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undercoverpena · 2 years

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Interesting (ii)

interesting (i)

Baron/Helmut Zemo x Fem!Reader | 1.5k | Smut, you’re warned — not promising it’s the best, but I’m rusty with smut.

[gif not mine]

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You should leave the room.

Cheeks warm, thighs pressing together. All signs you shouldn’t have even replied. Should have kept your mouth shut.

But you’ve already gone too far.

You could argue you did that when you kissed him to appease Selby. Not needing to sell it as well as you did, not needing to slide your tongue into his mouth or let his hands wander, scorching your skin.

The same way his eyes are right now. Them burning into you, making your throat dry, desperately needing to slide your thighs together because… you want him.

You want him to rip your clothes from you, to leave marks on your skin. You want him to pull on your hair and throw you over his shoulder and take you to his room.

Thoughts you shouldn’t have about the man you helped break out of prison. Thoughts that shouldn’t be summoned about a man who was dangerous.

And yet, you didn’t fear him. Not even a little bit.

You wonder if he expects you to leave, to shout at him.

A better version of you would.

An even better version wouldn’t have said anything, to begin with. You’d have taken the drink and then excused yourself.

Not give into your lust. Because that’s all this was. Lust.

He’s a criminal—a man who was able to impersonate your friend, who blew up a building. Whether spurred by loss and grief or not, he still did it.

It’s why you should leave the room.

Bury your face into your pillow and get yourself off. Not hope he’ll do it for you. Because you shouldn’t let him touch you.

“It’s not too late to run from me,” he says, wringing his hands in front of you.

Somehow, it just makes you want him more.

The challenge. The confidence. The fact it’s frowned upon.

Not helped by the fact he keeps staring at you. Likely undressing you, his words running through your mind.

It’s then you stand up.

Mustering some confidence. He doesn’t move when you stand up. Not even when you stop in front of him. He doesn’t reach for you, giving you a land chance to bow out, to walk away.

You don’t take it.

Instead sliding the hem of your skirt up with your fingers, sliding a thigh either side of his. Watching his eyes flash, him not taking them from your face as his lips twitch.

The warmth of his palm against your thighs almost makes you rock your hips. His aftershave, musky, and wooden, hits your nose as a strand of hair falls over his forehead hearing him clear his throat.

“It’s not too late to ask me to leave…” you tease, tracing your bottom lip with your teeth. “If you don’t think this will be interesting…”

He smirks, ever so slightly as his finger slides up to your hip.

“I was interested the moment my eyes landed on you.”

Your lips curl, eyes flicking from his lips to his eyes, watching him do the same as your body moves closer.

“Such a charmer,” you whisper.

Your hand finding the back of his head, nails digging into his hair as your mouth latches onto his.

He tastes like a mix of sugar and whisky, a muffled vibration as he groans fuck against your lips. You don’t fight it when he pulls you closer by your hip, desperately wishing his other hand slid further north on your thigh.

Your stomach knotting, warmth and need spreading through you. Suddenly desperate for friction.

Even more so as your body inches closer to him until there’s no space between the two of you.

The fur of his coat tickling your skin.

Practically feeling his heart thundering against yours as you lose yourself in him.

You welcome the way his mouth nips at the skin under your jaw, sliding his tongue up to the spot under your ear as you roll your hips.

For someone who has been locked up, and as someone who didn’t know you, he knew you. Letting you rock ever so slightly, his hand urging you to as you feel the outline of his arousal through his slacks.

And you let a whimper escape, just as both his hands snap to your hips, halting your movements. A stern look meeting yours, one you were prepared to protest.

Until he moves you.

Flipping you so your spine is against the sofa, hovering over you. For a second, you’re disorientated. Feeling your own lips remain parted, eyes staring up at him, frozen. Rendered useless as his eyes darken as he drinks you in.

“I should say,” he says in a low growl, “If there’s a likeliness that you’ll regret this, I implore you to tell me to stop now, Liebling.”

Watching his eyes trace your face, his finger sliding over your cheek, dragging it until it’s tugging on the bottom of your lip.

Your tongue peeks out, circling the tip of it.

Hoping it’s enough of a sign. A silent plea for him not to stop as he inhales, before clearing his throat.

“You’ve piqued my interest, Zemo. I need to know if you’re all talk.”

He laughs.

Low. Dark. One which makes you wet as he stares at you hungrily. As if he’s been hiding his thoughts from you until now.

“I assure you I’m not.”

You arch your brow, ready to speak. But, he slides two fingers in your mouth, pinning your tongue down.

“Shh,” he whispers darkly, “You’ll need your voice, Liebling. To beg me. To moan my name.”

Your cocky response falls from your mind. Mouth parting in surprise.

“Because I’m not going to stop until you’re calling me Helmut… and I suspect,” he continues in the same tone, pulling his fingers back, “It’ll take me making you come at least three times before you’ll even consider calling me anything other than the enemy.”

Fuck.

Almost choking on your own breath as his lips slide into a smirk.

And you guess he thinks he’s won. All set to reconnect his lips back to yours.

But, you smirk, before adding, “I hope you fuck as much as you talk.”

He smirks, but less cocky.

And then he snaps—his mouth against yours, groaning as he pulls your hips towards him. The two of you kissing with an intensity you imagine both of you have been running from, so much so, you groan against this lips.

Your nails claw through his hair, his hand snaking in between the two of you, making your mouth fall open as he slides his mouth down your neck. The feel of his touch in two places making you whimper.

Because you’re pinned, his body keeping you in place. Not able to move, or shift, to gain the upper hand.

And then he slides his fingers over your underwear, silently meeting your eyes, checking for permission—one you quickly give.

Your hand finds his shoulder as he slides his fingers inside your damp, silk underwear. His lips sliding into a devious smirk, ghosting his touch over you until you’re about to plead—to beg. Before he slides his fingers inside of you, filling and stretching you as your head falls back to the cushion.

And everything else around the two of you is forgotten.

Your brain forgetting you should hate him.

Just needing him, desperately craving more that he quickly gives you. Focusing on not moaning his name as he curls his fingers inside of you. His thumb swiping over your clit as you whimper.

You try to pull him down, needing to bury your moans against his lips. But he just watches. Eyes glinting, shimmering as he does so.

Occasionally teasing you by ghosting his lips over yours as you whimper more, and more.

“Sweet, sweet, Liebling. How long have you been craving someone to do this?” he whispers, darkly. His nose tracing your cheek as he inserts another finger. “A while I guess. I can tell. You’re so wet. So responsive. Look at me.”

And you do.

You meet his burning eyes with all you have. Not able to tear them away from him, unsure how you’ve let him command such power over you already.

“Is this enough? Or do you want more?”

Your mouth contorts, shapes and words want to blossom. Your mind rendering useless as you near your release.

Only able to mumble a mmm, wanting to say more.

Wanting to beg for his cock, wanting him to turn you over and fuck you until you forget your name.

And from the expression on his face, he can tell.

Zemo touching you with more precision, as though he has an end goal in mind, knowing he’s doing this to you.

You knowing no one else can do this to you. Hasn’t done so, as he said, in a while.

“For now, this is all you’ll have. Even if I want to fuck you on this sofa, on this floor. Even if I want you,” he continues, his free hand cupping your chin. “The wait is half the fun. Isn’t it?”

Your gasping, so close and he must know it from the sounds falling from your lips.

“I want those three, Liebling…”

Because even if you want it, even if you need it, you’re fighting him.

“So you need to let go now, before they’re back—your friends,” he adds, his eyes burning into you as you fight how good it feels. “Unless you want them to see you like this. Being a whore for me.”

“Fuck,” you groan. Swallowing his name. “Plea–please.”

Not wanting to think it, never mind mumble it. His name so close to the tip of your tongue.

His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing small circles as you clench your eyes shut. Your back arching, fingers digging into his side as he twists his fingers inside of you, hitting that spot you’ve been internally pleading for him to touch.

“You should give me the first one now, Liebling.”

And you do.

Your eyes shutting, your head swirling with pleasure. Your back arching into him, your moan filling the room as he continues his ministrations until your hand tries to push him away.

But, he only stops when your hand unclenches from his side, and then his hand falls from between your thighs. Pressing a pleased, chaste kiss to your lips as your eyes slowly blink open as you watch him stand, shaking his coat from his shoulders before folding it slowly.

Your eyes falling to his bulge, before studying his movements as he places the coat down. Adjusting himself as he licks his lips.

And then he pulls you up, catching you as you almost fall on shaky legs. Barely recovered from what he’s just done to you.

“Two to go, Liebling.” Your chest rises and falls, heat blossoming across your cheeks. His knuckles brushing your cheeks. “Now, go to my room, and strip.”

Clearing your throat, you suddenly find your voice again. Brain coming back to you. “And if I don’t?”

Helmut slowly retracts his hand, before pulling you flush against him by your hips, nose against your ear.

Feeling how hard he is. How much he wants you.

Ignoring the little quake in your legs even with him holding you.

He pushes your hair from your cheek, smiling as if he hadn’t of just made you see stars. “I’ll strip you here myself, and let your friends find you cock-drunk and spent on this expensive, but dusty floor.��

His hand retracting, burning his brown eyes into you as he smirks.

“You’ve got until the count of th—“

You move.

Your fingers are undoing your zip, hearing him chuckle—hearing his footsteps. Knowing he’s following close behind—heart in your throat, excitement bubbling in your stomach.

Opening his door, stepping through as you pull clothes from your body until cool air meets your skin. Turning to face him, eyes drinking you in.

And you’ve never felt hotter, never felt more attractive.

And then he slams the door shut behind him, his hands on you once again.

#Helmut Zemo #Helmut Zemo x reader #Helmut Zemo smut #baron zemo smut #baron zemo x reader #baron zemo x reader smut #helmut zemo x you #helmut zemo x y/n #helmut zemo x fem!reader #zemo x reader #baron zemo x you #baron zemo x y/n #zemo x fem!reader #zemo x you #zemo x y/n #daniel brühl x reader

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theartofimagining13 · 1 year

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Imagine:

You’re Mads’ +1 at an important fashion show, and at some point, he loses you in the crowd for a while. When you finally find each other, you’re wearing Daniel’s jacket.

{ Submitted by: @clockgirl94 }

#Submission #Don't look at me... you come to your own conclusions nasty kiddos lol #Unfaithful Fridays #Imagine Mads Mikkelsen #Mads Mikkelsen #Mads Mikkelsen x reader #Imagine Daniel Brühl #Daniel Brühl #Daniel Brühl x reader #Imagine

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rhey-007 · 7 months

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𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐥

Daniel Brühl x supermodel!reader | 18+ soft smut

Summary: You're a supermodel hired to model Zegna's new collection along side Daniel Brühl, but your session takes an unexpected yet pleasant turn.

Pairing: soft/sub/nervous Daniel x bubbly/full of energy reader

Warnings: 18+, soft smut, semi public sex (?), blowjob

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Daniel wasn't a model but he did pretty good on photoshoots when he was alone, at least he hoped so. With a partner though? That was a whole nother story. That is why he was a little stressed this time. He was going to work with one of the best, and prettiest, models in the world – Y/N L/N – for ZEGNA's new fall/winter collection.

He arrived to the set way ahead of time to make sure he would be ready when you arrive. To his surprise you were already there, waiting for him, getting your hair done.

„Daniel! "

You chirped happily, noticing him in the mirror in front of you. The man corrected his collar nervously with a smile before making his way over to you. Instead of shaking your stretched out hand, as you would expect, he kissed it gently as a gentleman should - which took you aback but you didn’t complain.

„I'm really happy to finally meet you”

„I'm glad to meet you too! "

Daniel's voice was like honey to your ears making your skin shiver. You took a better look at him as he stood near you. He was even more handsome in real life than you could've imagined. When he sat down you noticed his leg jump like crazy – he was stressed... You didn’t like that... Not because he could 'ruin' the photoshoot. No... You knew it couldn’t happen, he was too good at it. But because you were afraid of his well being.

„Hey... It's gonna be okay. You're gonna do great... As always "

You whispered with a chuckle, your hand making it's way over to his jumping leg and soothing it gently. Those actions made Daniel's heart go crazy. He felt like he would have a heart attack soon if you kept rubbing his leg.

„I hope so... Don't want to ruin your photos after all "

You gasped theatricaly.

„Oh honey! You're the star here! Not me. I should be the one scared. But I'm not, and neither should you. Cause I KNOW you're gonna do amazing! "

Daniel admired your enthusiasm and faith in him. It seemed as if you had it more than himself. He chuckled to your words while looking down and softly shaking his head.

„Okay, okay. Let's say I believe you”

„You have to believe in yourself and not believe me”

Through the whole preparation, the man noticed your flirty demeanour and affectionate touches. He didn’t mind that though, he found it nice to get attention from women - especially from you - and now he felt relaxed in your presence.

You were a flirtatious person who usually didn’t notice they flirt with everyone, but with Daniel? Ohh... You were heads over heals with that man - you were since you found out about him which was quite a long time ago - and you flirted with him purposely, hoping to take him out for dinner later.

„Tell me... Is there some lady Brühl waiting for you back home or can I steal you for a few hours after the shoot to go eat something? "

You asked between conversations. Daniel shook his head softly then turned to face you with a smirk.

„I guess you can be my lady for the evening”

He blurted our before realizing what he just said and after he did, he turned back to the mirror, dark blush on his face. What that woman did to him...

„I would be flattered, dear”

The cheerful smile on your face made Daniel's knees weak, good thing he was sitting or he would've fallen down right there and then.

When the photographer arrived you started your job. He put you really close to Daniel. His smell was intoxicating, making you crave for him even more, and the closeness made him even more nervous than before.

You were just supposed to be casual, relaxed, have fun with it, but Daniel was rather... Stiff... And not in the good way. So after about 10 minutes of work the man behind the camera sighed heavily signaling a short break.

„Hey... What is it? "

You asked Daniel, your voice soft, one of your arms resting on his shoulder while your hand played with the hair on the back of his head. He didn’t reply, looking around the room nervously and breathing heavily. His hand ‘unintentionally’ brushed against yours, making you grab it and interwine your fingers. You smirked devilishly and leaned closer, your lips almost touching his earlobe.

„Oh honey~ There’s no need to be so nervous. What do you say for this... I'll give you a little heads up, so you would relax and later you'll get an award if you do a great job, okay?’’

‘’Wha- What do you mean?”

“oh come on! You know what I mean~ I can feel you getting excited with my every touch”

You pulled closer, your bodies pressed against each other, lips almost touching. A blush spread across Daniel’s face, making you smile from ear to ear. His eyes avoided yours, he felt unprofesional, ashamed of his state, but you didn’t mind.

‘’Meet me in the bathroom”

You whispered and placed a soft kiss on his lips, before leaving. The man took a deep breath then followed in your tracks almost immediately. He didn’t even managed to knock on the bathroom door when you pulled him inside by his clothes and pressed against the door. You locked it then slowly dropped down to your knees.

„You have to be quiet... "

You whispered then started your sinful ministrations, without any objection from Daniel, to your surprise. With one swift motion you undid his pants and pulled them down, revealing a big bulge strained by his boxers. You bit your lip, looking up at the flustered man. His eyes were dark with lust, but his body didn’t show it, it was rather shy. You took a deep breath and freed his member. He was big, both in lenght and breadth, and you liked it... You liked a little challenge.

You licked it slowly from the perfectly trimmed bush up to the tip, then without any hesitation took him in entirely. The gagging motion signaling that it’s a bit too much made you pull away a little. You started to bob your head ahead and back, occasionally stopping to rub your thumb against his tip. You could see, and partially hear, that Daniel enjoyed it as he tried his best to quiet down his moans and grunts. You tried to be as fast as you could, as you didn’t have a lot of time, but also tried to tease the man, which you would usually do. You sucked him fast, almost bringing him to the edge to then pull away, smiling brightly and softly massaging his balls, then again and again.

Soon Daniel couldn’t take it anymore and started to quietly beg for the release. It made your panties even wetter than they already were. His pleas and cries filled the room and stroked your ego. You were so proud of yourself for being able to make one of the most handsome man in the world so vulnerable and crave for your touch. Soon you decided you tortured him enough. You went as fast as you could, massaging his balls roughly.

‘’Liebchen... I-I'm close...’’

Daniel breathed out before a loud moan escaped his lips and his warm seed filled your throat. You pulled away and showed him the mess he made in your mouth, before gulping down everything. You stood up, pulling his boxers and pants up.

‘’You did such an amazing job...’’

You praised with a warm smile, cleaned yourself up and left the bathroom after placing a soft kiss to the man’s cheek. You were really satisfied with your job as later, almost every photo came out perfectly.

After the photoshoot was done, you took Daniel out for dinner and late at night, he made you his lady Brühl, just as he promised.

#daniel brühl #daniel brühl x reader #daniel bruhl #smut

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mlmxreader · 2 years

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Scraps | Helmut Zemo x gn!reader

Anonymous asked: Hi! Can I request a Zemo x gn reader where the reader comes home with a bloody nose and bruises from being attacked? Zemo obviously gets really fucking mad and makes sure the people responsible for this will suffer.

summary: you and your best friend get jumped by some drunk assholes, and when your boyfriend finds out, he's ready to jump at their throats and make them pay... only, he has to make sure that you're alright, first.

tws: blood, injury, bruising, fights, alcohol consumption, swearing

It wasn't exactly like it hadn't been a long time coming, a bunch of assholes at the pub you and your best friend Frank often visited always making some sort of bullshit comment, and although you never threw the first punch, you and Frank had managed to get yourselves into a fight; sure, you worked well as a team, you were a fucking formidable pair and even your boyfriend Zemo had mentioned a few times that if there was anyone he didn't want to meet in a dark alley, it was you and Frank. But there were more of them than there were you, and while four of them held Frank down after kicking the shit out of him and even going so far as to knock his head against a fucking brick wall, two of them had started on you.

