hand and pulled him up, handing him the crutch. He towered over her when he was upright. But she didn't mind. She turned and unpacked his sheild and axe and held them as he turned to greet his mother. "Ivar! I was so worried!" She embraced him immediately. "I am fine mother. Saelerys has ensured it." His mother gave him a questioning look and he gestured to the woman behind him, muttering to the dragon. She observed the girl. She was unusual. They all were. The targaryens. With their silver hair, Lilac eyes, and pale skin. But also because of their ability to tame dragons. She had respect for them. She admired them. And she owed them. For bringing back her sons safe and sound. For not killing them when they had the chance. For helping her sons exact revenge against Herald for his betrayal. "Please. Stay and feast with us tonight. We must celebrate." She said sincerely and Daemon inclined his head in agreement.

Saelerys had been amused with how the vikings celebrated. She had watched them drink and dance and carry on. It was so very free. Not at all like the stuffy balls the royalty and nobility of westeros held. But she had left a few minutes ago to get some air. So here she was on the beach, listening to the water lap at the sands in thought. But she was joined by someone else and as she heard the sound of the crutch hitting the sand, she knew it was Ivar. "Are you not enjoying yourself?" "I am. I just needed to get away for a minute to think." He studied her. She looked glorious in the moonlight. "Why did you not go off with some girl like your brothers?" She asked and he tensed. "I'm a cripple." He said like it was obvious, with an edge in his voice. She looked at him. "So?" He furrowed his brows. "So women do not want to be seen with a cripple." She frowned. "Thats a stupid reason." He widened his eyes. "Don't tell me your people are so fickle?" She asked seeing his surprise. "You are just as good as any other warrior if not better. I do not understand..?" She said. "I cant exactly please a woman.." He said quietly. "Oh. Well that is no matter. You do not need such an appendage to please a woman. There are plenty of other ways." She supplied like it was common knowledge and he knew in that moment that he was in love with her. "I-" He closed his mouth in shock. "Im sorry I shouldn't speak so vulgar. Forgive me Ivar." "No. It's alright. You are right." She smiled and turned back to the moon. They were silent for a moment before "Would you like me to show you?" Yes. He very much would.

The next morning saw the two of them much closer than usual which raised suspicions in everyone around them. And no one said anything until Ivar began to smile. A genuine smile at something she said. "Alright! What is going on?" Hvitserk asked the two of them, dropping his spoon. And everyone turned to them. Saelerys turned red and Ivar shrugged. "We have decided to court one another." Daemon snorted and Aslaug smiled. Hvitserk looked at the two of them with an open mouth in shock. No one said a word. And then "So...who's gonna tell your mother?" It would indeed be Daemon who would tell Rhaenyra why her daughter had not returned to Dragonstone with everyone else.

Darksoulgemx - DarkSoulGemx

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