#its a miracle i managed to write this without collapsing into a fit of dust

[prettyboykatsuki]

are you awake yet

is it time to talk about boot humping bakugo

safe with you | k. bakugou

✮ cw ; afab + gn!reader, boot-humping but loving akjdkjd, mutual masturbation, facials, the title sir, sub!reader, soft dom!bkg , praise and adoration bc its bkg <3 18+

✮ wc ; 1.5k (??)

✮ a/n ; i am awake sorry this came at 3am though ajhjdjk. also they have a very established switch for switch dynamic. writing my yearly dom bkg content lmao

also this is not the most original concept but its my iteration so i hope thats alright

It's not even that he's being particularly demeaning to you. You'd have to initiate it, because Bakugou always has been a simple person during sex. He's always busy but he's home today after early dismissal. Has on those thick, black boots with hefty rugged soles.

He's cleaned them off after coming from his job. So clean the light of your living room is bouncing off the bronzey metal.

And you're sitting on the floor of your living room. You come crawling towards him mostly to rest your head on his lap or just give him a nudge. You notice he looks good. He always does. Has the most handsome face even when it's twisted into a scowl - at home it's relaxed. The soft curve of his jaw, the pull of his lips - all flat nose bridge and pretty, straight lashes.

Clean, shiny boots. His costume is still on. Mask is pulled up and pushing his hair back. He hasn't even taken off his gloves today, not yet. His arms are muscular stretched over his head in exhaustion. enough to see his midriff coming through. Wispy blonde hairs in a trail above the low hand of his pants.

You rest your chin on his knee and he looks at you fondly. Lovingly. even though he usually looks so mean there's a warm, watery look to his eyes as he reaches his hands out towards you. He rubs your cheek with his gloves on. Pets your head so tenderly it makes you feel like you'll melt into the floor.

"Hey," He hums, a small smile on his lips. so full of mirth you can't breathe "Miss me so much?"

"Stupid question."

"I'm rubbin' off on you more and more everyday," He says. You laugh because it's true.

"You look really good right now," You offer bluntly. His face splits into a grin. A smirk, really - the kind where it barely flashes his teeth. In another life he has canines, fangs sharp enough to rip through you.

"That right?"

This part of him, so riddled with confidence, always makes your stomach feel like it's burning. So often Bakugou is rational and relative. A little irritable, a little ridiculous. It's been a long road, and he's finally at that place where the confidence is well-earned. No longer misshapen inferiority tacked together with anger.

But real, unshakeable confidence. He believes you when you tell him that he looks good. He gets a little cocky about it, and it only ever makes him sexier. Only he could ever pull it off. A wave of desire washes over you, a heat. You nod absently, and it's like something switches in him. A tenderness that's sharpened with love, with want.

"You wanna do something about it?" He gathers, maybe from the look in your eyes. You nod and he smiles again, a little fiercer this time around.

"And what's that? Gotta tell me or i won't know for shit."

"On your boots. Wanna—"

"Wanna hump my fucking boots?" And he laughs, breathless, a tent pitching that you can see from where you sit "Really?"

"Uh-huh. Can I?"

"I'd never say no to you, sweetheart." he says, clicking his teeth like it's the most obvious thing in the world "Go ahead. Do it like you fucking mean it."

"Yes, Sir."

A switch flips off in him. You can see it on his face, the realization washing over him. He laughs a little to himself. So it's like that, written all over his face. You rest yourself on his leg, a feeling welling up inside of you that you can't describe.

You scoot a little. Line yourself up along the edge of his boot, your clit touching the roundest part. You're glad you're wearing shorts, even though you're so certain that they're going to be soaked through because the direct contact might too much. You're worked up and wet and aching.

Bakugou is gentle. He's kind, a sort of pride rolling off him in waves as he guides your head to his leg. You press your cheek against his thigh.

"Want somethin' to watch, baby?"

"Yes. Please." You answer back. Small and simple. He laughs a little but abides your request. You watch carefully with your head tilted, as he pulls his cock out from his pants.