At least you could say you didn't throw the first punch; you and Frank were actually on your way home when they jumped you, taking you both by surprise. Of course you tried to fight back, but you could only do so much when Frank was practically out cold and you felt like you were getting your fucking teeth kicked in; at least they left you alone after they thought they had definitely knocked you and Frank out. But he picked you up, wrapping your arm around him as he helped you to get up and trudge home; the sight must have spooked a few people but you and Frank had gotten into worse scraps before. This was just a bunch of drunk assholes, this wasn't the likes of Billy Russo.

"You sure you're gonna be alright?" You asked, holding Frank's face in your hands when he got to the door, your brows furrowed.

Frank nodded, licking his split and bloodied lips. "Yeah, I'll get Micro to pick me up and patch me up - you gonna be good? Is Zemo home?"

You nodded, wincing a little. "Yeah, I'm not as beaten to shit as you... you wanna come inside and wait?"

"Best I don't," he told you with a shake of his head. "I'll wait on the steps outside."

"Alright, well... let me know how you're doing later, yeah?" You pulled away from him, steadying yourself against the door for a moment with a weak smile. "Y'know, we ain't had a scrap like that in ages - long overdue."

He dared to laugh, knocking on the door before he turned tail and yanked himself outside; you were worried, he was your best friend and he was badly hurt, but he was also the Punisher, he could look after himself. Micro would look after him. You went inside, groaning softly as pain shot through your shoulder, and you collapsed on the sofa, resting your head against one arm and kicking your feet up on the other, squeezing your eyes tightly shut.

"My god," Zemo breathed out, brows furrowed as he knelt beside you, one hand on your cheek and the other on your chest as he looked you over. "What happened? Tell me everything."

"Just some drunk assholes," you groaned. "Jumped me and Frank on the way home, beat us to fuck."

He clenched his jaw, shaking his head and working on getting you out of your clothes so that he could properly assess the damage; your nose was fucked without a doubt, you had bruises almost everywhere and it was clear that something sharp had caught your sides although it wasn't deep enough to cause any issues to your organs. At least there was that, none of it looked like it needed stitches. But you truly looked like you had been to Hell and back; he had to think quickly, discarding your clothes in the washing basket and setting everything up.

Liquor bottle. To steady his hands and to help you put up with the pain. Antiseptic. Bandages. Plasters. Painkillers. A cloth to bite down on. Kitchen paper. The speaker blaring 'How Many Tears to Nurture A Rose?' by Cradle Of Filth, if only to give you something he knew would cheer you up a little and would take your mind from it all. More than anything, though, he was angry.

How fucking dare someone bruise and bloody his partner? How fucking dare they hurt you?

He had more important things to focus on right now, like patching your wounds and making sure that you were going to, at least, not be in agony throughout the night; he was quick to work on it all, though. Blood soaked blue kitchen roll building up on the coffee table; empty plaster packages; a mountain of orange stained antiseptic wipes; a half empty bottle of Grant's whisky in your hands; a spit and blood covered cloth on the floor. The last of the strong painkillers finished off, the metal packet chucked in the pile with the rest of it. But it didn't take long at least, and Zemo was as careful as he could be; even though all he could think about was tracking those assholes down and making sure that they paid for what they did to you. Not so much Frank, you.

As he tightened up the last bandage, Zemo couldn't help but to sigh. "I'm going to find them, Bärchen, I'm going to make them all pay."

You groaned softly, offering him the whisky. "Can it wait til tomorrow? I'd quite like to see it."

He nodded, daring to smile a little as he traced the outskirts of the bruise on your jaw, knowing that he would give those responsible far far worse than a bruise. "Natürlich. I need to find them but... that won't be too hard, and I suppose Frank will want to join, too."

"More than likely," you tried to move to lay on your side, but Zemo pushed you down gently and kept you pinned there on your back. "Can I at least get in my own bed?"

"Not without help," he told you sternly. "It might actually be better if we both sleep here tonight."

You raised a brow, trying not to laugh because you knew that it would sting like a motherfucker if you did. "Why both of us?"

"Someone has to look after you," Zemo pointed out. "And as your boyfriend, that would be me. I won't hear any excuses."

"Fine, fine, alright," you mumbled. "You win."

"Thank you," he sighed, going to grab a couple of blankets and the pillows from the bed. At the very least he could make sure that you were comfortable. He set everything up, asking you if you were okay, if you needed anything extra, but you shook your head. "Tomorrow. I'll track them down tomorrow, and I'll make sure that they pay for what they did to you."

Watching Zemo make himself comfortable on the floor by the sofa, you let your hand drift down, letting him hold it tightly as he hummed softly; you cleared your throat. "Tomorrow... I think we all just gotta get some sleep for tonight. Pretty sure Frank's knocked the fuck out with some strong shit Micro dosed him on."

"I don't care about Frank, he can look after himself... but you... no one fucks with you, Bärchen, you're mine. I'll make sure they fucking suffer for what they've done."

He would, you didn't doubt it for a second; when Zemo got angry, he didn't just get even. Oh, no, he made whoever his wrath was directed at fucking wish for someone kinder, someone like Frank, they would beg and they would plead and they would sob and their snot would trickle down to their lips. But Zemo would drag out everything, when he got angry, he was more than dangerous. He was worse than you and Frank. Far, far worse. You almost wanted to pity those drunk assholes who had jumped you and your best friend, but you couldn't bring yourself to; you couldn't even force a fake beg for him to go easy on them. Zemo would make damn sure that each and every one of them would suffer, and he was capable of more cruelty than you and Frank were. He could be more cruel than anyone. At the end of the day, no one made Zemo angry, and those assholes were about to have an entire shit storm rain down on them.

if you liked this fic, REBLOG IT - you SHOULD reblog it; spam likers WILL be blocked. as will blogs that refuse to reblog or to give feedback. if you don't wanna reblog, then you'll get blocked; reblogging is the BARE MINIMUM. don't just "like", REBLOG

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norabrice1701 · 1 year

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Consequence

A Ghost!Horstmayer x Fem!Reader AU

Summary: “Seriously?” You say, sighing in vague annoyance. “A ghost?” You don’t consider yourself to be a superstitious person, and you certainly don’t believe in haunted things lurking around dark corners.

Of course, it doesn’t make sense. Of course, ghosts aren’t real. You just need your overactive imagination to calm down.

But then comes the night that changes everything...

Word Count: 6.3k

Warnings: Explicit 18+ NSFW smut; explicit language; references to 1918 pandemic and lost love; Horstmayer needs a hug

A/N: Last year, it started with a pirate!Horstmayer fic and now we have ghost!Horstmayer on this Christmas Eve. Curl up somewhere warm with something warm & cozy, and I hope you enjoy! And to those who celebrate the holiday - I wish you all a Happy & Merry Christmas 🎄😊❤️

You inherit the apartment from your Great-Aunt Alphonsine. Heartless as it sounds, you didn't even know that you had a Great-Aunt Alphonsine until the lawyer calls you.

“The care and maintenance of the apartment is part of your Great-Aunt’s estate. Should you choose to retain the dwelling, you will only be financially responsible for the consumables.”

“The consumables?” You echo in confusion. “What does that mean? Consumables as in… water and electricity?”

“No, miss. Consumables as in food, paper products, toiletries, and so forth. Your Great-Aunt’s estate has allocations for utilities, cleaning services, repair services, tax fees, and insurance costs. She was adamant that you shoulder no additional financial burden with the inheritance of her beloved home.”

On and off over the years, your mother has spoken of the estranged family that lives in France, but surely, this has to be too much. You’d never met Great-Aunt Alphonsine, and doesn’t she have any immediate family of her own? Or is this her way of trying to reunite the family?

Regardless, you still can’t believe it. Even now as you stand - still dumbfounded by the simple fact that you’re actually here in Paris - staring at the building’s elegant stone and wrought-iron facade, you want to pinch yourself.

Nearly overnight, you’ve gone from a cramped, nearly-windowless apartment to this sweeping, third-story, top-floor apartment with commanding views of the Luxembourg Gardens. Nearly overnight, you no longer have to choose between paying rent or paying down student loans. Nearly overnight, you find yourself faced with the decision of what to do with such a classy place, but you figure that you should at least see the interior before deciding.

And the interior doesn’t disappoint. Cozily appointed and elegantly furnished, the whole apartment proves an expert study in Edwardian class and comfort. Each room hosts gleaming wood fireplaces, lush rugs, and plushy armchairs and settees. The living room with a piano in one corner and a simple writing desk tucked in another corner looks like the perfect place to continue work on your novel. The dining room is warm and intimate, and blessedly, the kitchen has been updated with modern appliances.

The hallway hosts three inviting bedrooms and one sophisticated bathroom. Each progressive room makes you feel sloppy in your jeans and sweater, yet also puts you completely at ease. The old-world charm and elegance of the whole place should probably be intimidating, but there is something undeniably homey and inviting about it.

You make your decision and settle in right away. The living room becomes your favorite haunt and think-tank, while the master bedroom serves as your private lair. You’ve never known such stylish comfort or pleasant environs. In fact, it’s a marvel that your Great-Aunt has managed to outfit her home in a way that doesn’t feel old and stuffy but still retains the splendor of a bygone age.

As time passes, you meet the cleaning lady by name of Marie-Rose who tiptoes around on silent footsteps, and the all-around handyman, Georges, who is never without a jovial smile beneath his bushy mustache.

“This is an easy fix, mademoiselle.” Georges says, extending the ladder legs. “I’m glad that you called.”

“I appreciate that you came so quickly, but really, there was no rush.” And you mean it. Replacing a burned out lightbulb in the living room chandelier isn’t an urgent matter, but Georges wouldn’t hear of it.

“Well, Mademoiselle Alphonsine was just the kindest lady, and I wouldn’t want to do her an insult by way of you, now.”

Your mouth pulls to an awkward, closed-mouth smile. “I wish that I had known her better.” Or at all, really.

Georges unboxes the new lightbulb, nodding up at you with a reassuring smile. “I’ll have this replaced in no time. Don’t you worry, mademoiselle.” Despite your insistence otherwise, he refuses to call you anything else. “But keep an eye out for that ghost, would you please?”

He starts to climb the ladder, and you arch a dubious brow. “Seriously?” You say, sighing in vague annoyance. “A ghost?” You don’t consider yourself to be a superstitious person, and you certainly don’t believe in haunted things lurking around dark corners.

“Oh, you can be sure of it. Mademoiselle Alphonsine had many stories about her resident ghost - even said that she glimpsed him in the foyer mirror once. Eyes like golden chocolate, she said.”

“Golden chocolate?” You hum skeptically. “And I’m sure that every time this old building creaked, that was the ghost, too?”

Georges nods as he works. “Mademoiselle Alphonsine swore that he was always here - as a chill when she entered a room, as a phantom whisper against her cheek, as a fallen and broken object.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” You scoff, shaking your head. “I mean, it makes sense why a single, elderly lady living alone would conjure tales about a ghost when things went bump in the night. It’s the most basic trope in all of horror-dom! And once she believed it, I’m sure it just became easier each time something ‘supposedly-mysterious but easily-explainable’ happened for her to just chalk it up to her resident ghost.”

Georges laughs softly but nothing about it is comforting. “Then, don’t believe in the ghost at your own peril, mademoiselle. But far be it for me to speak ill of the dead - either Mademoiselle Alphonsine or her resident ghost.”

Of all the ridiculous nonsense. There are no such things as ghosts, regardless of what your Great-Aunt or her handyman think.

And yet… you can’t fully banish the lingering thought. Especially in the dark hours of night when the city grows still, when the building grows silent, when shadows dance on the walls. You start to notice the ambient creaks and groans of the centuries’ old building. You start to notice the reflections in polished surfaces, unable to stop the creeping moments of suspicion and the urge to do a double-take over your shoulder.

Eyes like golden chocolate, indeed.

Of course, it doesn’t make sense. Of course, ghosts aren’t fucking real. You just need your overactive imagination to calm down.

But then comes the night that changes everything.

The day has been absolute hell in a handbasket, and you need to lose yourself. So, you do: retiring to your bed with a half-full bottle of wine and your favorite vibrator. It has been a while since your last boyfriend, and you treat yourself far better than he ever did. Still trembling from your first orgasm, you writhe against the bedsheets, slowly teasing towards your second. Your slick, sensitized skin sings as you drive the toy harder, chasing the pleasurable swell inside you. The wood and plaster walls echo with your soft cries and whimpers - and in the moments your eyes wink open, you see yourself in the mirror mounted above the bedroom fireplace.

The debauched sight that you paint should probably be shameful, but you’re too far gone to care. Your hair fans across the pillowcase, sleep shorts and underwear discarded with your sleep shirt rucked up. With one hand twisting and pinching against your breast, the other works the toy inside you. The desperate heat builds to a crescendo as you drag against your white hot spot of pleasure, tearing a long cry from your lips as you start to boil over.

Glass cracks and shatters across the room, slicing through your fog of arousal. You scream at the sudden burst of sound, and the toy slips from your grip. Your body fights a new surge of adrenaline-fueled energy as you stare at the fractured mirror over the bedroom fireplace. Cracked lines radiate across the reflective surface originating from a point in the middle. Several glass shards have broken loose, now smashed against the polished wood floor.

Your heart races as you sit up to get a better look, overcome with the impending rush of your denied orgasm and the fear that bolted down your spine at the sight. Especially as you stare at the distorted reflection in the mirror’s broken remains. It looks… you gulp. Another shiver runs through you as you squint harder in the low light. The shape coalesces into a distinct, shadowed outline of a head and shoulder - and eyes.

Eyes that glint with golden chocolate.

You blink, and the image disappears. Or… has it even been there in the first place?

The thought keeps you awake longer than you care to admit. And ever since, you haven't been able to shake the unnerving feeling that you’re being watched.

Sure, it sounds cliche. Fuck that, it’s definitely cliche. You’re starting to be no better than your Great-Aunt, really: living alone in an old house with an antique mirror that had finally just cracked from age. You don’t need to let the power of suggestion get to you. Of course, there hasn’t been a ghost with golden chocolate eyes watching you in your bedroom. The implications of that are just too fucked up.

But none of that stops a shiver from crawling down your spine when living room floorboards squeak while you sit unmoving on the couch. It doesn’t stop you from giving the foyer mirror a suspicious side-eye every time you walk past or glimpse shadowy movement on its reflective surface.

All of it stirs traitorous, lingering questions to life. Has Great-Aunt Alphonsine been right? Does her home indeed have a resident specter of some sort? Could there really be such a thing as ghosts?

The nagging questions torment you for the better part of two weeks, not helped each night when you crawl into bed and stare at the bare patch of wall above the fireplace where the mirror used to hang. But finally, emboldened by another bottle of wine, you open an incognito browser window and let your search history spiral down a rabbit hole.

Are ghosts real

Why do ghosts haunt

Can you banish ghosts

Can you contact ghosts

Madame Lastra incantation

Dr. Vladimir Zugravs’s Collection of Spells and Other Curios book

The next day finds you at the National Library of France. Of course, the section you seek resides in a quiet, dusty corner of the archives that surely crawls with ghosts of its own. Fluorescent light bulbs buzz overhead as you scan the spine titles and catalog numbers. Eventually, you find Dr. Zugrav’s book and pull it from the shelf as your heart leaps. Thumbing through the pages, you glimpse all sorts of sketches - diagrams of plants, people, symbols - and page after page of obscure, occultist lore.

When you find the page entitled ‘Madame Lastra’s Incantation for Contact Beyond the Living World’, a forbidden thrill runs through you. Fuck, you can’t believe this actually exists, and worse… would it actually work?

Back in the warmth of your living room, you pour over the pages with rapt interest. It… honestly, it sounds so easy. Does it really only take sandalwood scented air and a red beeswax barrier coupled with the right words to contact the dead? You read the pages again and again, looking for the obvious catch. If it is supposedly just that simple, then why doesn’t everyone know about this?

But once you have the sandalwood incense and red beeswax candle, you wait until Saturday night. The fact that it’s Christmas Eve just happens to be a coincidence. You already told your parents that you aren’t able to come home for Christmas, and if you really have the chance to make a new friend, then… well, who wants to be alone on Christmas Eve?

So, you sit in the foyer and light the incense. As the woodsy smell permeates the air, you light the candle and let it burn for several minutes to form a blood-red puddle of molten wax. With careful movements, you dribble the wax in a line just behind the front door, spanning wall to wall as the book instructured. Admittedly, you do cringe at the sight of the vibrant red wax cooling against the finely polished wood floor - and god, maybe you should go to a therapist after this - but for now, you’re too committed to stop.

When the line looks thick enough - honestly, the book wasn’t too specific - you set the candle next to the incense and sit cross-legged, staring at the front door and the fresh line of wax. You turn the page and your breathing quickens. Adrenaline surges through you, taking a deep breath to listen to the gentle piano Christmas carols that play in the background as a low fire burns in the living room fireplace accompanied by the soft glow of a table lamp.

In a clear, purposeful voice - the book is incessant on that part - you recite the words. It sounds even stupider and laughingly implausible as your voice echoes off the woodwork, as if waiting for the punchline of some elaborate joke. But then… the fire flares in the living room from the corner of your eye and a wave of intense heat rolls over you. Lightning strikes outside the windows and roaring thunder threatens to burst your eardrums. Strobing lightning continues to blind you as shapes and shadows melt and shift around you. With wide eyes, you glance around as fear otherwise paralyzes you.

God, shit, fuck… what have you done?

Thunder shakes the building incessantly, but your blood freezes as audible, distinct footsteps creak down the hallway. Your heart sticks in your throat as blood pounds in your ears, turning around to see… an unknown man emerge from the shadows.

His thick chestnut hair and beard hold a neat style as he frowns down at you. He wears dark, high-waisted trousers of an antiquated fashion with a white dress shirt, matching vest, and tie neatly knotted at his throat. Firelight and lightning gleam off a wristwatch set against a thick leather band wrapped around his right wrist. He looks for all the world like he just stepped out of a late Edwarian-era photograph, and a chill runs through you.

He rests his hands in his trousers’ pockets as he comes to a stop at the living room threshold, his face hard with disapproval. “I understand that modern sensibilities have changed,” he says with crisp, Germanic syllables. “But have you completely dispensed with all sense of general propriety?”

