C.R.E.A.M
Chapter 6
A/N: Reader is female. No physical descriptors used. Let me know if i fucked up and not do that. Chat me up i don’t bite!
Summary: Thor crossed the wrong man, now you are caught in middle.
Warning: Adult content only! 18+ only please. Dark! There is potentially triggering stories ahead. NonCon fingering, masturbation, drunken behavior
Dark Thor x Reader, Dark Zemo x Reader (Mein Hase), Drug lord AU
Mein Hase: German for my Bunny 🐇
🐇💵
The house wins, and the game resets once more. You've lost track of how many times the dealer has gathered the cards, shuffling and dealing as you finish yet another glass. Despite the buzz fogging your brain, you can’t ignore Thor’s gaze. You keep your eyes averted, trying to ground yourself in the haze of the drink and the hum of the room. But his attention weighs heavily at your side.
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice pulls your focus. You turn stiffly. It takes a moment before you realize it’s her—Jane, Thor’s wife.
She stands close, her polished grace a sharp contrast to the charged atmosphere at the table. A delicate scent wafts from her—soft, floral, refined. She smile at you, but you catch the briefest flicker of something else in her expression—does she know?
Does she know you’re one of her husband’s mistresses? Is she here to confront you?
The thought coils tightly in your chest, choking the air from your lungs.
"Hi," you manage, your smile strained as a nervous twitch threatens to betray you.
“A little bird told me you bought Natasha’s auction house,” she says with a playful smile. “Sorry, I’m being rude. Hi, I’m Jane Odinson. I was at the last auction—I bought a few Sokovian pieces at the last event.”
“Oh?” is all you can bring yourself to say.
She says something else—an invitation to the next auction, Sokovian artifacts—but her voice fades under the pounding in your ears. You nod, her words sinking into the background. Your attention drifts instead to the beasts at your back.
“Oh, Vice Chairman Rodriguez, Senator Schmitt,” Jane calls over to two passing guests. “Come meet my new friend here. She’s the new owner of the warehouse. It’s where I got that piece I was telling you about.”
You nod and hide behind glass of champagne. She takes command of their attention and your grateful for it. She calls over another guest, then another, her charm effortlessly pulling them in.
You try to keep up with the introductions, but you can’t t keep up with which name goes with which face. Is this what it’s like? You don’t know how Natasha does it—how she endures the steady stream of eyes, the constant barrage of attention. The lies, the practiced smiles all feel and draining.
“Boom!” Thor’s hand crashes down onto the table like thunder, drawing the attention of the crowd. Jane cheers as Thor’s gaze flickers toward you for a brief moment before he pulls attention to his wife.
“Ah, so that’s why my luck has changed,” Thor proclaimes, pulling Jane into his lap. "My beautiful wife."
The display turns lewd as he kisses her, hungry and unrestrained, until she slaps him away playfully. You watch as he relents with a grin, the fierce man softening into that of a devoted husband—a stark contrast to the man you know.
“I think that’s all for me tonight, gentlemen,” Zemo says as he rises.
He leaves his chips behind, an amount you couldn’t begin to calculate. His expression remains steady, though tension hums just beneath the surface.
You step back to give him room, but your heel catches, and you stumble. His hand finds your waist quickly, firm and grounding. The warmth of his touch seeps through the fabric as your pulse quickens. His gaze locks on yours—dark, deliberate, all-encompassing, pinning you in place.
"Careful mien Hase."
The words are soft intimate, sending a shiver through you. Your breath stalls as he leans closer, the space between you narrowing painfully slow. Panic wells up, sharply at the thought of him kissing you here—in front of Thor. What would he do? His wife is watching.
Your breath escapes in a quiet rush as he shifts aside, his fingers brushing yours as he takes the glass from your hand. The sound of crystal meeting the table echoes sharply, louder than it should, cutting through the silence and the frantic beat of your heart.
"Come along."
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The cold night air splashes against your face as Zemo guides you outside, his hand firm at your side as he marches. The world feels softener, quieter, the murmurs of voices dissolving into the soothing melody of the chirps of crickets and hum of cars as they idle at the end of the drive.
“Please don’t hurt me,” you slur, eyes lidded, head lolling gently against Zemo’s shoulder. You’d never drank so much before. Never knew how heavy it could make you feel, how it can cloud the world around you. Your hands grip at his shirt weakly, fatigue settles over you like a warm blanket, heavier than you'd realized until now. You don’t want to play anymore, just want this all to end, be free of them all.
He doesn’t answer. Did you even say it out loud? His words, low and steady, blur into the background as he speaks to the valet. You sway against him, your legs uncooperative, the ground tilting beneath your feet—or is it the world?
His scent catches your nose—cider, pine, something warm. It clings to the air between you, oddly soothing, a lifeline in the haze of noise and bodies you left behind.