Half-hard, thicker than it's long with the tip and aching red that leaves heat crawling up your neck. He reaches forward to you, cupping his palm and giving you a tilted smile. The removal of his gloves is so painfully deliberate. Calloused hands, but beautifully thick fingers. You spit in his palm obediently, staring as it drips down his shaft. He goes slow, palms fisted around the base of his cock as he strokes it.

"Go on," He encourages, tender but teasing "Make yourself feel good."

So you do. It takes a little effort to work up to the right rhythm. You have to hold onto his leg - feel the hardness of as you anchor yourself up enough to roll your hips. It doesn't feel good until it does. Until there's enough pressure on you that you moan out. Your eyes are fluttery as you stare Bakugou.

And he's watching you so intently, fixed on the sight of you underneath him. There's something that always borders on obsessive when you get like this. Makes his chest swell up with pride that you want this, want him enough to hump against the steel toes of his work boots. You look damn good doing it, eyes hazy and shorts slowly riding up - curve of your ass and the bend of your knee making it hard for him to breathe.

The room is so thick with lust you can taste it in the back of your mouth. Bakugou strokes his cock, melting into the couch - head thrown back but always looking at you. He reaches a free hand out to touch you, using his thumb to wipe drool from the corner of your lips.

"So damn messy," He say, tucking his thumb into your mouth "You're gonna ruin my work pants, baby."

"Sorry." You hum. He chuckles.

"Making a mess of my boots too, probably." He hums, low as you suck his thumb "Gonna 'em all shiny, huh?"

A whine escapes your throat, a garbled and desperate sound as something gets all knotted up inside of you. The descent is slow and impatient. Makes your breath hitch hard with such utter need. You can feel it, how good you're feeling. How wet your getting, how even through the material there's more of a slip than it would be. And every time you open your eyes up - Bakugou is staring at you.

Peering at your needy expression with red eyes, thumb over slit and shivering from his sensitivity. It's the sight of you that he's using to get off. He's excited watching you be desperate, watching your expression change into one of utter devastation.

You're his favorite, messy angel. The sweetest thing in the whole world when you're like this. It makes Bakugou want to take care of you. Guide you gently, patiently towards the edge. Pushes all of his pride down and replaces it with devotion hard enough to swallow you - to make the glassy look in your eyes feel so fucking earned.

He does earn it. Earns his titles, always. Like Sir is just as important as Mr. Dynamight. Always earns that sweet fucking face you make when he fucks you into a stupid mess. You're beautiful like that, really. Beautiful when you're ruined, when you give him the wheel to take you where you need to go.

He softens his voice for you, just enough timbre to make your insides hot and sticky. "You wanna cum, don't you? Wanna cum humping my fucking boot."

"Yes, Sir."

"So well-mannered when you want something." He praises, though it sounds a little mean "Look at you. Didn't even get to take my work clothes off."

You want to say sorry. You're too close to think of the fact he's teasing you and that part of you makes him wrought with affection.

You feel hot as you whimper.

"C-can I cum, Sir? P-please, oh, pleaseplease."

"Close your eyes, sweetheart." He says, a tremor in his voice "Let's cum together."

You close your eyes and listen well as you let yourself go. It takes you a minute to get there, but the minute you pulse the first time - you feel something hot spill out against your cheek. You think it gets on your clothes too but you can't really tell. You're too busy cumming with him, all of you unravelling as you pulse and thrash and hold on so tight to Bakugou like your life depends on it.

You cum hard - eyes still closed. You hear Bakugou mumble something above you as you catch your breath. Some plastic crinkling and the feeling of something wet wiping off your cheeks. You wait until he's done to peel your eyes back open.

"Still with me? Feeling okay?" He checks in. You yawn but don't move.

"Yeah. Wanna say here for a bit though."

He laughs, petting your head.

"You look real comfortable."

You laugh with him.

"I am. I kinda see why you do this so much."

A flush spread on his face.

"Shut up."

[threeamfics]

Here it is, my very first self-indulgent fic on this site. I prefer writing in first person POV but I’m gonna tag this as a reader fic since I tried to make it possible for anyone to self-insert. Enjoy!