You stare back at him, agape and lost for words. Too many questions overload your brain as you meet his sharp, golden chocolate eyes. Eyes that are all too familiar from a hazy moment in your bedroom’s shattered mirror.

He blinks those otherworldly eyes as irritation tightens the corners of his mouth, and he nods vaguely over your shoulder. “Referring, of course, to the mess that you have made on his floor. Terribly inconsiderate of you as a guest, considering how that red dye will no doubt leave a permanent stain.”

Your eyebrows climb to your hairline. “A guest…? But I live here.”

He shakes his head in slow reproach. “This is not your home anymore than it is your Great-Aunt’s or mine - we are all houseguests here.” He advances slowly, coming more into the flickering firelight and your pulse quickens as he continues. “But, perhaps you are not as worthy as she was - first, for damaging his floor, and second, in this unwelcome -.” His words stop short as his face pinches in open confusion and disbelief.

You freeze in equal uncertainty, watching his keen gaze fix on the roaring fire. Lightning still flashes all around - or, perhaps strobe is a more accurate word - especially as you realize that thunder no longer accompanies each bright bolt of light. Without another word, he strides forward with his attention clearly diverted from you.

With trembling movements, you push to your feet as you continue to stare at him. Just who in the hell is this man? He can’t just come into your house uninvited… or was he invited? You stand just inside the living room, staring at the broad line of his back as he pauses in front of the fireplace. He holds his left hand in front of the flames as if warming chilled skin, but the look of astonishment on his face makes your brow furrow.

Chilling realization creeps through you as he continues to stare at his hand in a mix of disbelief and reverence. You wet your top lip, exhaling sharply. “You’re Great-Aunt Alphonsine’s resident ghost, aren’t you?”

“I prefer that you call me Karl Horstmayer.”

You gasp as realization slams through you, and holy shit… the incantation has worked. The truth before your eyes stuns you as lightning flares at random, disorienting intervals. You blink away from him in your stupor, still trying to process it all, and your mindless gaze sweeps around the room. At least, until you notice that the familiar table lamp has just… disappeared. In fact, the fireplace and lightning are the only light sources around you.

Your mind reels at the implications, and you turn towards the windows that overlook the gardens across the street. It’s impossible to make out anything of the city beyond - no streetlights, no rustling trees - as if everything outside has been swallowed up by the soundless lightning storm.

Everything about that thought sends your mind into overdrive as your heart races. “Does… does that mean that I’m… dead?”

He shrugs a disinterested shoulder, still studying his hand. “What is dead?”

“Dead is how y-you’re a ghost.” Your words shake with mounting uncertainty. “And how I’m… I’m - where are we, anyway?”

“Why do you assume that I have all the answers?” His words cut sharp. “Aren’t you the one with the occultist book?”

“The book doesn’t say anything about this!” Honestly, if the incantation is going to transport you to some freakish vortex between life and death, the book should at least fucking mention it.

If your outburst bothers Karl, he gives no visible indication. Instead, he simply lowers his hand back to his side as the corner of his mouth lifts with a sad, fond edge. “All I know is that I have not felt such warmth in well over a century.”

Despite your unease, your brow knits as you process his words. “No? Not even when… well, assuming that you’ve walked this apartment as you are now,” you gesture at him, suddenly feeling woefully out of your depth. “Does that mean that you don’t feel physical sensation…?”

“Not as such.” He answers softly. “But the eternal now has no physical concept, so your question is invalid.”

“That makes no sense.” You shake your head, returning your gaze to him as you wait for him to respond.

But neither of you speak for several long minutes. Brilliant purple-white light continues to burst out the windows, punctuated only by crackles from the fireplace and the eerie melody of distorted Christmas carols. You strain your ears to listen, just able to recognize ‘Silent Night’ despite how melancholy and dissonant the tune sounds.

You force a swallow, continuing the conversation in his stead. “I mean - clearly, this is a physical place. I’m standing here, a-and you’re standing there. And there’s a fire, and music… and you called it his place.” You pause, blinking over at him as he stands unmoving, still just staring into the fire. “So, if I’m a guest and you’re a guest… then, whose place is this?”

Heart-wrenching sadness eats at the lines of his handsome face despite his failing attempts to hold a stoic appearance. It ages him so young - younger than you’d initially estimated due to his deceptive facial hair. What has happened to this young man? By all accounts, he looks healthy - as if he could still be alive today.

The muscles of his throat work around a hard swallow. “This is the home of the Audebert family. Camille Audebert, in particular.” He pinches his mouth shut as if needing a moment to collect himself.

Concern stirs in your chest as you wrap your arms around yourself and step into the living room. “And who was... is Camille Audebert?”

Karl’s eyes swim with firelight and distant memory. “Someone who I met on a Christmas Eve long ago. Someone who… who I had hoped to find again. But someone who died in this house before I could get here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” You take another careful step forward. “How did he die?”

“The flu of 1918 swept through Paris, sparing neither the rich or the poor, and he succumbed much like countless other victims.”

A chill runs down your spine as your heart lodges in your throat. “The flu of 1918… that sounds unreal….” Your voice trails off as the unnerving lightning reflects off your skin and clothes. “Is that also when you… died, too?”

“No.” He offers a weak shake of his head. “I followed… in 1919, I think it was. You’ll forgive me on the exact year…”

You ach an incredulous brow, unable to believe it. “And you’ve been here - in this place… this apartment since 1919, give or take.”

His heavy eyes drop closed as he bows his head solemnly.

Your tongue runs across your top lip. “Then, why don’t you just leave?”

“That’s not how it works.” His voice chills you to the bone. “Actions on the mortal plane ripple through eternity, and a deal with the devil is just that.”

“But you’re…,” you start as you struggle to understand. “Surely, you’re not… like a demon or something.”

“No,” he gives a short shake of his head. “But one needn’t be a demon to find themselves in hell.”

You regard him in a moment of contemplation. Is he really trapped here? What deal has he possibly made? You exhale an uncertain sigh, hesitating until you catch yourself. For fuck’s sake, this man is a ghost – what do you really have to worry about? “So, what -” your words stick in your throat despite yourself. “How long do you have to stay here?”

He turns an almost pitying, closed-mouth smile towards you. “Time is a mortal construct. It doesn’t exist in the eternal now. As such, I shall simply reside as I am until… until the stars turn cold, I suppose.”

Your heart goes out to him as your gaze softens. “That sounds incredibly lonely. With no one for company.”

“Yet, you’ve proven that it’s possible.” His brow furrows as if he just realized something that hasn’t occurred to him before. He turns towards you with his haunting, perceptive gaze. “Tell me, why did you seek this meeting tonight?”

The intensity of his firelit gaze leaves you fumbling for words. Why exactly have you contacted him? Is it merely to satisfy your own curiosity? Is it just to vindicate your Great-Aunt?

“And tonight, of all nights,” he continues, not unkindly as he gestures vaguely with his left hand. “I am not unfamiliar with the carols in the air, though again… to hear them so vividly now is….” He trails off with a shake of his head.

“Vividly?” You arch a dubious brow. “It sounds like they’re playing underwater on an untuned piano.”

“And yet all I hear is clear, harmonized perfection.” He drops his eyes closed in clear indulgence of a treat that he’s been so long denied.

A shiver races down your spine at the thought and you can’t help but wonder. Each time that you play music in the house and enjoy tonal melodies, does he hear the sort of tuneless, distorted musical notes that you hear now? Is your presence in whatever this place is somehow letting him experience the world of the living from beyond the grave? The implications of that only make your mind spin and a distant ache blooms in your skull. You take a deep breath, massaging your temples and feeling woefully out of your depth.

Nothing about this makes any sense – but honestly, what did you expect by using some incantation to contact a dead ghost? And now… just where the fuck do you go from here? How long are you going to stay here? How long does the incantation last? And, really, just what do you have waiting for you back on the other side tonight?

Your gaze falls to the blazing fire for another long minute. If Karl Horstmayer is indeed dead, then why shouldn’t you just be honest? You nibble your bottom lip before speaking. “I guess it’s just…” you trail off, sighing as anxious butterflies erupt in your stomach. “It’s Christmas Eve, and I just… I didn’t want to be alone.”

He shifts almost uneasily on his feet. At first glance in the swirls of blinding light, perhaps a blush dances high on his cheeks above his beard, but you can’t tell for sure. It does nothing to detract from his handsomeness, and an appreciative smile edges your face.

He catches your gaze, his own pensive and analytical as he regards you. “And straddling the veil between worlds is the best way to remedy that?”

Your mouth pinches with irritation. “I… well, yes – I mean, you’ve been watching me and because I… I saw you.” You don’t want to delve into the details since - fuck, this man has seen everything that happened in your bedroom. “I saw your brown eyes - eyes of golden chocolate - just like my Great-Aunt had said.”

His eyes darken with obvious memory as the shared knowledge of the night that your bedroom mirror shattered hangs between you. Heat flares along your skin despite the fire’s warmth, gathering low in your belly under his intense scrutiny. From his words so far, the extent of his physical sensation may still be a mystery, but clearly, he isn’t emotionally unaffected by the events that took place in this house.

You wet your top lip as your breathing quickens. “You say that the eternal now has no physical concept, yet you were able to break the mirror that night. For that was you… watching me….”

A startlingly ashamed look crosses his face as he drops your gaze. “As only the dead can. Not one of my finer moments, I regret to say.”

His dizzying verbal circles make your head spin, but they’re far from off-putting. “But you only feel guilty now that I’ve confronted you about it, right? Never thought you’d get caught, right? And why would you if I’m your first-ever visitor...” And, shit, the implications for the future crash down around you. As long as you stay in this house, he will be here watching you – each time you shower, eat dinner, sleep, pleasure yourself or share your bed with anyone else. Honestly, the thought should probably repulse or terrify you, but there’s something oddly… comforting about it. In the knowledge that you’ll never truly be alone.

But what about Karl? Is he forever condemned to just watch humanity pass him by from within the confines of this apartment? “So, what does that mean, then?" You ask softly. "‘As only the dead can’…?”

“Precisely that. A spectral existence has no physical concept in the eternal now.”

“That’s such bullshit.” You shake your head pleadingly, stepping around the couch towards him before you think better of it. “As we’ve both agreed – we’re both standing here. And you’ve felt the fire’s warmth on your skin, heard clear music – so, don’t tell me there isn’t anything physical in this moment.” You reach your hand out to his white shirt sleeve covered arm to prove your point.

Your fingers connect with the fine fabric and solid forearm beneath, gasping as sapphire sparks burst into view and wink out with wispy trails of smoke. The scent of cedar and citrus fills your nose – and in that moment, you see everything.

A life shrouded by the shadow of an older brother. A steadfast dedication to military service befitting a dutiful second son. A horrific world war that shatters the globe and leaves permanent scars. A forbidden, blossoming love in a snowy trench on an unexpectedly peaceful night that tragically, abruptly ends in a global pandemic. A destructive desire driving him to reunite with his beloved.

And in that moment, when his eyes meet yours, his face blanches with the discovery of profound knowledge. As if he, too, sees everything in your life that led you to this moment as you stand with your hand on his arm somewhere between life and death.

The breath punches from your chest as the images run through your mind and emotions boil within you. Your heart constricts yet threatens to burst, your stomach tightens with anxious knots yet lightens with hopeful anticipation. Your eyes see only him, blind to the rest of the world as you want to cling to him, to lose yourself in him, to have him lose himself inside you.

Blood pulses through you, pooling low and needy as damp heat soaks your core. All at once, you realize how hard you’re breathing, stunned and reeling.

You force a swallow as dizziness consumes you. “I don’t… I don’t know what’s happening.”

He gives a slow, bewildered shake of his head, obviously just as speechless as he gasps for breath alongside you. With your mind awash in a sea of unfamiliar memories and new sensations, your hand trails up his forearm, almost disappointed that more sparks don’t appear. You raise your other hand to his chest, both exhaling long moans when you press your palm flat over the woolen waistcoat. A shower of deep blue sparks rain down around your hand as more of that intoxicating scent suffuses the air.

You struggle for breath as a fresh wave of heat surges through you, touching the essence of your being. It extends beyond physical or emotional, as if… as if his spirit touches yours, speaking in a language that you don’t understand yet comprehend implicitly. And god, just listen to yourself, but your brain - and body - are truly too far gone to care. His warm, heavy hand falls against the small of your back, and you arch against the touch with a soft cry on your lips.

Electricity jolts through you, driving you closer in his embrace, overwhelmed at the onslaught of sensation erupting from his touch. Everything about the moment compels you closer to him, each touch igniting more sparks and reaching some deep-rooted part of your soul that belongs only to him.

Your lips fuse together in an intoxicating haze as that delicious scent wraps around you and sapphire light gleams beyond your closed eyelids. He can’t be close enough to you as tongues tangle and you cling to the solid, sturdy build of shoulders. His broad hands find your hips, pulling you flush against him - body to body, soul to soul.

He needs to be closer - so much closer - and your hands tear at his tie, his vest, his shirt buttons. The heat of the fire is a distant memory compared to the scorching touch of his skin as your own clothing falls away with wisps of smoke and showers of sapphire starbursts. Everywhere he touches draws you helplessly towards him as he dissolves into you and pulls you down to the plush, thick rug in front of the fire.

Your legs wrap around his waist with mindless instinct, driven only to connect with him in the most intimate way as your soul demands. Breath leaves you and sanity abandons you as he slides deep into your core, piercing your heart and soul as he buries himself in your heat. His groans drown against your lips as smoke and sparks shroud the frenzied rocking of his hips and he drives himself to fill you completely.

Unrecognizable cries leave your lips, echoing in the void as you take everything he gives you and surrender yourself completely. The crescendo builds with unstoppable intensity as you claw at his back, tasting the salt on his neck and relishing the burn of his beard on your skin. A moan tears from you as you convulse around him, and a heavy force claws at the very essence of your being, shearing something inside you as euphoric ecstasy pulls you under.

The deafening roar of his own release mixes with your deafening cry as blood pounds in your ears. Your vision swims in hazy light as your body drifts away from you, and you struggle to breathe under the gnawing sensation. His solid weight against you fades as darkness eats at the corners of your mind, and you feebly cling to him with all that you possess.

His lips ghost against yours as your hands fall slack and thought abandons you completely.

You blink awake, foggy headed and bleary eyed. Desperate to ignore the throbbing pain in your skull, you squint against the bright, invasive morning sunlight – Christmas morning sunlight – and don’t know what to think. Especially as you become aware of three things in quick succession.

One – the thick living room rug scratches and itches against your bare skin. A dark blue blanket covers you, surprisingly soft by contrast to the rug but completely unfamiliar to you. You grip it close, aware that it’s the only thing shielding your naked body from the clear windows.

Two – you feel absolutely drained. As if you haven’t slept or eaten in days, or maybe both. Your minimal movements against the rug are sluggish and uncoordinated as you continue to wake up and come back to yourself. Quite obviously, whatever you experienced last night has taken a heavy toll.

Three – you aren’t alone. A larger, broader, obviously nude and obviously male body presses against your backside as you lay against the uncomfortable carpet. You scrub a hand over your face, trying to wipe away the cobwebs and not disturb your slumbering bedmate.

Good god, what had actually happened last night? With fleeting clarity, you remember the lightning-drenched living room, the uncanny golden chocolate eyes, and the scorching pleasure – but now faced with the cold light of dawn, has any of that actually been real? Or did you really just knock back one too many cocktails, pick up a guy, and lose yourself in delusional fantasy?

You groan, stretching against the carpet and catching a glimpse at your smartwatch. Fuck, it’s already so late. With another groan, dreading the inevitable awkwardness of saying goodbye to a one-nightstand that you don’t even clearly remember, you roll over and prepare to face your fate.

You jump in surprise against the blanket, shocked to see two golden chocolate eyes blinking blearily back at you. Your heart pounds as you stare at Karl’s familiar features and bearded face as he lays beside you with dark swirls of his chest hair just visible above the blanket’s edge.

You gape, unable to believe it. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

“Here?” He groans, looking back at you in equally growing confusion. “What is… why are you here?”

“Why am I here?” You parrot back, gripping the blanket close, hyper-aware of both your naked bodies beneath the navy fabric. “This is my house, and you’re the dead ghost, and…” Your words trail off as your mouth fails to keep up with your raging thoughts. Does this mean that you have died, too? Are you now condemned to stay in this house with him for eternity?

A car horn blares outside the window, drawing your startled gaze. How does that make any sense? If you are dead, then why are you able to hear a car plain as day? You force a hard swallow as you try to think through the sluggish fog in your head. Maybe you aren’t dead, after all, but instead, maybe he is… does it make sense for him to be… alive?

But, seriously… have you somehow fucked him back to life? However crass and ridiculous that sounds. Is that why those strange, sapphire sparks had ignited between you? Has your life force somehow rejuvenated his own...?

Your head hurts too much for such mind-bending thoughts. Slowly, you turn back to him, catching his gaze as he studies you with equal bewilderment. His mouth pinches to a tight, hesitant line as he obviously considers a thought.

Tentatively, he reaches a hand forward, brushing the back of his knuckles along your forearm. No blue sparks or blue glow emanate from his gentle caress, but a low, thrumming rhythm grows in your blood. You gasp as the beating pulse aligns with the cadence of your own heartbeat, reverberating in tandem harmony. “Is that…,” you ask in a breathless whisper, “your heartbeat?”

His own breathing stutters as the contact lingers, and he twists his wrist to wrap his fingers around your forearm. “It’s your heartbeat, it has to be…” he whispers reverentially. “Mine stopped beating so long ago….”

“Then, why are you here?” Heat sings in your veins as your body recognizes its missing half - the answer to make you whole, body and soul.

He pulls his hand back, and the cloying sensations instantly dull. You’re still drained beyond comprehension and in serious need of sustenance, but whatever his touch has just ignited begins to fade without the sustained physical contact.

Just what the fuck have you done? Are you somehow forever bound to him? And him to you? How would you ever know? And is that what you really want? What about the rest of your life? What about the rest of his life? At least, now that he seems to have one again….