"Thank you, Oeznik," Zemo says softly, almost a lullaby against the blur of your thoughts. The car door clicks open, the sound sharper than it should be, his scent blooming from it. You let Zemo's hands guide you into the back seat—firm, steady, careful.
The hem of your dress catches, sliding higher as you slump into the seat. You grumble something incoherent, batting weakly at his hand as he tugs it back down. His fingers brush your thigh, feather-light before retreating, leaving a trail of warmth behind.
In the quiet darkness of the car, you feel the tension of the night ease, your guard slipping just as the lights blur by outside.
🐇💵
Zemo POV
“Herr Zemo,” Oeznik’s voice breaks through softly, respectful and waiting. His eyes lift, catching Zemo's in the dim reflection of the rearview mirror. The low hum of the engine fills the quiet, patient, for Zemo's command.
Your body shifts, sagging heavily against Zemo’s side, unaware, lost in the warmth of sleep. He doesn’t push you away, unbothered by the soft rhythm of your breath against his skin. His gaze lingers on you, watching as your lashes rest delicately against your cheeks. He can’t recall the last time he slept so soundly, a quiet envy stirs at the sight of your peace.
“Let’s take her home,” Zemo instructs softly, meeting Oeznik’s gaze in the mirror. The older man nods, his hand steady on the wheel as he guides the car into the night, the soft lights casting fleeting shadows across Zemo’s face.
Zemo’s gaze drifts to the window, the world outside moving in quiet flashes—nothing more than blurred colors and shifting shadows. His mind shifts to Thor—the man who still had everything Zemo had lost, the man who had ripped it all away.
His hand drifts to your exposed thigh, his nails pressing thoughtlessly into the soft flesh as his grip tightens under the weight of his anger.
"Thor please," you whimper meekly, your soft features twisting with the pain he caused. You don’t wake, only shifting slightly in your seat, unaware of the venom the name spills into Zemo’s veins.
He breathes in slowly trying to regain control of the anger that licks at his nerves. He’s done this before—he knows how to hold it in, to bury the rage.
A thought bubbles as his mind slowly settles. A faint smirk threatens to pull at his lips as a dark idea takes shape in his mind.
🐇💵
Zemo’s fingers glide gently against the marks he’d left behind, the raised skin beneath his touch like braille. You stir, a soft grumble slipping from your lips, but you don’t wake.
You sleep deeply as his hand trails upward, testing the edges of your slumber. He watches, his palm tucking between your thighs, feeling the warmth radiating from you, drawing him in deeper. Your body stirs a bit, legs parting slightly, just enough for him to settle closer.
He hadn’t touched another woman since his marriage. That vow, once unshakable, felt distant now—a faint echo drowned beneath something darker, something twisting.
"Stop, please," you pant, tears dampening your lashes. For a moment, he wonders what that man has done to you—but he doesn't care enough to stop.
"Shh, mien Hase," he coos, his thick accent wrapping around each vowel.
You begin to hum softly, as if Zemo's words were an answer to a prayer. The air between you thickens, heavy with a tension that coils in his chest as your body responses to his touch. A smile pulls at his lips as the dampness bleeds through the delicate between your thighs. The feel pulls him deeper into a need that he couldn't ignore.
"You’re safe with me," he whisper against your brow. You moan in reply, your hips pressing against him mindlessly. He adjusts himself with a quiet exhale, the strain against his zipper demanding the relief that lay between your legs. It’s tempting too tempting to lay you down and slide his cock into you. His tongue drags across his lips at the thought of it as his finger pull your panties to the side.
"I’ll take care of you now..."
The elastic stretches over his hand as cups your mound. You moan as Zemo sinks in slowly, his movements methodical as he mindlessly strokes himself in tandem. Each dip goes deeper, making you writhe, your body soaking his fingers as the sounds blend with the hum of the luxury car. He doesn’t care if the driver sees him play, but he knows the old man knows better.
Each motion is calculated, every press and glide tethered to the gnawing ache inside him.
For a moment, only the pounding of his heart and the rhythmic slick of your body fills the air, the tension thick as his mind races beneath the surface.
How could you be this wet? Were you ever like this for him? The thought curdled his mind with hate, yet the softness of your insides smoothed the edges of his anger.
You clench around him and Zemo pauses as you, his eye roam your body as a subtle tremor courses through you. It pulls him, caught between indulgence and his mission. It wasn’t desire—he convinces himself it couldn’t be. It was something primal, nothing more.
He exhales slowly, his hand retreating, wiping clean against the damp fabric. This moment had served its purpose. This wasn’t pleasure, he reminded himself, it was retribution. You were nothing more than a piece on the board, a message wrapped in flesh and warmth.