Word Count: 6k

Summary: I used to loathe Baron Zemo. I never thought my feelings could change so much in a single day.

Tags: angst, fluff, gender ambiguous MC, first person POV, soft Zemo

TW: blood, mentions of suicidal thoughts

The Monster, the Once-Was Father

Zemo laid there on the hard floor, struggling to breathe. I wasn’t sure whether or not I wanted to help him. He was a murderer, a manipulator, a criminal, a heartless monster.

But only an hour ago he’d been telling me what his son had looked like. Zemo had described, in loving detail, the silly things his son would sometimes do. I’d seen a rare smile on Zemo’s face while he lamented those times from before the disaster in Sokovia. It forced me to recognize the man beneath the monster, as unwilling as I was to see it.

So now, despite the many reasons I still had for hating him, I reached out to help him. It was not “Baron Zemo, the monster” who I reached out to, but “Helmut Zemo, the once-was father.” I did my best to keep this in mind as I pressed my hand against the bullet wound in his abdomen to temper his blood loss.

“Breathe evenly,” I instructed him under the sound of more gunfire. The anarchists who’d shot him seconds ago wanted their killing blow, but I kept myself crouched low on my knees behind our makeshift barricade. Sam and Bucky were elsewhere, hopefully searching this empty building for a way to flank the anarchists. None of us had anticipated this ambush.

With his eyes squeezed shut against the pain, Zemo nodded, and he took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Keep doing that,” I said to him. A bullet skimmed the top of our barricade. Instinctively I bent myself lower, closer to Zemo. My hand felt warm with his blood. “But we can’t stay here. When I say run, you need to run with me. Understand?”

This time Zemo opened his eyes and looked at me with resolve when he nodded. I knew then that this hadn’t been his first time getting shot in combat.

I looked down at his wound. It was off-center, possibly non-lethal so long as the bleeding could be stopped. But there was nothing I could do about that in the middle of a firefight. I knew there were medical supplies in the car, but I had to get down there first. I silently begged for the distraction we desperately needed.

Then the shooting stopped. I heard one of the anarchists shout, “Behind us!” And the shooting began once more, but the bullets flew in the other direction. Sam and Bucky must have successfully flanked them.

I grabbed the lapels of Zemo’s coat and began pulling him up, forcing a pained growl through his clenched teeth.

“Run!” I commanded him. In an instant he was on his feet, as was I, and we raced out of the room before the anarchists could notice. I led our escape and looked back now and then to make sure Zemo was right behind me. I hadn’t expected him to handle himself this well with such a bad injury, but then again, nothing about him could be considered predictable.

We made it through a few corridors and halfway down a set of stairs before Zemo finally stopped to let out a guttural moan. I skidded to a halt and turned to look up at where he stood on the steps. He was hunched over the bannister, his features twisted in agony.

“We can’t stay here,” I gently urged.

Zemo looked like hell, with his cheeks reddened and his hair disheveled. “Give me a moment,” he managed to say between gasps for air.

I looked around to make sure no anarchists had caught up to us yet. “We may not have a moment. And the sooner we get somewhere safe, the sooner I can stop that bleed.”

Zemo didn’t move. He stood there, breathing heavily, quaking. With a soft sigh I climbed the stairs to stand at his side, and I ducked underneath one of his arms. He watched me, bemused.

“Come on,” I said, anchoring him to me by his arm around my shoulders. I tugged him forward, giving him no choice but to comply and lean his weight against me. The descent down the rest of the stairs proved difficult enough that I slipped my other arm beneath his coat and around his waist, where I grabbed him by the belt to steady him. Zemo placed his free hand upon mine there, perhaps out of reflex, or maybe as plea to not let go. Both our hands were slick with his blood.

Eventually we made it outside, where the sun beat brightly against the paved streets and sidewalks. It was out here that I realized Zemo’s blood had run down the length of his leg and was dripping off the cuff of his pants, leaving a trail behind us.

“Shit,” I muttered.

“What?” he rasped. Then he followed my gaze. “...Ah.”

I needed to get him somewhere safe without any anarchists tracking us down. Everywhere I looked, however, there was only wide open space, and in very public view.