He shakes his head, sighing heavily. “We may never know the answer. But before we start trying to figure it out,” his face softens as the corner of his mouth lifts. “I guess there’s only one thing to be said.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

He fixes his golden chocolate eyes to yours, and… okay, maybe seeing those eyes every morning wouldn’t be so bad. A smile tugs at your mouth as you stare at him, hearing his accented words wrap around you and echo with the fading thrum of his twin heartbeat. “It’s not my holiday… but Merry Christmas, Liebling.”

#lieutenant horstmayer #karl friedrich horstmayer #daniel brühl x reader #daniel brühl fanfic #daniel brühl x you #daniel brühl #joyeux noël #joyeux noël 2005

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italianraviolos · 2 years

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¡HELP!

Hi Daniel brühl fandom, especially those who are simping for Laszlo Kreizler.

Ages ago, I read a ff about Laszlo falling in love with one of is patients.

I remember the plot, it was the story of a women who's Sara's friend and she suggests her to go to Laszlo due to her problems.

She suffers from panic and anxiety attacks and Laszlo tries to cure her, and one night tries to cure her in a different way (coff* smut *coff) and after that he invites her to the opera but a few misunderstandings happen about a letter (I don't remember what happens) and so she goes but Sara gives her a knife as a defence.

They come back at Laszlo's house after the opera and she feels threatened during a particular situation of sexual tension, so she takes out the knife and then ✨smut✨ again.

IF ANYONE KNOWS WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT PLEASE TELL MEEEEE

Thank you✨

#daniel brühl smut #daniel brühl #daniel bruhl x reader #daniel brühl x reader #daniel bruhl #zemo x reader #laszlo kreizler #daniel bruhl icons #baron zemo #helmut zemo #lazslo kreizler #laslzo kreizler fanfiction #laszlo kreizler angst #laszlo kriezler x reader #laszlo kreizler smut #laszlo kreizler x reader #the alienist #john moore

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orions-quiver · 2 years

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Wearing Something of the Danny Boy's (Part 1)

More headcanons with our darling boys. I'm watching Rush finally so I can get Niki added to the roster but I must say I did not expect Daniel to sound like he does in it. Anyways, the boys covered here are Alex, Erik, Zemo, and István. I am working on a second enstallment of the dating headcanons so look out for that as well as a second enstallment of this one!

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Alex Kerner

• You're hanging out in Alex's apartment when you spot it hanging from the back of his desk chair.

• Alex's blue denim jacket.

• You don't hesitate to grab it and immediately wrap yourself up in it. It's big and warm, but most importantly it smells like the cheap cologne Alex wears that you can't seem to get enough of.

• When Alex gets back from doing some shopping he wasn't quite expecting his partner to be looking absolutely adorable while watching some random Football game on the television.

• His jacket is huge. He likes having something that can feel more cozy in and so you seem to swim in the fabric. The sleeves covers most of your hands as you're curled up into a ball so it can surround you while wearing it.

• Alex sets the groceries down and watches you for a little longer before he joins you and the two of you end up snuggled together.

• "That jacket looks better on you than it ever has on me."

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Erik Jan Hanussen

• Now it wasn't his signature fur coat you went for, but the monocle.

• The monocle Erik seemed to keep in the most pristine condition just like everything else around him. It fascinated you and brought plenty of amusement watching him fiddle with it throughout the day.

• And here you were now looking at the monocle resting on his desk while Erik had left the study to retrieve a book.

• When he returned he found you looking into a handheld mirror while holding the monocle carefully to one of your eyes.

• Erik wasn't upset by it. He was actually more amused than anything.

• All he could do was chuckle as he crossed the threshold back into the room and say with a voice light and warm, "Meine Maus (My Mouse), what have you found?"

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Helmut Zemo

• It was always the coat that caught your attention when it came to his fashion choices.

• When Zemo had went to his study to take a call and left the coat behind you jumped at it.

• You had felt the coat before while cuddling with him but you hadn't had a chance to actually wear it so far.

• The collar is soft and the coat smells just like him. The warm hint of spice and tobacco smoke with something that's unmistakably Helmut about it. It's warm and you can use it as a blanket if you really wanted.

• So that's the option you went with.

• Zemo came back down with an apology already on the tip of his tongue but it seemed to die off back into his throat when he spotted you.

• He watched as you laid on your side flipping through a magazine on the spacious sofa. You nuzzled into the fur and happily sighed as you adjusted it to try and completely disappear under it.

• Zemo came to sit with you. "Would you like to lay on my lap draga?" You ended up with the coat still around you as you rested your head in his lap while he played with your hair.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

István Thurzó

• Like with Erik your interest laid with an accessory rather than just a piece of clothing.

• Seeing his golden necklace on him at all times made you in turn want to wear it.

• While István was bathing you were able to fully and finally hold that necklace. You had held onto it while you two cuddled but having it not attached to István was a new sight.

• It didn't take long for you to decide to clasp it around your neck and look in the mirror of the bedroom.

• "I see you have found my necklace."

• István looked in the mirror from behind you while he wrapped his arms around your waist.

• He thought it looked wonderful on you and expressed such with a bombardment of kisses to your neck, including kissing where the necklace met your skin with worshipful admiration.

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scuttle-buttle · 2 years

Text

Chapter 15

WC: 4228

Rated: E

Chapter Tags: kidnapping, violence, gun and weapon use, language, period typical sexism/misogyny and language, descriptions of blood/injury/physical trauma, brief non-graphic descriptions of hospitalization

A/N: heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey 😬 this is the last chapter, but the epilogue will be out very shortly okay thanks for not hating me too much

Previously on The Heist: After the failure of the auction, you are kidnapped and tortured by Lombardi. Niki and James work tirelessly to rescue you.

🖼

Lights sting behind your eyelids. The puffiness around your eyes has abated enough that you can see. You keep them closed anyway. It’s easier. Harsh wheezing invades the stillness of the air with each breath you take through your parted lips; your nasal passages nearly swollen shut from a well aimed, bone-crunching hit by Lombardi’s goon. Everything hurts. You feel sticky and sweaty and freezing and you imagine that being hit by a train would hurt less.

By this point time has no meaning. You don’t know how many times they have slapped and punched and kicked you, how many times Lombardi’s screams pierced your eardrums and his spittle landed along your bruising skin. Your stomach gurgles. The thought of eating something repulses you, despite going without a meal in who knows how long.

You were alone. You were scared. You were holding on to the barest hope that Niki was coming. That James was coming. That Lombardi and his men would be caught and punished for their crimes.

Just when you feel the sting of unshed tears you didn’t even know you had left in you the basement door unlatches. The click echoes in the spacious room. This time you do finally force open your eyes. Entire body tensing, you now wait for the fresh waves of pain to find you once more as Lombardi descends the staircase. With each step it seems like it takes years for him to reach where you are tied up. He stops in front of you.

“Mia bella….” he tuts. Grabbing your jaw he tilts your head from side to side to study your beaten flesh. Lombardi gives a greasy smirk at your whimper, the pain blossoming through you at his harsh movements. “Perhaps you have had enough, yes? I take no pleasure from hurting your pretty face like this.” You blink slowly and focus on your breathing. Lombardi sighs. “You know we could have done so much together. You and I, bella," he frowns, "we could have been a team. Imagine how unstoppable we would have been.”

“I don’t- I don’t want that, you prick.” You cough and choke around the tightness in your windpipe.

“A shame really.” Lombardi purses his lips under his thick moustache. You can feel the distaste he has towards you from the way he eyes you up and down where you sit covered in dried sweat and blood. You must be pathetic looking. He begins to pace the floor leisurely. “Instead, you choose to trail me like a bitch looking for scraps- or,” he pauses to throw a grin over his shoulder, “maybe I should say you follow your little Austrian like a bitch in heat? Hmm?” Despite the agony in your limbs you can’t help the wince you give at his insult.

A series of bangs and a commotion of shouts from the upper levels causes you both to halt. “Ah. It seems your fiance has finally decided to join us, mia bella. I was beginning to wonder that he didn’t care for you at all.” Lombardi pulls a gun out of his waistband from beneath his sportcoat. A click sounds as he cocks the weapon. With ease he steps behind you and into your space; the cool metal of the barrel presses to your temple. Lombardi leans over the opposing shoulder, his foul cologne and the scent of cigar enough to invade what remains of your sense of smell; “now the show can really begin.” You swallow back the dryness in your throat. Eyes glued to the stairs, you wait.

______

"Go faster."

Hunt glances at the Austrian where he fidgets in the seat next to him. "I'm going as fast as is safe," he explains. He was already going nearly 20 over the speed limit trying to get to Lombardi’s villa as quickly as possible. Thankfully the country roads offered little traffic or obstacles to slow them.

Niki scoffs; "what? You choose now to be the one that thinks of risk?"

"You don't?" A beat passes in silence before the Austrian grumbles lightly under his breath. James doesn't ask.

Only a few more kilometers separated Niki from you and that Italian bastard. His gun was ready, his switchblade tucked safely into his waist. Hands wring in his lap. The map crinkles under their weight. He wipes the bead of sweat from his brow. Hunt remains calm and collected as he speeds down the road. Niki thinks about how cool and level headed his partner has been, how he’s taken charge when Niki can barely even think clearly enough to walk in a straight line. In the back of his mind he had noticed how James protected him, giving him an outlet away from prying eyes as he lost himself in Lombardi’s place. How he shielded his outburst from the other agents. Niki never anticipated it from everything he knew of the Brit and his reputation, that he would find himself almost tolerant of his playboy of a partner. "Thank you,” he blurts. Even Niki is surprised to hear his own voice as the words tumble from his lips.

James tilts his head a fraction, his eyes roving over Niki's face before facing the road. "What for?"

Niki clears his throat. "At the apartment. With Smith." He doesn't need to go into detail about what he means. He knows Hunt understands him.

"Sure, yeah. It’s what partners do." Nothing more is said between the two. It doesn’t have to be.

Finally cresting a hill, a large mansion of cream-colored stucco and columns and red tiled roofs appears on the horizon. The closer they get the more details stand out - the neatly trimmed topiaries and bushes, flowers in pinks and yellows and blues, the marble sculptures of goddesses and heroes surrounding the large bubbling fountain out front. If the apartment was luxury then this was positively heaven.

“How do you want to do this?”

Niki licks his lip. “Split up. Cover more distance this way, have a higher chance of finding her. There will be an increased percentage of risk for us. Lombardi doesn’t want her. He’s using her to get to me. Him hurting her can only get things so far when he needs her as a bargaining chip.” The explanation feels simple and cold, but it's the most he’s sounded like his old self since you were taken.

“You’re sure you want to do this alone?” Niki can almost hear a touch of concern in James' voice.

“Yes.” Neither say anything as the car bounces over the dip in the end of the driveway upon arrival. The team of agents is right behind.

"Because you don't have to."

A beat passes. “I know," Niki admits, surprised at how much he believes it. "She’s priority. I trust you,” to keep her safe should you get to her first he adds, omitting the full extent of his thoughts. Niki glances at his partner. “But… after we get her back and she’s safe, then-” he sniffs “- maybe I could use some help to catch that bastard.”

Hunt chuckles. “What? You think I’d let you have all the fun by yourself?”

Niki can’t help the smirk that breaks despite his serious demeanor. “Knowing you? Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The second the car is in park Niki and James, as well as the other 5 agents, are getting into position. Three head around back to find a second entrance. James and the remaining jog to get in position outside the main door. But Niki doesn’t follow.

Instead, he ducks down next to one of Lombardi’s sports cars. Quickly he whips out his knife and flips it open. With ease he slams the tip down and into the black rubber of the tire; the puncture hisses as the tube deflates. Just as fast he moves to a second of Lombardi’s vehicles. “Niki! Come on!” James’ whispered voice almost gets lost over the thump of the Austrian yanking the blade out. Niki doesn’t answer and proceeds to puncture a tire on the last car that belongs to the mobster. Finished, he joins the others and draws his gun.

“The bloody hell was that for?”

“He can’t drive with only 3 tires,” is all Niki says before bursting the heavy wooden door open with his shoulder.

_________

Shots ring out above you as Lombardi’s gun remains glued to your temple. Despite the terror rushing through your veins you know in your gut that it’s Niki - it has to be. The knowledge gives you a sense of renewed confidence. A huff that’s as close to a laugh as your beaten body can manage breaks from you; the split in your lip reopens as you smile. “I told you he’d come.”

Another crash, this time much closer, rings through the basement, then footsteps. Through blurred vision you see him -

Hunt.

Gun raised and ready, he treads down the stairs. Blood is splattered along his face and shirt, rumpled not unlike his usual carefree style. His movements slow upon seeing your compromised position.

James calculates his next move. On instinct he wants to unload what’s left of his weapon into Lombardi’s greasy skull; the decision is halted by the cocking of a gun directly behind him. He curses himself for not noticing the goon earlier.

“Put your gun down.”

James hesitates, not wanting to let go of his weapon. When the barrel is pressed harder into your scalp he knows he has to comply, if only for your safety. The henchmen from behind reaches forward to yank the glock from his grip. “Let her go Lombardi. Settle this like men.”

“I must say - it is very nice to finally meet your other companion here, bella.” Foul breath permeates your senses. The mobster lifts his head to address Hunt. “Where is your partner?”

Hunt ignores his question. “Your fight isn’t with her, you bastard.”

The Italian hums. “No, you are right. I only needed her to get to your little friend upstairs. I know everything is a lie, I know he is not her wealthy lover from the museum in Austria.” Condescending smirk dropping, he adds “whatever agency you are with needs to stay out of my way. I have more power, more connections than you know. Leave him to me; perhaps I give you something to keep quiet while I continue my business. I can give you much more than whoever pays you now.” Lombardi brushes his finger down the side of your swollen cheek. “But I think I will keep her for myself, as recompense for my troubles. She is almost as valuable as the art, yes?”

James scoffs at his arrogance. “You’re a right bastard if you think we’re going to let you get away with this.”

“Haven’t I already?”

“Tell that to all your men lying dead upstairs.”

Lombardi shrugs; “they are replaceable. When you have money, finding help is no obstacle. Everyone has a price. Even you. Even mia bella.”

“Niki?”

The weak sound draws James to finally meet your eyes. Bruising and blood covers almost every visible inch of you from where you strain against the ropes. He nods imperceptibly. Even so, your lips twitch upwards in understanding that Niki is safe, that he is here.

Fighting can still be heard from the ground floor of the villa. Shouts and pops and the sounds of fists punctuate the tense stillness between James, Lombardi, and yourself. Suddenly the gun is removed from your temple. Lombardi makes quick work of your binds, yet you know this is no sign of freedom. It is too easy. Your captor must sense something in the wind.

Hunt remains stock still with his own captor holding him hostage at gunpoint, watching you like a hawk. Waiting to see what Lombardi does. A hand beneath your arm yanks you from your seated position. Legs wobbling dangerously, you somehow keep on your aching feet. The thought crosses your mind to fight back now that you are free - your body rejects it before you could even hope any attempt at fighting him off. On burning muscles and likely splintered bones you are dragged backwards. This time you are unable to hold back any cries of agony, the hoarse wails bouncing off the walls and piercing your own eardrums like a banshee.

James is helpless to the sight.

“Take care of him,” Lombardi orders, before he slips out a side door with your limping form in tow.

________

Niki rushes through a hidden door left ajar, following a heavy English-sounding grunt. He nearly trips in his haste to get down the steep staircase. Reaching the bottom, he catches his breath, lungs burning, just as Hunt lays a final blow to one of Lombardi’s men and leaving him unconscious. A chair in the center garners his attention. Pools of blood and a trail of fresh, bright red foot imprints lead to the far end of the room. “She was here?” Niki’s tone is frantic.

James pulls in a deep breath. “I couldn’t; he had me in a corner, Niki, there was nothing- shit!” Hunt pounds his first into the tiled floor.

“Okay….it’s okay James-” a pause “-a car.”

James’ head flies up to face the other agent. “What?”

“Listen-” a brief pause lends just enough silence to hear the rumble of an engine “-he has another car. Come!” Niki tosses his hand out to his partner, gripping the Brit’s palm and helping him to his feet. The two sprint along the pathway of bloodied footprints you left behind.

Niki and James arrive in a garage just as a black sedan accelerates out of the enclosure. The Austrian can see the top of your slumped figure in the passenger seat. Without a second of hesitation the agents give chase around the mansion; they know they cannot compete on foot so they head to the car they arrived in. Engine groaning to life, James goes ripping out of the driveway in a cloud of smoke.

Their car roars after Lombardi’s like a demon possessed.

James has the accelerator to the floorboard, the engine’s revving louder than the thoughts raging inside Niki’s head. He was so close, he had you mere inches from his grasp. The crimson covered tiles in the villa sent a deadly chill through his spine. Lombardi had hurt you. And because of him. Niki would never forgive himself.

The black sedan was just up ahead. “Get as close as you can!” Niki yelled. True to his English roots James swerved to the opposing lane, bringing up the rear of Lombardi’s vehicle.

“What's the plan?” Hunt sat up straighter in his seat.

“I don’t know!”

“You- you don’t know? You always have a plan!”

“Then you tell me what you think?” Niki rolls the window down and begins to lift himself out of the speeding contraption, just as he had seen you do after the auction.

“Are you fucking daft? Don’t try to jump!”

Niki pops his head back just enough to scoff, amused at the suggestion; “what- do you think I’m you?”

“Well you sure as hell are acting like me!”

Turning back, Niki takes aim with his gun. Wind stinging his eyes, he focuses on the target. He fires once, twice. Bullets make contact with the back tire of Lombardi’s sedan. The car swerves violently, crashing into a shallow ditch.

Hunt slams on the brakes; the car has yet to fully stop before Niki has jumped from his perch on the doorframe and is rushing to get you from the wreck. the door creaks open without grace. You sit unconscious. Carefully, the agent lifts you from the vehicle and deposits you on the grassy knoll. Finally he gets a look at you.

Niki swears he feels his heart fail to beat.

Black and blue coats your beautifully delicate skin. Dried blood paints your face, hands, and clothes in shades of brown and scarlet. Stuttering breaths leave you. He drags his palm ever so gently across your cheek; Niki swears that you lean into his warmth. Wildflowers in blues and white grow with abandon around your limp form. It seems ironic to Niki that you are surrounded by a sight so lovely, so like the artwork you adore, especially with how mangled and bloodied you are.

The rage that consumes him could rival the fires of hell.

Niki feels too hot, as though he is seeing the world through water, when he shoves past James to get to the Italian. Lombardi’s movements are sluggish. Niki all but rips the door from the car’s hinges as he heaves it open. Fingers clawing at the rumpled man Niki throws him onto the road. Fists fly, the crunch of bone and teeth under his thrashing enough to mute James calling out his name. Rocks dig into the agent’s knees.

Unsatisfied with the pain blossoming in his knuckles Niki drops Lombardi’s collar, instead reaching for his gun. The mafia boss looks pathetic as he stares down the barrel of Niki’s pistol. Blood is smeared along his cheeks and jaw. Little beads of sweat give way to his nerves - a swallow thick behind his tanned throat. “Please, don’t- I will give her to you, please!”

Hunt’s cries of “don’t” and “Niki stop” and “we need him alive” fall on deaf ears.

“Niki….don’t.”

Your words, barely more than a whisper, are enough to part the storm behind his eyes. His eye twitches before darting to meet yours. James holds your weakened body to his, his own pupils full of concern, and dare Niki say fear. The Austrian catches your gaze again.

All it takes is one look.

Niki knows he could never pull the trigger in the end. Maybe for a split second he could after what this man did to you. But he knows that it’s not who he is. He’s Niki Lauda - the one that has faith in the system, has faith in justice, the one who follows the rules. And in looking at you it isn’t just the rules of his organization or the law itself that triumphs here. It’s the rules of humanity, of doing what is right.

He lowers the gun. Lombardi, in his pitiful state, dusty and clothes torn, smirks. It doesn’t last long when Niki brings the butt of the weapon down, knocking him out cold.

_________

Niki paces the floor of the emergency room. His hair is full of knots and tangles from how hard he’s pulled at it, the roots tender. It had been hours and there was no word on you. All his worst fears were realized in those few moments he held you in his arms before the ambulance arrived. You were cold, practically lifeless, near unrecognizable except for the sliver of those unforgettable irises he loved so much.

“Lauda, Hunt.” It was Garnier. “We need to debrief.”

A flash of anger penetrates him; in the exhaustion of the last two days he has no energy to entertain the emotion. Niki shakes his head, “I’m not leaving until I know if she’s okay.” James simply stands from his seat.

Garnier sighs. “I spoke with the physician before coming to find you. It is a miracle the damage was not worse given what they suspect she endured. She is stable but still unconscious. It may be days before she wakes up, they do expect a full recovery.”

Finally, Niki stops pacing, a modicum of relief flooding his veins.

His superior leads them down and into an unused exam room. The door closes with a sofft click. Sighing heavily, the Frenchman pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Well.” Another sigh. “The two of you should be given a serious reprimand for this.” He eyes each of the agents.

Niki steps ahead of James. “I accept full responsibility for the events of our mission, sir.”

“Niki…” James whispers, yet not entirely shocked.

The Austrian and the Frenchman stare at each other for a moment. “That… won’t be necessary, Agent. After some thorough…consideration of the last time we spoke I have realized that you were right. The agency should have supplied you better during the night of the auction - I underestimated exactly how large an operation we were up against. This could have happened to any one of us.”

“It didn’t. It happened because of me. I am the reason she was kidnapped, beaten.” Niki can feel the strain in his throat as he becomes more frustrated at his mistakes.

“You are the reason she is still alive, Lauda. For which I must thank you, she is an old friend of mine and I am glad to see her safe. We have Lombardi, too. The good news is he is singing like a canary. Soon Interpol will know all of his associates and shut down the underground market for good. It was not without its faults but the mission was a success.”

“Respectfully, sir-”

“No. I will not discuss it further, nor will you be facing any repercussions regarding the matter or will I accept any sort of resignation. That being said, I must commend you both.”

Niki and James share a look of confusion. How had they gone from standing in their own graves, to being a technical success, to suddenly being worthy of praise?

“Sir?” Hunt questions. “I’m not sure we understand.”

Garnier leans on the hospital bed leisurely. “The entirety of this assignment was to shut down the heist, of course. But it was also a test of your skills and character; a lesson. Hunt - you were an impulsive playboy that used your balls more than your brain. Lauda - you could not work well with others. From what I have seen of the debriefs with the team you both stepped up. Glancing at James he explains “thinking logically, using evidence to strategize,” he looks to Niki, “and trusting each other to work as partners. From here on you two will be partners. May god help us….” James snickers while Niki can feel his lips quirk up at the prospect. “Now go, rest. Let us take care of all the paperwork.”

James gives a mock salute as their superior retreats into the hall.

“Huh.”

“What?”

Niki chuckles and gestures between them. “Now look at us, we were both a pair of hot headed jerks, no agents wanted to work with us. Each thinking the other an asshole. And now we're both partners.”

“And?”

The Austrian shrugs. “It’s not bad.”

James grins. “No, it’s not bad.”

The fist that isn’t bruised hits lightly at the Brit’s shoulder; “so don’t let me down now. I need you busting my balls.”

“I will Niki, I will. But I intend to enjoy myself away from work first.” James turns to leave the room with a wink. Before he goes he looks at Niki over his shoulder. “I’ll see you in a few days, partner.”

He nods; “you will, partner.”

________

While James was out doing whatever James does for fun, Niki stayed behind. The entire week of his mission recovery he never left the hospital except to shower and find a change of clothes. He was beginning to like the feel of the stiff waiting room chairs, the taste of stale coffee and cafeteria food. But the nurses would not let him go into your room. He could peek inside the window to see your battered body bandaged up, but that was the extent of it. Niki wasn’t sure what to do. He knew he had to find some way to let you know he was there and waiting for you to be okay. So he sends flowers. Everyday a new bouquet. Daisies, peonies, lilies, carnations, tulips. Anything to brighten the room, to make it feel less clinical and sterile.

On the 6th evening you finally woke up. Upon hearing the doctors and staff talk about your condition Niki tried to get in. He needed to see you and not through a window, he needed to feel the touch of your warm skin to know you were alive and safe. Still they refused him. Said they needed to get more information about how you were feeling before they allowed visitors so as to not overwhelm you.

Niki considered playing the fiance card. He knew it was a lie - he knew that you hadn’t met in a museum, that he hadn’t asked you for coffee that day, that he hadn’t asked you to stay.

So he waited.

The morning of the 7th day he was roused by a nurse. “Sir?”

Niki wiped the sleep from his eyes, stretching his back from the uncomfortable waiting room chair. “Yes, what is it? Can I see her?”

She looked at him with a pitying smile. “I’m so sorry sir…she won't see you, she is refusing all visitors… but she wants you to know that what happened was not your fault.”

His gut clenches at her words, at your refusal to see him. A stunted breath leaves his chest. As much as he wants to fight your decree, to shake some sense into you, he knows he can’t. He knew that in the end you would part ways. He just hoped, prayed even, that he would get a chance to say goodbye before he left. Wetness clouds his vision.

“Sir? I think it’s time to go home.”

Tag list: @ay0nha @apparrio @livvyshmiv @fictionlandslanddreams @vinylrosess @typical-bistander @ntlmundy @mymagicsuitcase @anteroom-of-death @somethingthatsaysbubbles @lieutenantn @multiversemarielle @whatawildone @metalbreakfast @laura-naruto-fan1998 @greeneyedblondie44 @godidontevenknowwhat @marchingicenotes7 @mysticalexpertdaze

@loliissmut @fandom-princess-forevermore @lorna-d-m @zemosimp05 @hungrhay

@everythingbeginsineternity-blog @danielbruhlswife @i-am-dead-inside-666 @libsybum @linkpk88 @hardlyinteresting @xourownsidee

#the heist #niki lauda fanfiction #niki lauda rush 2013 #niki lauda x reader #Niki lauda x you #daniel brühl #daniel bruhl #rush 2013 #daniel bruhl niki lauda #Niki lauda au #daniel bruhl fanfiction #daniel bruhl x reader #daniel brühl x reader #niki lauda #niki lauda daniel bruhl #scuttle-buttle

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buhlsworld · 2 years

Text

the fact that i watched the zookeeper's wife like 3 years ago and just this year I obssesed over him

#daniel brühl #daniel bruhl #lutzheck #daniel brühl x reader #the face of an angel #the zookeeper's wife #i cant handle this

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undercoverpena · 2 years

Note

I just saw that zemo isn't in the thunderbolts movie and im devastated and would really love some headcanons when you ask him to massage you to cheer me up🥴

never say never. marvel are sneaky snakes, so we don’t know yet fully if he is/isn’t. i’m holding out hope that they’re just trying to keep us on our toes.

also this got away from me, sorry not sorry.

On Your Back

Baron Helmut Zemo x Reader

_________________

“You’ve hurt your neck.”

You paused your movements, fingers falling from your neck as you close your eyes, sighing, as you turn to face him.

The most annoying thing about him being here, is that nothing goes unnoticed. You expect it’s the very reason he was able to commit the crimes he did. He’s detail-orientated, patient, observant.

“You keep rubbing your neck, yes?”

When you open your eyes, your glare must say enough because the corners of his lips twitch upwards. “Am I? I wasn’t aware.”

He places his cup down, the steam swirling upwards as he comes around the kitchen counter. Your throat tightening, thighs pressing together as he does.

Because it’s hard to be around him.

Because you should be wary of him, not attracted to him. You shouldn’t want him near you, instead of constantly thinking about being under him.

It’s gotten worse since Latvia. Since the tension mounted to a height you’re surprised Walker didn’t notice, when he showed up.

And then you’d been free. His great escape providing breathing room, until Bucky picked him up, hid him, and landed him on your doorstep.

Please, just until we can be sure there’s 100% no more serum.

That had been two weeks ago.

Now, it’s getting harder and harder to fight Zemo for the sake of fighting him.

Especially when he looks at you with care, adoration even. When he keeps doing kind things like cooking for you, cleaning, and genuinely not being an asshole like you’d expected him to be when he was plonked under your care.

“I did warn you about moving the chaise alone.”

“I remember, Baron.”

He tuts. “If you can recall it, why didn’t you call for me? Now you’re hurt. I had told you to call for me if you were redesigning that room too.”

There are so many options you could consider.

Pain killers and a heat pad, a sedative for the Baron and a restful evening. Or, saying:

“Are you going to assist me or just keep pointing out hindsight’s? Because while you’re a pain in my side, this actually hurts more.”

He blinks.

You’re usually not short.

You’re sarcastic, and dry. Often purposefully argumentative, but not short. Not with him. You reserve that for Bucky—Bucky who asks you to be around handsome criminals and not expect you to drop to your knees for them.

“Of course.”

“Wh—“

“I’ll help,” he says, a curt nod.

And then he moves past you, beckoning you to follow. While you don’t what to follow his instruction, his outright demand, your reluctance is wearing thin quickly, following him through rooms in your home until you reach the room where the problematic chaise is.

You shoot a glare as he stops at the foot of it, hands rubbing together. “If this is you being an ass—“

“Lie down.”

You don’t move. His eyes narrowing, lips thin as he sighs. A set of expressions you’ve grown used to, usually brought on because of his displeasure at you not directly following one of his orders.

He sighs, turning on his heels, leaving the room. You hear his footsteps until you don’t, all set to berate him when you hear a clatter, and his footsteps getting louder and louder.

In his hands are lotions, ones he must have noticed prior to now to have found them so quickly. His eyes scanning over you as he returns to the place he was.

“Lie down. Please.”

You hesitate, but for different reasons, moving closer to the chaise as you say, “It’s my back too. If… if you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do.”

“And what is it that you think I’m about to do?”

You hate his smirk. Even if you don’t. You swallow it all quickly regardless. “I assumed offer me a massage?”

“You assumed correctly.”

“So,” you continue, “It won’t solve all my problems if you get me to lie on the chaise, if that’s your intention.”

He smiles, more deviously than you liked.

Which is why you ended up on your bed. The cool air brushing over your skin, your cheeks warm, almost burning through your duvet as you wait for him to enter the room.

He’d insisted on being outside when you removed your upper clothing. Him placing both a towel down on the bed, and handing you one—as if he was a professional masseuse.

“One is for any mess—“ his comment sparking a raise eyebrow. “The other is to cover yourself, to feel comfortable, until I enter.”

You try to reply in an even tone when he asks if you’re comfortable, because you’re not. How can you be? You’re topless, even face down, with him about to massage your strained muscles.

A barrage of thoughts attacking you, faux snapshots of disapproval from Bucky flashing through your mind accompanying all the ways in which this was bad. Especially when the mattress dips, and you feel his knees either side of your thighs.

Because, you should tell him this is a bad idea. Even if it’ll feel nice, even if will stop the pain from pulsing. This was too far.

Your brain hurriedly trying to assess all the rights and wrongs, wants and needs.

“Be aware, I have attempted to warm my hands, however—“

You gasp.

The decision removed as Zemo’s fingers slide over your shoulders, the coolness of his fingers on your skin both soothing and welcomed. Each digit adding a slightly different pressure, as if knowing exactly which parts are causing you discomfort.

And you should hate it. That his touch is precise, that it’s nice, that you want him to slide his palms down your back and rid the ache from the centre of your spine too.

Your lips even about to ask as much, because you’re already over the line. The two of you having galloped so far over it, you weren’t sure you’d get back on the right side of it.

But a hand moves, instinctively. One focusing on an area between your shoulder and neck, and the other sliding to the part close to the second pain point.

“Is it here, the pain?” he asks, his voice darker even in his low volume as he presses the base of his palm down, your spine curling as he does so. “Ah, it is.”

You clench your eyes shut, the pain loosening, his fingers and palm massaging whatever grievance there was from you. Just as the scent of the lotion he used met your nose.

It’s one you recognise, one you remembered smelling in the store. A treat, you’d mused to yourself. One you hadn’t indulged in until now.

And what a unique treat it was.

Especially when his hands moved from soothing to massaging the untouched parts of your back. Ensuring he rubbed your neck, your shoulders. Dipping fingers into your shoulder blades, likely drawing patterns in lotion on your back.

But he always returns to your neck, to your spine. Every movement so calculated, it relaxes you—actually unlocks the tension from your muscles.

Each slide of his fingers, each motion of his palm, wrist and arm settling it all. Making it almost seem worth it for the hours of discomfort moving the chaise caused for all of this.

Because he’s lighting your skin on fire and soothing it all at once. It’s not enough, him just touching you here, now awakening more of your desire to have his hands elsewhere, realising how purposeful he is.

Knowing it’s likely, although not guaranteed, that while he hasn’t ever been with you, he’d know the exact ways to make your toes curl.

It’s this lulled state and ridiculous thoughts which are the cause for why you moan his name. Not Zemo. Not Baron, as you’ve been teasingly calling him.

“Oh, Helmut.”

Your eyes widen, even against the duvet. Your muscles, all of them, flexing into a tensed state. Even his hands stopping, halting. Neither of you even daring to breathe.

He should move. That’s all you think. He should leave the room and you should avoid seeing him for the remainder of his time here—create a schedule, if you have to. Share and split off the rooms in the house—

“Who knew you could make such sweet sounds, Liebling.”

Your eyes flick to the side, frowning, instinctively wanting to clench your thighs together. Because fuck. Double, almost triple fuck.

Needing, and wanting to turn to look at him. Especially when he places both palms on your back gently, less massaging, and more a reminder he’s there and remaining so.

“It’s important you listen now,” he says, leaning down, mouth closer to your ear.

You’re sure you can feel his heart hammering against your spine, even through his top. Even without him being flat against you.

“I think there’s a high probability that you’re as tired of playing this game, yes?” he whispers, fingers spreading out over your skin. “And while you’re in pain, I don’t believe where my hands are now, is the only place you’d like them.”

If your cheeks weren’t already on fire before, they’re now molten. Threatening to torch your bed, and everything else in the room.

“Now is the time you tell me if I’m wrong, Liebling,” he says, returning to kneeling upright.

And you contemplate.

Briefly.

“My back… it still hurts…” you mumble, your head turning more sideways, trying to gain a view of him. “But, no.”

“No?”

“No. You’re not wrong.”

You’d kill to see if he’s smirking or tilting his head. Half tempted to try and roll, even if it meant displaying yourself to him.

But, you’re unsure if it would inflict more pain, your neck less bothersome but your back still twinging.

Until he moves, your focus shifting, slowly gripping the towel under you as you try to roll, finding him watching you, a curious and lustful look on his face as you meet his eyes.

Likely having waited, wanting you to move to face him.

“Zemo…”

“Helmut,” he corrects. “Helmut is the name I’d prefer when you’re begging me not to stop.”

He smirks, rubbing his hands together before he places a knee on the bed.

“I wouldn’t worry about your back, Liebling,” he says, placing his hand down beside your waist. “I’ll only need you to keep still, and remain on it and nil else. Do you think you’ll be able to do that?”

#baron zemo #helmut zemo #helmut zemo x reader #baron zemo x reader #helmut zemo x fem!reader #helmut zemo x you #helmut zemo x y/n #baron zemo x you #baron zemo x y/n #baron zemo x fem!reader #daniel brühl x reader

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ay0nha · 1 year

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"Can you hold me?" w/ ANY DANIEL BRUHL NOW THAT THE QUEEN IS BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AHH I HAVE THOUGHTS! Thank you for this one!! ok ok but imagine laszlo or zemo with this one oof...bif OOF...

#personal #ask #anon #laszlo kreizler x reader #baron helmut zemo x reader #daniel brühl x reader

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mlmxreader · 1 year

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The Stars Shine For You | Ernst Schmidt x m!reader

anonymous asked: Could I request a very fluffy and cute Ernst Schmidt being with his boyfriend in a au where the Shepard is successful and everyone is returned home. Maybe a cute reunion where they are all emotional and reassure each other that they are still in love.

summary: you and Ernst have been apart for so long, worried about one another and what to expect when he comes back, but it seems that maybe not much is different.

tws: non-sexual nudity

support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy

After so much time being apart, wondering if he would ever actually come home, you watched on the news as they announced that, at last, the mission had been successful; Earth was saved, and you felt your heart drop to your stomach as you covered your mouth with one hand and sobbed quietly. Sliding onto your knees as you hit the carpet; he was coming home. Ernst was finally returning.

You broke completely. Relief, joy, pride. It hit you all at once, so hard that you ended up falling asleep on the floor after you were finished crying; so drained that you didn't even wake up when the door opened several hours later.

Schmidt folded his arms across his chest as he looked down at you, a fond smile on his face as he shed a few tears; he chucked his keys on the coffee table, grabbed the fluffy silver coloured blanket from the back of the sofa, and draped it over your shoulders.

He knelt down, kissed your temple, and put a cushion under your head; he would let you sleep for a while, it was the least that he could do. The news was behind a few hours, only just announcing that he and the rest of the crew were actually coming home.

While you slept, Schmidt grabbed a cup of coffee, unpacked everything and put it where it once lived, and showered; he was only just coming out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, when you woke.

"Hallo, mein Herz," he breathed out.

You stood there, staring at him for a while, before you swallowed thickly and barrelled into him; your arms were tight around his body as you kept him so close, crying quietly as you squeezed your eyes tightly shut and whimpered so softly. Schmidt let the initial shock wash over him before he returned the embrace; now that he had you in his arms, he was finally and truly home.

"Oh, mein geliebter," he murmured. "I missed you so much."

You didn't say anything, holding onto him with all the strength you had as you melted against him; it had been so long, so many days drenched in agony and worry that maybe he would never come back. Maybe the Shepherd would be unsuccessful and everything would go wrong, and now...

Now he was home.

"Ernst..."

"Ja, Ich bin hier," he said so sweetly. "I missed you... I love you."

You sniffled, pulling away and putting your hands on his face, studying his features; he hadn't changed much, except his stubble was a bit long, more scruff than anything else, but his big brown eyes were still the same. His hair was a bit longer than when he had left, and there was a faded bruise on his cheek, but he was still the same as when he had left.

"You need a haircut."

Schmidt grinned as he nodded, putting his hands on yours as he leaned into the touch. "Yeah, I do... you know, I thought maybe you would have moved on."

"Never," you breathed out, shaking your head. "Ernst, du bist meine Welt... I could never."

He brought your hand to his mouth, gently kissing your palm as he grumbled ever so quietly. "Du bist mein Stern. Mein geliebter. Mein Herz."

"Immer," you whispered, daring to steal a quick and gentle kiss.

You pulled him over to the bed, pulling back the duvet and getting in, waiting for him to drop the towel and finally join you; you snuggled into his side, pulling the blanket up to his chest as you slung one arm over his chest, your leg across his waist as he held on tightly to you. He was home.

He was home at last. Snuggled up with the man he loved more than anything in the world; all the video calls he had had with you never made up for the real thing. For hearing his voice again, for feeling his arms around you, the gentle caress of his scuff against your skin. Nothing could compare at all.

He tugged you closer, coaxing you to remove your shirt just so that he could feel your skin on his a bit more, tossing the offensive fabric aside and pulling you onto him; your hips on his as you rested your forearms on the pillow either side of his head, kissing him so softly.

You moved your arm so that you could tug at his hair, melting into how he kept his hands on your sides and eagerly dug his fingers into the flesh; the blanket over your back as you allowed him to take control and deepen the kiss. His tongue slipped between your lips, and you felt like you were going to cry.

It had been far too long since you had been able to kiss him again, you were starting to feel overwhelmed, and when he felt the first droplets on his skin, he gently pushed you away.

"Mein Stern... what's wrong?" He brought a hand up to wipe your tears away. "Talk to me."

"I just..." you sniffled, swallowing thickly. "I missed you so fucking much... kissing you again, it... it's all too much for me."

"I get it," Schmidt agreed softly. "Do you want me to stop?"

"Nein," you breathed out. "Bitte. Don't."

He grabbed the back of your neck, pushed you onto your back, and straddled your waist as he placed his arms either side of your head. "Is this alright?"

You nodded, hooking your arms around his neck as you pulled him down, but he grinned, and he licked his lips.

"Was?"

"Everything just keeps reminding me," he whispered. "I'm home... erinnern what I used to tell you?"

"That the stars shined only for me?" You asked, and when he nodded, you laughed softly. "Or that the stars never shined in space because I wasn't with you?"

"Both," Schmidt told you. "The stars do shine for you, mein Mann, and they never shined a day I was up there... they never shined until last night, when I was finally coming home, coming to you."

You grinned, sniffling as you shook your head. "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"You're gonna make me cry, meine Welt," you told him softly. "So... shut up, and kiss me, maybe?"

"Now, that," he gently traced your bottom lip with his thumb. "I can do, mein Stern."

#mlem writes #Ernst Schmidt x reader #Ernst Schmidt imagine #ernst schmidt #cloverfield paradox #the cloverfield paradox #cloverfield #clover field #daniel brühl fanfiction #daniel brühl x reader #daniel brühl imagine #daniel brühl #daniel bruhl fanfiction #daniel bruhl x reader #daniel bruhl imagine #daniel bruhl

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norabrice1701 · 1 year

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Shadow

A dark!hypnotist Brühl x Fem!Reader AU

Summary: His phantom still lingers. His shadow is always with you.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Explicit 18+ NSFW smut (including heavy dub-con/non-con sexual intercourse); explicit language; social anxiety; manipulative character; morally irredeemable use of hypnosis; reader trauma & distress afterwards; seriously, this is dark

A/N: Before my Sam Neill character spiral continues, wanted to get this one finished! Please heed the warnings on this one - there is very little redeeming about this one.

"Just one more look at you, my heart has been hypnotized" - "Hypnotized", Years & Years

His voice still haunts you.

Despite the doctor's reassurances. Despite the mind-numbing medication. Despite your husband's insistence.

His phantom still lingers. His shadow is always with you.

“You’ll never get me out. You’ll never let me go.”

A shudder courses through you even though you’re safe under the covers of your bed. Cold rain sluices in sluggish waves against the window, and grey light paints your bedroom in shrouded colors. The warmth of your bed covers does little for the pallor of your cheeks, though.

How could it when his fingers still whisper against your skin? When the hellfire of his touch still sears and brands you?

“Oh, my angel. When the devil wants to dance, do you think you can refuse him?”

You close your eyes against the persistence of memory.

The party dragged on for hours now. Even before marriage to your society-pages husband, you found the endless parade of formal events in stuffy mansions tedious. Fortunately, your husband didn’t insist that you stay on his arm all evening, and you could escape to find quiet moments of reprieve. Moments where you could breathe and try to reign in the anxious nerves that always made you uneasy during large social gatherings.

You’d never been able to explain why crowds made your skin crawl and your heart race. But your parents had heard none of it, and your husband wasn’t willing to listen, either. So instead, you found your own refuge. The heavy mahogany doors of the host’s library were open when you found them, but you closed them swiftly behind you. Mercifully, the din of the party beyond faded, and you reveled in the silence around you.

The gentle crackle of a dying fire along the opposite wall soothed you as you took deep, calming breaths. For the first time in hours, you felt like you could breathe. Taking steps into the cozy, shadowed room, you scanned the imposing collection of leather-bound volumes, stately bookcases, and plush furniture designed for hours of mental pursuits. A smile tugged at your lips - your first genuine one of the evening. If you could spend all of your evenings tucked away in such a room, you would want for little else.

You walked up to a bookcase opposite the fireplace, running your fingers along the textured spines. The warmth of the fire danced along your skin as you breathed the comforting scents of old leather and musty paper. All of it soothed your unease, bringing a sense of calm peace that you hadn’t known since arriving on your husband’s arm.

The heavy door whispered open on a silent hinge, but dark movement caught in your peripheral. You withdrew your hand from the books, ready to make your fearful apologies to the host. You weren’t a thief, and you weren’t snooping - hopefully the host would understand. Except… the man half-veiled in shadow wasn’t the host.

Honestly, you didn’t recognize him, and you couldn’t discern too much about him. He wore a dark, formal suit as befitting the party, and well-coiffed brown hair crowned his head. The flickering firelight cast handsome, intriguing shadows across his visage, but his glittering brown eyes were worlds unto themselves.

A fearful shiver raced down your spine as you forgot how to breathe, how to move. “I-I’m sorry - please, I wasn’t prying.”

He shook his head dismissively. “You needn’t apologize to me. This is not my home.”

You fought the urge to wring your hands under his unnerving stare. “I know, but I… I-.”

“You also needn’t be so nervous.” He walked further into the room, the dark fabric of his suit melting into the surroundings. “In fact, you look positively stricken, and - if I’m being honest - you have all evening.” His voice carried a mellifluous cadence with a lush, deep rasp, and it wrapped around you like velvet. “I would love to help you, if I may.”

His sharp gaze held yours with focused intensity, and your mouth went dry. You wet your top lip, fumbling for words against a growing fog in your mind. “How did you even know that I was here?”

The illuminated corner of his mouth lifted, and you instinctively recognized its sinister edge but your body continued to relax as he spoke. “Any man would notice an angel of your beauty taking her leave.”

Heat flared on your skin despite the weight of your wedding ring that suddenly felt like lead. “I-I’m a married woman.”

“Then, it is most telling that I found you here while your husband did not.”

Your head swam and you knew you should leave, but your feet refused to move. You drew another deep breath, unable to look away from him. “If you knew him, then that wouldn’t surprise you.”

He hummed, the sound low and enticing. “I do know him, and this does not surprise me.”

His mesmerizing gaze continued to bore through you, and the creepy severity of it flickered in your mind before evaporating just as quick. “Well… I-I don’t know you.” You said, taking a breath of the unnervingly thick and cloying air. “W-who are you?”

His mouth upturned in fleeting dismissal as he waved an elegant hand, the motion spidery in the dancing firelight. “I am no one of consequence, and my name is… irrelevant.” He took a step forward, staying half-concealed in the shadows and backlit against the fire. “Especially when there are far more interesting pursuits for the course of our conversation.”

Fear crawled up your spine but you were powerless to heed its warning. You gasped for breath, heart pounding and impossibly dizzy as the fire’s heat burned your skin. What was wrong with you? Had you fallen ill?

Another discomforting shiver raced through you.

He shook his head gently, the shadows playing over his pale skin. “But this simply won’t do.” He beckoned you forward with a gentle wave of his hand. “Come closer, my angel.”

Your feet moved without your permission as your eyes saw only him. You shouldn't - you knew that you should run for the door as the scent of his intoxicating cologne filled your nose - but with each passing second, that knowledge faded into oblivion. And the weight of your wedding ring vanished.

Up close, glints of amber sparkled in his dark eyes. Golden shards that flayed you open and stripped you bare. The force of the thought floored you, warring with a different heat growing on your skin and burning between your legs.

His mouth curled with an insufferably pleased edge as he continued to look at you. “And now, my angel.” His voice dropped to a low octave, thick and enticing with poisoned honey. “Tell me why this evening has you so unsettled.”

A drunken haze clouded your thoughts, and you couldn’t summon the will to resist. “I’ve… never liked being around so many people.”

“And why is that?” His words purred so close to your ear, and his cologne suffocated you.

“I-I never know what to say. Afraid that I’ll say the wrong thing, afraid that I’ll….”

His fingers brushed your arm, the touch scorching and electrifying and… wrong. "You may be able to hide from everyone else, but not from me." His breath burned the shell of your ear as he spoke. “Tell me.”

“... A-afraid that I’ll say too much, and… people will judge me for who I am.” You cringed at your admission and the unrelenting, dizzying presence of him. Your body continued to betray the dying protests of your mind, heating under his touch with the ache of arousal.

Disgust rippled through you but you couldn’t break free. Revulsion flared in your gut as his hand continued to trail up your arm even though your core smoldered with liquid heat. Words formed in your mind to call out for help, but they choked in your throat.

His lips danced against your ear, his rumbling voice bypassing the last vestiges of your sanity. “The divine does not fear the judgment of mortals, my angel.” A strong hand fell to your waist, drawing you closer, and you inhaled sharply as his words continued to pour into your ear. “Flowers bloom with no regret. Flowers bloom with no fear. And, so should you.”

The world spun, and you lost your feet. Your back pressed against the plush cushions of the couch under his enveloping weight as the breath knocked from your chest. His touch felt too hot, his skin too soft, his lips too rough. His kiss consumed you, and you struggled to respond. Feebly, you raised a hand to his shoulder, pawing at the fine fabric of his suit. He groaned, the sound captivating and numbing.

A tear stung your eye as you tried to push him away with deadened movements. Your tongue felt impossibly thick in your mouth as you whimpered. “Please… d-don-.”

“Oh, my angel,” he rasped with smug satisfaction as the heavy weight of his hand settled to your thigh and crept under your dress. “When the devil wants to dance, do you think you can refuse him?”

Another whimper passed your lips as his fingers branded your inner-thigh on his journey upward. His groan washed over you in a wave of delirium, and his voice fueled the haze in your mind. “How have you bloomed for me, my angel?”

You whimpered, shame flaring in your chest as he teased through your dripping folds. He stroked you several times, coating his fingers and letting you feel how thoroughly your body had betrayed you. When he started to stroke with maddening, circling pressure, your hips rocked unbidden into his touch.

The corner of his mouth lifted, dark and predatory. “No regret, no fear - remember?”

Another tear stung your eye as his fingers found a delicious rhythm, sending sparks of dark promise up your spine. With each pass, your core ached for satisfaction, drunk on his touch and lost to his words. You didn’t recognize your voice as you moaned for him and clutched his broad shoulders.

The pressure mounted inside you with alarming speed, but his fingers disappeared all too soon. You gasped for breath, whimpering as you bit back the urge to beg him for more. You didn’t want this - you didn’t want him - you didn’t want his pleasure pulsing through you.

… Right?

“Open your eyes, my angel.” His words commanded your obedience, and you squinted against the sharp firelight.

His beautiful eyes shone black with hunger, his face dark with wicked sin. The flickering golden light caught on his fingers that glistened with your aroused slick. Shame washed over you at the evidence of your unforgivable desire. As if in a dream, you watched his eyes fall to his wet fingers and draw them to his lips. He moaned, savoring your taste for a long moment before he purred with deep-seated satisfaction. “Ripe with such sweet nectar. Divine as I knew you would be.”

His damp hand moved to yours, bringing it between his legs to press against his straining erection. You gasped as revulsion crawled down your spine. Sluggishly, with arms that didn’t feel like yours, you tried to pull back, but he pressed your hand tighter against him to draw a low moan from his chest before he spoke. “But I am not so callous as to satisfy my own thirst at the expense of my angel’s.”

Your hand fell limp back to the sofa and the distant shuffling of clothing sounded over the dull buzz in your ears. After all, without his voice, what else was there to hear? He braced himself, pressing against you, and the thick, imposing weight of his cock settled against your soaked entrance.

He swallowed your cry as he pushed inside, the stretch of him stinging and burning with pained pleasure. Your world reduced to the thick pulse of him inside you, touching the deepest parts of your being. You drew a shaking breath, trembling against his lips. “Oh, God….”

“Yes,” he breathed. “Call me God - for surely, being inside you must be heaven.”

His hips rocked back before he surged forward, searing you from the inside out. Your mind splintered and your soul fractured as your body reached new heights with each thrust. Numbly, you clutched at him, and helplessly, you listened to him. “You’ll never get me out.” He growled, filling your body and clouding your mind. “You’ll never let me go.”

And blindly, you surrendered to him - shattering around the deep press of him in devastating rapture.

Even now, almost two weeks later, you don’t know how long you had stayed on the sofa afterwards until your husband found you. He said you were stunned and slurring your words, babbling as if drugged. He said you were assaulted, and pressed you for any information about your attacker. He said you were in shock from trauma, and with time, you would find yourself right as rain again.

But how can that possibly be true? When every time you close your eyes, you see those glittering drops of amber in dark brown seas? When all you hear is his enthralling voice in your mind? His sickening words that roil your stomach and churn shameful arousal in your core?

You can’t explain it. Perhaps you never will be able to. It’s impossible to understand how one man has so effortlessly taken you apart and rebuilt you in the memory of his shadow. His shadow that lurks at the foot of your bed, beside you, inside you as the medication takes hold.

#daniel brühl fanfic #daniel brühl x reader #daniel brühl x you #daniel brühl

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loki-quinn · 1 year

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Baron Helmut Zemo is so pretty!

#daniel brühl #baron zemo x reader #baron zemo smut #baron helmut zemo #baron zemo #zemo #helmut zemo #helmut zemo x reader #zemo x reader #zemo imagine

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therenlover · 8 months

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Always For A Second (Usually At The Start) - A Helmut Zemo x Reader fic

"And when I imagine life when it's mine / I can try to picture faceless folk to love a thousand times / But always for a second, and usually at the start / You're in the image posing with a cradled beating heart" - Katie Gregson MacLeod, i'm worried it will always be you

Synopsis: Leaving Helmut for good had been the biggest, most final choice you'd ever had to make. Two years later, he's in your living room again. This time, though, things are different.

Tags: Explicit Smut (+18), Exes, Getting Back Together, Enemies to Lovers to Exes to Lovers, Enthusiastic Consent, Switch!Zemo, Oral (Fem Receiving), Service Top!Zemo, Aftercare, Bucky is Mentioned Too Much

Rating: E (+18) Minors DNI

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 8,600~

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

“I didn’t expect you to come crawling back so soon, schatz,”

The restaurant was crowded enough that nobody heard Helmut’s words, curt and cloying and so fucking familiar. Still, my face heated. It always would for him, no matter how much my common sense protested by body’s reactions. How dare he be so damn effective at getting under my skin?

Some over-expensive brown liquor sloshed against the rim of the glass in my hand as I lifted it less than gracefully from the table, dribbling down the edge of my mouth as I guided it to my lips and drank deeply. “For one, two years isn’t soon,” I started, swallowing. “Two, you’re the asshole who showed up in my apartment like a robber, which makes you the one who came crawling back. I was just nice enough to let you take me for a free meal to get you the hell out. Three,” I set the glass down sharply, “don’t call me that. We’re not friends. We’re not anything. I still haven’t forgiven you,”

“Apologies,”

He didn’t mean it.

“Still, it’s too soon to expect any sort of kindness from you,” he continued, “If I recall correctly, you said you’d rather die than suffer through another night with me for the rest of eternity. I believe an eternity has yet to pass… and yet, here we are,”

His matter of fact tone left little up for debate, unless I wanted to reach for my fork and maim his smug face. Instead, I bit my tongue and swallowed another mouthful of whatever I was drinking.

For once I was glad to be surrounded by the kind of noisy, faceless jumble of humanity that usually made my skin crawl. F. Scott Fitzgerald was on to something with his theories on large crowds and intimacy; there was no better place for two war criminals to meet than the corner booth of a hazy restaurant, lounging and drinking, covered by the blanket of sweet anonymity. Anyone who glanced our way would see two normal human beings sharing a meal in peaceable silence, sharing sparse conversation between bites of this and that.

They would see lovers.

The thought left a lump in my throat.

Maybe I looked uncomfortable enough that they would presume, correctly, that we were ex-lovers. I wasn’t hopeful about it, though.

Helmut noticed, of course, but I knew he would. He had always had an almost supernatural sense for these things, like he could tune into my emotional radio on a frequency I didn’t even fully know myself. Enemy or ally or… otherwise, it was a constant to be seen through and picked apart like carrion. An appetizer for the fights to come. Thankfully, though, he chose to have mercy on me this time in a rare show of respect. Instead of wrapping his lips around another snide comment- even though I could tell it was burning a bitter hole into the tip of his tongue behind his clenched teeth- he chose to pick up a ring of calamari from the plate between us. He held it up to examine the crust in the dim lamplight before placing it delicately against his lips, pulling it from the fork in one bite. Still, he couldn’t be too gracious. Helmut held eye contact as he went.

I could only managed a disgusted sigh but found myself mirrored as his teeth sunk into the squid and his brow furrowed.

“Bad?” I asked.

He chewed for a good while before managing to swallow the offending clump down, gagging all the way. “Despite my recent diet, that might be the worst thing I’ve eaten in a long while,”

A laugh escaped me before I even knew it was there. “You managed to pick a restaurant where our appetizer is worse than prison food? Serves you right for ordering seafood in the midwest,”

“I suppose it does.” He nudged the plate towards me with a growing smirk, “See for yourself. I’d hate to see it wasted, and as you said, it is ours. I can’t be expected to finish it alone,”

As if under the spell of his charisma all over again, I followed his instructions without a second thought. It was just as bad as I anticipated.

Things were off to a bad start from the moment the tines of my fork hit the batter. The breading seemed to squelch under the pressure, sagging and giving way into meat that was somehow both rubbery and gelatinous, if that was even possible, and if the texture seemed bad outside of my mouth it was even worse inside. Somewhere between its fishy tang and the overly salted batter, there was a bitter, almost sour note that seemed to permeate further with every chew. I spit the macerated glob into my napkin before even attempting to swallow down the remaining spit.

Across the table, Zemo grinned at my misfortune. “Let’s hope our entrees are less offensive to our palettes,”

“Fuck off,” I muttered, lips turning up at the edges.

“You can curse all you want at my poor choice of venue, but I can tell you’re glad you’re the one who ordered the pasta instead of the steak,”

I went for my glass again, letting the liquor with a name I couldn’t pronounce burn all the way down my throat and into my chest. “I hate that you’re always right, Helmut. Can’t you be wrong, just once? Leave some correctness for the rest of us,”

Maybe it was the lighting, soft and amber against the dark wood of the table to mask the bloody steaks that would sit below, or maybe it was the music, something old and swinging that I couldn’t quite put my finger on but knew from the radio in my grandmother’s car as a child, or maybe, just maybe, it was the crows feet that popped up around Helmut’s eyes when he smiled that hadn’t been quite so prominent the last time I’d seen him, but no matter the cause, the solid iron wall I had put up around my heart when I walked out of the Baron’s life those two year sago seemed to soften. Weakened, somehow. It was like someone took a blowtorch right to the center of my defenses. Something in me screamed that they had never been all that strong to begin with.

I only noticed I’d been staring when he looked away, clearing his throat and wiping his thin mouth with the napkin from his lap.

There went my hand. Helmut, 1. Me, 0… Well, 1, if leaving him those years ago counted for anything, and I refused to believe that it hadn’t. That the blow to his ego hadn’t given me at least a slight upper hand compared to the naive girl I had been in comparison when I first met him. There had been so much good in the world then.

The silence dragged on as if the structural flaws of my guarded heart could patch themselves up with the defenses created from just a few silent moments between us. That’s all it would take for me to remember all the reasons this would never work: all the pain, the sleepless nights, the snide comments that turned into biting replies that grew into massive, earth-shattering fights that exploded into days or weeks or months living alone in a house with him. One by one, the memories flooded back, reminding me exactly why it had taken me almost two years to find enough peace within myself that I wouldn’t decide to shoot the man in front of me on sight. My heart hardened by the second.

“I saw your concert,”

I was simultaneously thawed and frozen all over again. “How did you-“

“James mentioned it,”

“You still talk to Bucky?”

“Here and there,”

The conversation lapsed into silence.

He had… been there? I didn’t even bother to think about the talk I’d have to have with Bucky about my privacy, too focused on the more important matter at hand.

The venue was grungy, a basement bar with a small stage serving the communities aspiring comedians and desperate punk-rock garage dwellers just waiting for their big break. I had barely had the guts to pay the booking fee, though. It was just me, a piano, and my guitar for an hour and a half set of mostly cover songs that had gone better than I’d expected, but hadn’t been anything crazy. The crowd was appreciative and respectful. Several people had left tips, even more giving me a congratulatory clap on the back as I left the building that night, promising to “stream my EP” whenever I released it, despite the fact that I had no plans to do any such thing. Still, I couldn’t imagine that I hadn’t seen his face in the crowd. I couldn’t name what I was feeling as I imagined it; visualized his face on the other side of the smoky room, leaned against the bar with his dark eyes catching hold of mine…

“You came and you didn’t say anything? Not even a hello?”

Helmut laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “And risk my life over a free concert? No.” He paused, “Despite my tendency to sometimes be… less than kind, I knew it would rattle you to see me. I didn’t want to throw you off before your performance.”

I didn’t have much of anything to say in response. Instead, I picked at the paper straw wrapper in my lap and tried to look anywhere but in his direction, shoving down whatever was welling up in my chest. He wouldn’t let things go, though. He never could. That was half of why we’d never work. Every time I tried to drop an uncomfortable subject he’d be there to pick it up with a snide comment or two. It was an easy rhythm. Too easy. I had never wanted to fall back into it and yet, here I was, almost excited to snipe his next words down.

“Cain misses you,” He continued.

I folded the straw wrapper in my hands, pulling at the crease as I thought about the doberman puppy I had left behind. He would be so big now, as big as the one I’d taken with me was now. My heart ached at the thought.

“I doubt he remembers me after all this time,”

“Of course he does,” Helmut’s voice was low. It was almost hypnotic, the way he carried himself. He could fool anyone. I realized, with a sinking feeling in my stomach that couldn’t have been the calamari, he could still fool me. “He’s quite the troublemaker. More times than I can count he’s evaded me in the house, only to be found asleep in your old closet. I think he remembers your scent,”

“Thats…” I sat quiet for a moment, pursing through choices of words in my mind, mulling over the sharp accented way he pronounced the t in scent, “Sad. Really sad. Makes me wish I could’ve taken them both,”

“And what of Brutus?”

“He’s good,” A smile crossed my face. “Big, as you saw tonight. I remember when we got them, they told us they’d be 60 pounds at most, but I swear Brutus must’ve snuck in with the rest of those puppies, because he’s massive. Headbutts me every time I walk through the door wondering where I was. He’s a good boy, though. Keeps watch while I sleep, just in case.”

“Just in case I decided to let myself in through the window one night?”

I let myself laugh without judgement this time, reaching for my water. “Looks like it was all for nothing, then. Who knew he’d just let intruders come waltzing in off of the fire escape?”

“Am I truly considered an intruder in your home?” He asked it as if the answer wasn’t obvious. As if there were any other answer I could possibly give. As if I could’ve wanted him there. His earnestness almost hurt as much as his taunting did, maybe more, because even if I didn’t want to admit it to myself, there was a soft ring of truth to his words.

I took the cowards way out. “I don’t know, what do you think?”

It was a vulnerability to not give a straight answer, the kind of weak spot that Helmut would catch wind of in an instant before using it to unravel someone piece by piece. Not a no, but certainly not a yes, and the fact that it hadn’t been a resounding yes was enough to glean that maybe, deep down, I wasn’t hating this dinner. He would see through me. Rip me to shreds for the subtle admittance that I hadn’t hated seeing him waiting for me on the couch when I walked through my door, even if I hadn’t expected or wanted him there in the first place.

I found it was better to lie by omission than to fully lie and let him see through me to the more important truth; For as much as I despised everything about him, I had missed Helmut Zemo. I had missed his stupid expensive taste and the tilt of his stupid head and his stupid shiny white smile. I had missed seeing his coat hung up beside the door and knowing what waited for me inside. It was sick how I had loved him. How I had loved every minute of him picking me apart by the seams and putting me back together. Who could possibly crave their own destruction? Who could live knowing that to be loved was to be deconstructed down to the bone and laid bare as something lesser, something so small compared to the great destroyer I devoted myself to.

How could he let me live like that if he truly saw through me?

And that was why I had to leave.

Loving Helmut Zemo was no way to live. I knew that. I had known that the day I picked up my dog and walked out of our home with nothing but my wallet, car keys, phone, and a polaroid picture of his silhouette. Somehow, I knew that he knew that too. Why else would I move on so suddenly, so sharply, removing every piece of the life we’d built to start myself fresh? A new me, I had said. A new chapter. Yet here I was across from him, shredded bits of paper littering my lap as he puppeteered my heart right back into his arms.

No. I couldn’t let it happen.

Not again.

“Listen, baron,” I didn’t let him answer my rhetorical question. It wouldn’t be wise to let him gain the upper hand again. It wouldn’t be smart to let myself stay weak. “I appreciate dinner. It’s been surprisingly lovely to catch up with you. I’m glad to know you’re not dead, and its great to know Cain is doing well, but I know you weren’t here to tell me that over a plate of mediocre pasta,”

Helmut smiled, his head in its signature tilt, and swished his own glass a bit. The ice was all but melted giving the liquor an almost clear quality as it diluted. Not a sip had been taken. “Ask the question, schatz,”

“Why are you here? Why did you stalk me here and break into my apartment when I made it clear that you weren’t welcome in my life?” My words came out so matter of fact even I almost recoiled at them. Not unemotional but detached.

“Um, who had the chicken alfredo?”

I could feel the blood drain from my face as I looked up at the poor waiter, hot plates in hand, as he took in our table at just the wrong time. Five minutes earlier he would have walked in on polite conversation about the dogs or the shitty appetizers. Now, though, he stood between a man who was known to kill for the things he wanted and me, the one thing he could never have again.

Surprisingly, though, Helmut waved a hand towards me as I froze. There were none of the usual dramatics, just polite chatter with the waiter as he set my plate in front of me and left Helmut with his, taking the offending calamari plate away with him as he scurried away, surely to tell his coworkers about the crazy exes at the corner table. Helmut didn't even carry on with his answer. He just started tucking in to his steak and potatoes, not sparing me a single glance. If I didn’t know better, if I hadn’t memorized the way his eyes looked in the low light of a restaurant across from me, I would think he’d been replaced by a skrull.

Where was the tearing? The shredding? The utter evisceration of my waiting throat as he drank deeply of my darkest, most shameful thoughts only to spit them out for the world to see. Where was that shame? In the before times, in the times that the two of us had been a we, he never would have paused to mind a waiter. The world would have revolved around him as he laid me bare, no matter who watched or waited in the wings. What changed?

How had I not noticed his docility until now?

The pasta was decent. It was better than anything I would’ve made at home, at least. I barely thought about it, though, letting my body go through the motions of eating mechanically while my mind went over a million things I could say. What could I say? There was nothing left to. We had gone over every possibility before I had left, at least I thought we had. Whatever we were was dead. That was certain. But what we could be…

I swallowed hard before I could choke on a relatively large piece of broccoli I neglected to chew in my trance.

Helmut seemed to be in a painfully similar situation. One look at his plate showed a steak cut into tiny pieces. Almost none of it looked eaten, just diced into a pile and shuffled around a bit on the plate to mix with the potatoes, smashed down from their neat ice cream scoop globe and spread with the back of a fork.

With a sigh, I set down my fork, pasta already forgotten.

“Lost your appetite?”

He paused his fiddling with his fork and knife, mirroring me and letting the utensils rest on the table beside his plate. It was odd to see him rattled. Strange to watch his eyes roll up to the ceiling and pause there, as if he was searching for the right words to say. He always knew just what to say to cut the deepest. Maybe it was foreign for him to not want to cut; To find a soft word, instead of a sharpened one. His mouth opened one… two…three times. Open and shut, open and shut. I couldn’t help but hurt for him. The man of many words was finally struck dumb.

Finally, it came.

“I’m sorry,”

I had anticipated a selfish reply, a demand for me to come back and put the past two years behind us, but time had changed him. It had changed us both. He was no longer the man he had been when he was first freed from behind bars, vengeful and biting and so deeply afraid of being alone again, but I was no longer the lost girl I had been either. I did not need to be destroyed to breathe. I could feel tears pricking up in my eyes as he reached a hand across the table to search for my own. It was such a familiar sight in a time of uncertainty. I kept my hands firmly in my lap, though. I would not give him the satisfaction.

More, I would not give him hope.

“Come home, schatz,”

There it was.

I couldn’t hold in the bitter, wet laugh that bubbled up through me, more at my own foolishness than at anything else. He had changed, yes, but some things never would.

“Helmut,” The word hurt to say. It was altogether both familiar and unfamiliar, covered in a thick layer of dust from time, but nothing could erase the fact that it had once been used over and over, like a prayer, as easy as breathing or saying my own name. “You know I can’t,”

He let his hand slink back to his side. “I had to try, you know,”

“I know,” The words were a whisper.

So this was closure?

The table was quiet. There was no desperation from Helmut’s side, no attempts to sway me or sudden outbursts of resentment. It was almost peaceful. His voice was sad but there was no manipulation in it. We laid our cards of the table as the game we’d played for years finally came to an end.

“You were right about us, when you left,” he laughed, “I was, as you so aptly put it, a massive ass. I was still so deeply disillusioned about this world and the horrors of it. It was as if everyone around me was just another cog in it all, even you. I thought if I could puppet it all, make things go my way, everything could just be quiet. The horrors would finally stop. The memories would finally stop. I took it too far, though. I took it out on you. For that, I will never be sorry enough,”

I put up a hand. “Helmut, you don’t have to do this-“

“I want to,”

His voice was delicate but didn’t waver. For the first time I wondered if this was more about what he needed to say than about what I needed to hear. I nodded him on. Without me even thinking about what I was doing, my hand caught his across the table.

“I wanted to run after you the same day you left. I nearly did, too, before I thought better of it. Then I really thought of what you said. What I did. It was then that I decided I had to change for the better, not for you but for myself. Only then would I allow myself to try again. So I did. I spent my time deconstructing the things I had seen and done and finally facing my own demons. I’m not perfect- believe me -but there are many things I have… worked on, for lack of a better word. James was surprisingly helpful throughout it all,”

“Is that why you’ve been talking?” My thumb stroked over his knuckles, pausing on a scar.

“More or less. I needed advice on how to overcome my atrocities, and I owed him an apology either way. He told me about your concert because he thought I would be ready to make amends, and yet I found myself unable to speak to you because I knew that if I did, I would have to beg you for forgiveness, and that is not something I will allow myself to do from anyone. Not now, nor ever,”

I let myself pull away. This was not a movie. There was no happy ending for the two of us at the end of this conversation. It was a chance to clear the air and let go of our grievances before going our separate ways. Treating it any other way would only hurt us both. “Why break in, then, and drag this all out over dinner? Why not just knock on my door, apologize, and leave?”

“I couldn’t have you slamming the door in my face and leaving me to apologize to the wall, now could I?”

We shared a sad smile, a knowing one. “I guess that’s true.”

“I needed to know you would hear what I had to say until the end,” he paused, “And one last confession. I must admit, I could not walk away without sharing dinner with you one last time. It’s selfish, as I am selfish, but I could not see you again without truly seeing you, more than just as you shouted at me and threw me to the curb,”

“You think so little of me?” I asked. There was no bite in it.

“No, I think so little of myself,” he finally took a sip from his glass, “Any anger on your part is warranted,”

We did not speak again for a long while. Helmut methodically went through the bite-sized pieces of steak on his plate as I finished the alfredo, which had grown cold in the time it took to sort things out. There was no quiet conversation, no jokes or shared stories in the glow of the lamps overhead. Instead we sat in peaceable silence and breathed in the finality of it all. I was almost grateful for it. I never would have imagined sharing a meal like this with him in all of the years I had known him and loved him. If it was to be the last, and it was, we would savor every moment of each others company. Every moment not spent on my meal was devoted to memorizing the line of his jaw and the shape of his eyes as he did the same for me.

By the time the waiter came to ask about dessert, I could have written sonnets about his face alone, and by the time he returned with the check, paid discreetly with a 40% tip for his troubles on Helmut’s card, I had committed the sound of his breathing to my mind. I could only hope the memory would last this time.

Realistically, I knew it wouldn’t.

I wondered if he was thinking the same thing as we approached the front of the restaurant together, pausing awkwardly outside the door as we exited out onto the street.

“So, this is it,” My hands found the pockets of my coat as I rocked onto the balls of my feet.

Helmut smiled softly in the lamplight. “Let me walk you home,”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,”

“Says who? I have to follow you either way, my car is parked down the block,” He offered me his arm.

I took it far quicker than I should have, relishing in the scent of his cologne. Even after all these years he had never switched to another brand, and I refused to admit to anyone else but myself that I was grateful for it. Instead I leaned into his warmth. “Well, it’s only a few blocks anyways. I guess it couldn’t hurt,” and with that, we were off.

The night was cool. Summer had given in to the pull of a lush fall, the temperatures dropping to a comfortable but windy chill when the sun fell below the horizon. The leaves were not yet falling but they’d begun their slow transformation from green into a mosaic of reds and yellows and greens, forming a rustling canopy above the sidewalk that allowed a flash of stars and moon through the foliage every few steps.

We were not the only pair walking through the streets that night, but if you had asked me about it later I would have said we were the only two people in the whole city, matching each other step for step under the flickering streetlights. Helmut’s crows feet were in full force as he laughed at my terrible jokes, and I couldn’t help but feel warmth rush through my neck and cheeks as he recounted the moment we first met.

It had been fall then, too. A brief, chance encounter in the streets of Paris was all it was, a night spend with a stranger, until I had seen him again in Sibera, and again in Germany, and again on the Raft, and again, and again, and again, and again…

He had been younger then, much younger, and still raw with grief, but I had loved him even then.

I was so lost in my own memories that I almost missed the stairs up to my apartment, but Helmut paused there, keeping me rooted with him even though the look in his eyes told me he almost kept walking past, hoping to gain one more turn around the block before he had to let me go. He didn't, though. This was the end of the line.

My arm slipped easily from its place against his own, hand catching briefly on the crook of his elbow. “Walk me to my door?”

His laugh felt almost nervous, a paid mockery of my own earlier reticence. “I don’t think that’s wise,”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a gentleman, baron?”

“I have never claimed that,” For a moment, when he paused, I thought that would be that. I would turn my back, ascend the stairs, and turn around to find he’d shifted back into the shadows from whence he came, but then the moonlight caught on his soft, wet eyes. “But for you, schatz, I try to be,”

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find the words I wanted to say as we walked up the front steps and into the building.

It had been so angry last time. I had vomited up every hateful, raging, repressed thought that I had shoved down into my chest over the course of our turbulent time together all at once and left without a second glance. This time, though, it felt wrong to end things without giving him credit for all of the other things, the things I had forgotten in the midst of all the chaos that surrounded us. How could I thank him? How could I tell him every wonderful thing about himself only to close the door in his face a moment later? I spent the whole trip up to my apartment trying to find a way to express even an ounce of what I felt, and then it was far too late.

We stood there on my novelty doormat, boots settled over the dirty cartoon chickens, hands in our pockets, and breathed in the stale hallway air.

“Thank you for dinner,” I said. If I shut off my heart and my mind and every other little betraying ache in my bones it was like it had been all those years ago. We were just meeting. This was the end of our very first date. There was a future instead of a past in the time that lay beyond us.

Helmut averted his eyes from mine. I could tell he was pretending too. “Of course,”

“I’ll see you again,” I lied, “I mean, it’s inevitable. We’ll end up at Bucky’s place at the same time,”

“Or run into each other at a busy cafe,” he offered.

“Exactly! Or our cells will end up next to each other in maximum security prison,” I laughed, but it caught, pathetic, in the back of my throat.

He took a step back, boots leaving my doorstep. “I look forward to it, whenever it may be,”

My shaking hands found my keys, an autopilot motion I had done a million times, and the door to my apartment swung open. I could hear Brutus in his kennel, beginning to whine the moment he heard me come home, but I paused there for a moment, one foot in and one foot out.

“Goodbye, Helmut,”

“Sleep well, schatz,”

I stepped inside and locked the door without turning around for a last look.

My tears came quicker than expected as I took in the room around me. It was the antithesis of my home with Helmut, all whites and beiges and grays from the sparse walls to the lonely couch against the wall. There was one great shock of black, though; a solid footprint on the windowsill. One last souvenir to remember him by.

I had done the right thing.

I had to have done the right thing.

Life with Helmut was hell. It was exciting and lush and romantic and alluring but it was destructive and painful too. It would mean being seen and unseen for the rest of my life, living with the ghosts of those lost in Novi Grad. He would never stop being the man his grief had created. He was just too broken… wasn’t he?

All at once I knew I had to see him again. This wasn’t going to be the end. There were still so many chances to make it right.

Before I knew my own feelings, I was undoing the latch and throwing my door open, only to find him there, feet planted solidly on that stupid welcome mat and fist raised to lift the knocker. Our eyes locked.

We didn’t need words then.

No, all I needed was his lips on mine and my hands in his hair. It was a need easily rectified.

He didn’t pull away as I grabbed the edges of his ridiculous fur coat and dragged him in for a kiss, letting the remains of that day’s lipstick smear against his chapped lips as the parted and made way for me. It was like a piece of my puzzle fell back into place, like the thing that had been lying dormant in my empty chest for the past two years had jumped to life and jumped into my throat. The tears weren’t coming anymore, though Helmut’s cheeks felt wet when I guided one of my hands to rest against it, dragging him closer. I needed him urgently. I needed all of it. Every moment I had missed.

At least one time in my entire tiny, useless life I needed to know him as he had always known me. I had to see him through eyes that would know every atom of him by heart.

It could have lasted second or hours. I was lost in it; lost in every heartbeat and the messy clack of teeth on teeth as we remembered exactly how our mouths locked into each other. There was no need to breathe. I would happily drown in him if he would let me. Through the passion I distinctly remembered this fervor, the endless need for him. It wasn’t frightening anymore, though. I knew how to walk away. We both did.

This time I didn’t want to.

Helmut was the first to pull away. His mouth was wet and red as he panted there, just a breath away from diving in for more, but he pulled away when I advanced again, instead choosing to speak between placing kisses on my cheeks and down my jaw. “I couldn’t let you walk away from me. Not again,” his voice shook as he kissed me, “Does that make me a bad man? Does that mean you can’t love me?”

I could only breathe a laugh as I pressed my chest to him. No measure of closeness was enough. I needed him to cover every inch of me. “I don’t think I could stop loving you if I tried, and I’ve tried,”

“Please, stop trying,”

With that, he caught me in another kiss.

“We should probably go inside,” I panted, gesturing towards the apartment with my head and Helmut nodded, maneuvering us over the threshold and into the barren entryway of the home I’d made without him. It didn’t matter, though. That wasn’t what I was focused on. Instead, my hands were more focused on pulling his coat from his shoulders and discarding it loosely in the direction of the coat rack between fevered kisses.

The old Helmut would’ve pulled away and make some snarky remark about keeping the place clean. This Helmut, though- my Helmut, as I had selfishly started to refer to him mentally in the past few moments -just dragged me in closer after his arms were freed, letting his hand drift to the small of my back but not even an inch lower.

Suddenly, though, things seemed to cool. The kisses grew shorter, softer. His arms still held me but seemed to loosen their grip.

“Tell me you want this,” He whispered softly against the shell of my ear, “That you want me,”

Ah. So that’s what this is.

“Helmut, of course I do-“

“That’s not enough,” his voice was laced with a rare seriousness as he pulled away to look at me properly. His brown eyes glowed a million honeyed colors under the shitty, flickering overhead lighting I should have replaced months ago. They flitted from my swollen mouth to my cheeks to my watery eyes as his hand came up to cup my cheeks again. “Tell me this isn’t a mistake or a bad decision you’ll regret the second we finish,”

The rest went unsaid.

(Tell me you’ll stay. Tell me this means something to you, even if it doesn’t mean as much as it does to me. Tell me I won’t wake up alone tomorrow morning. Tell me anything and everything except the cruel reality that neither of us really knows what the future looks like once this is over)

I simply nodded my head, coming in for one closed mouth kiss. “I want this. I want you. Whatever I choose to do next, you’ll be a part of the decision. No more running away,”

Like a shot, we were off to the races again.

It was hard to detach our bodies long enough to give Brutus a treat to quiet him down, harder still to lead him to the bedroom and drop his hand long enough to turn on a nearby lamp, but somehow I managed. For all of the small things I’d forgotten about Helmut in the two years we’d spent apart, his bitten nails and the silhouette of his nose and the sound of his labored breathing as he took in my body with something akin to animalistic hunger, it was easy to fall back into the rhythm we’d always found ourselves in intimately.

His shirt came off first, exposing the soft curve of his stomach. I kissed down from his neck to his chest, letting myself pause on each and every pinkish scar that graced his flesh. I made a mental note to ask him about a few new ones, including a wicked one across his collarbone that still puckered into an inch long divot in his flesh. My fingers followed my mouth, mapping every inch of his flesh. They caught on every soft yielding place he offered, a worship on the altar of his body, dragging his flesh ever so slightly but never enough to leave a scratch or bruise.

I would not mark him any more than the world already had. It was not my purpose to remold him into my image. Instead I would venerate what he was, what he had become.

Helmut had put so much effort into changing himself, rebreaking the things that had never healed correctly and setting them right again. I refused to let him break down to splinters again. Not on my watch.

He shuddered at my attentions.

“Let me see you?” It was a question, not a demand, and how could I deny him when he asked so nicely?

I stood up again, relishing in the feeling of his fingers against the hem of my t-shirt, the gentle scratch of nails on skin as he lifted it over my head. When he looked at me, it was like he was looking at the most precious thing in the world. Usually he was so hungry for it that there was never a pause once my shirt was discarded. My bra would be thrown off with it, then my pants, then my underwear, all in such quick succession that I barely distinguished one article from the next in the order of things. This time, though, he paused, hands just inches from my bare flesh.

“My sweet girl,” he whispered to me like a prayer, a confession, “I don’t think I can hold back much longer,”

Slowly, deliberately, I stepped forward and pressed my body into his awaiting hands. He squeezed my hips once, gentle, and twice. Then they were roaming up to the clasp on my bra with that usual hunger again, freeing my breasts for his attentions. I don’t exactly recall how he manhandled me on to the bed, I was too busy feeling the hard press of his bulge through his crisp dress slacks. The first thing I was fully cognizant of was his hot breath on my sternum as he hovered over me, still standing but bent at the waist, boxing me in with his knees.

“So fucking sweet,” he whispered before taking one of my nipples between his lips and laving his tongue over the hardening tip.

I felt like a live wire. Heat was building everywhere. Dazzling electricity shot through my head and fingers and toes and cunt and gods especially my breasts. They were always my weak spot, and how he knew it, how he knew me. I wanted to thrash against him, to buck and gain his attention where I really needed it, but his body above mine held me fast, keeping me right where he wanted me, vulnerable to him and his specific brand of torture. With a particularly sharp pinch and a well timed suck he had me keening against him, curling into his every move.

How had I lived without him? It was hard to imagine a night not spend here with Helmut, wherever here was, not that that mattered. I was embarrassingly wet. The slickness had gathered enough that I could feel it on my thighs despite my jeans. When I tried to relieve myself, though, the baron caught my hand, tutting softly.

I expected to have to ask permission. Soft begs escaped my mouth. I needed him. I had no patience for games. Instead, though, he lifted up off of my chest and smiled, pulling my hand to his lips. “Let me help you, love,”

There are no words in the human language that could adequately represent the sound that escaped my mouth. I could not even begin to try. It continued even as I lifted my hips to shimmy free from my jeans and underwear in one fluid motion, only ceasing when Helmut was on his knees with his face buried in my cunt. I was making different noises then. Loud. Guttural. If I had any mind left at all I would worry what my neighbors thought, to see me out on my doorstep desperately pawing at a man only to hear the noises we were making in tandem now. Thankfully, any sensible thought I had left seemed to fly out the window with Helmut’s first lick to my cunt.

It was clear that he hadn’t forgotten me, and if he had, the muscle memory was coming back quick. His tongue was deft as it worked its way over my aching nub in a pseudo-figure eight; circling once, twice, and three times before dipping back through my folds. I held him in place this time, though, rocking into his mouth. At some point my hands found their way into his hair. It was so soft between my fingers, so pliable as I pulled against him, desperate for more of him, anything he would good.

Every time he relented to me. Each sharp jolt was rewarded with a kiss against my thigh or a muttered curse in Sokovian, hot breath teasing my glistening mound.

He was so giving, so attentive to my every need. He had always been a generous lover, never leaving me wanting for anything, but this felt… different. The way he sucked bruises into my thighs, relenting to each and every sobbing please that escaped my soft lips, was a new and devastating experience. There were no power games left to play, no lording his sexual prowess over me as he brought me slowly closer and closer to the ever distant goalpost, just his mouth on me over and over and over again as he wrung the first orgasm of the night out of me, then the second in short measure, barely ceasing from one to the next.

By the time he decided I’d had my fill, my legs were a trembling mess against his shoulders and my cunt was a sopping mess.

He grinned a crooked grin at his masterpiece.

“How was that, my love,”

I could barely catch my breath enough to speak. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, thrumming a frantic drumbeat even as the room quieted. “So good- really really good, Helmut,”

Slowly, he rose up from his knees, undoing his belt. “Please say my name again, schatz,”

“Helmut,” My voice was hushed. Reverent.

He undid the button at his fly, pulling at the band of his boxers. “Again,”

It fell from my lips like a prayer. “Helmut,”

His cock bounced free, bobbing as he took a sharp, steadying breath. He placed his hand at the base and squeezed slightly.

“Again,”

“Helmut,”

“Fuck, that’s good,” The trance broke momentarily as I gazed up at him, watching the sweat roll down his forehead in shining rivulets despite the chill in the air. He wiped at them with the back of his free hand and smiled sheepishly. “Scoot back and get comfortable, please. I don’t think I’ll last long,”

I did as he asked, settling against my pillows on the still-made sheets. “Neither will I,”

“Where are your condoms?”

“Bedside drawer, way in the back. I’m on the pill too, so no worries,”

He moved quickly, grabbing a foil package from the small pile I’d accrued, just in case.

It felt odd to have him be the one using them.

There had been a few other men who had been invited here, fewer still that made it to the point that Helmut and I were at now. Every time, though, I hadn’t been able to go through with it, because every time they had finally settled themselves above me, I would close my eyes and, just for a moment, see Helmut in their place. It was unsettling the first time, enough so that I sent the guy home right away. The next time, though, it was more thought provoking than anything. I chalked it up to him being my longest lasting sexual partner and left it at that, but now, watching him roll the condom onto his length and crawl into his position over me, I knew.

I would never get over him, even if I tried for years. My heart had a space carved out in the shape of his own. No matter how long I stayed away, I would never find something quite like what we had. He was it. This was what people dreamed about. And to think, I had almost let it slip away…

He slid one hand into mine, lacing our fingers together in the gentle lamplight. “Are you ready for me?”

“More than ready,” My thighs spread as I canted my hips up.

Physically and mentally and every other possible way I needed him. I was prepared.

So Helmut pumped himself once with his free hand before guiding himself into my wet heat.

It was impossible to last long once we were finally complete.

Feeling him inside me was like knowing the truth of the universe. It was comfortable, and thrilling, and so deliciously enough. He filled me well, finding his rhythm as he swore and released my hand to prop himself up more comfortably. We were linked together like the final pieces of a puzzle. I closed my eyes at let myself relish in it.

There was nothing left to worry over while Helmut was inside of me. All thoughts that weren’t of him were banished. It was something to be cherished, every thrust paired with a whispered confession of love from one of us, a fleeting kiss, a curse, a plea… We laid ourselves bare. I let my legs wrap around his warm, soft hips as he rutted into me, bringing a hand between us to circle my clit once more. Even after everything he refused to leave me behind while he chased his own pleasure. It didn’t take much to send me tumbling over the edge into oblivion.

As always, Helmut followed me down.

His thrusts quickened, then stilled as he came to rest upon me, panting and heaving and begging for breath. I didn’t care much. He smelled of cologne and sweat as I buried my face in his shoulder and closed my eyes. I could feel him soften inside of me but I was far too spent to urge him to move.

We only shifted apart when he slipped free of me.

Helmut quickly kissed my forehead and gathered himself up, shuffling to the trash can to discard the used condom and grab a tissue to wipe himself up. I didn’t let myself move an inch. If I moved, would the bliss run away? Would I realize what I’d done? I let myself lay instead, eyes closed, panting in the autumn chill as my lover approached and wiped up our beautiful mess as gently as he could manage. With one last kiss to my thigh, he discarded the rag, opened the window, and crawled back into bed with me.

The process was indelicate, a lot of awkward shuffling of sticky limbs, but we were settled beneath the blankets soon enough. Helmut stroked his fingers down my arm languidly while kissing the back of my neck.

I broke the peace between us.

“I don’t… I don’t know what this means for us,”

He sighed gently. His breath was soothing and familiar against my shoulder. “That’s not something we have to decide at this very moment,”

“But I just don’t want you to think this means something… or at least something more than it does? If that makes sense? I don’t know,”

“Schatz, please,”

“I want to keep my own place, at least for now. I don’t know what that means for when I’ll see you or if we’ll keep doing this,” I gestured vaguely to my nude body beneath the sheets, “or if we’re even a thing anymore, bu-“

Helmut reached his arm around us, placing a quieting finger over my lips and another soft kiss against my shoulder.

“I swear, your mind sounds even louder than mine,”

“Sorry,”

“No reason to be,” His hand left my lips, running down to my stomach and pulling me back towards the softness of his chest. “As for your questions, I shall respect your wishes about distance and housing and labels, whatever they may be. That being said, as long as you’re still up for… this, as you put it, I will never deny you, no matter the distance. I would cross oceans for you,”

A cum-drunk, half-asleep giggle escaped me as he nuzzled in, kissing my ear.

“Thank you,”

“No, thank you,” he matched my laughter with his own, “I believe this is what James would call post nut clarity,”

“Now you ruined it!” I huffed. The faux anger only lasted a moment, though, before I was rolling to face him, cheek pressed to the soft, downy hair of his chest. “I love you, Helmut.”

“I love you too, sweet girl. Now sleep. I’ll get up and deal with the dog once you’re resting,”

For the first time in two years, I breathed in the scent of Helmut’s cologne before lapsing into a peaceful sleep.

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A/N: Thank you for reading! This is my first foray into smut in literal years, and it was literally all written within a 12 hour period, so I hope any mistakes weren't enough to take away from your enjoyment. Comments are always appreciated, but never expected. See you on the next authors note!

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