And then I heard Sam calling out to me. I patted Zemo’s arm as a signal to let go. He hurriedly shifted his weight off me, allowing me to slip away, and I rushed to meet Sam and Bucky as they made their own escape from the building.

“Zemo was shot back there,” I explained, breathless, “I need to—”

Sam interrupted by tossing a set of car keys at me. “Go,” he urged. “Take him. We’ll be all right, I promise.”

I caught the keys, but I hesitated to leave. That car was the only escape we all had. “I can’t just—”

“I’ll send you the coordinates for our next safe house,” Sam cut me off again. The resolve in his eyes was apparent.

I looked at Bucky, who jerked his chin in the direction of the car. “Go on. We still need the information Zemo’s holding hostage from us, so don’t let him die.”

They were giving me no choice but to leave them. They could handle themselves, I reminded myself, but it still wrung my heart to turn my back to them. They ran one way, and I ran the other, back to Zemo, of all people in the entire world.

When I returned to Zemo, he was lightly swaying where he stood. I stopped long enough to look at his face. He’d become alarmingly pale in such a short time. His hair, normally so tidy, now hung loosely above his eyes, dampened with sweat. I tried to hold his gaze, but he seemed barely able to focus on me.

“Take this off,” I told him, pushing the fur-collared coat off his shoulders, knowing it would only be in the way later. As Zemo shrugged it down his arms, I noticed a handgun tucked inside the shoulder holster he wore underneath the coat.

I frowned at him and said, “When did you get your hands on a gun?”

Zemo only answered with a frail but roguish smile. I shook my head, vexed by him. He was unbelievably crafty. Gathering his coat in my arms, I told him to shed the holster, and I collected that from him, too.

“Into the car,” I commanded, leading him toward it by the hand and steadying him each time he stumbled. It was a miracle he didn’t collapse until after he’d crawled onto the backseat, where his body finally gave out. I tossed the coat and holster to the floor of the car before circling around and practically throwing myself into the driver’s seat. And then we were speeding away.

I drove us toward the outskirts of the city where I knew more condemned, abandoned buildings would be. Occasionally I glanced at the rear view mirror to check on Zemo. He laid in the backseat, too tall to fit comfortably, and though his face was turned away from me, I could see his fists clenched white-knuckled against the pain. I pressed harder on the gas.

The few minutes it took to reach the outskirts felt like forever. I pulled up to the first dilapidated building I saw, some sort of old storefront. Hopefully there weren’t any other unfortunates already using it for refuge. I yanked a medical bag out of the glove compartment and threw it over my shoulder before leaping from the car.

“Come on, round two,” I said after wrenching the back door open. Zemo didn’t respond. I reached in to grab him by the front of his maroon sweater, and he weakly groaned as I pulled him into a sitting position.

“Just a little further,” I pressed. My hands were on his shoulders, tugging him, trying to coax him from the backseat. I could see where his blood had soaked into the seat’s fabric.

Zemo ran a trembling hand through his hair. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, and sweat glistened on his forehead. I took hold of his face between my hands.

“Zemo!” I shouted, and his dark eyes locked on mine at last. “On your feet, okay? Just a bit further!”

It was then, as I noticed all confidence had vanished from Zemo’s face, his eyes fraught as they stared into mine, that I realized just how vulnerable he looked, and how concerned I actually felt for him. He could die here, and I didn’t want him to.

“Come on, just a little further,” I urged again.

Zemo swallowed with difficulty and nodded. Slowly, carefully, he slid from the car to his feet, and I ducked under his arm to guide him again. I could feel his entire body shaking against me as we hobbled our way into the building.

The storefront had evidently been some kind of café once upon a time. A handful of tables and chairs remained scattered around the room, each one layered in dust from disuse. It was all I could take note of however, for we only made it a few feet inside before Zemo’s legs gave way. He slid from my grip and collapsed onto the hardwood floor.

Falling to my knees beside him, I dropped the medical bag, ripped it open, and spilled its contents to the floor. With quick hands I separated out the supplies I knew I would need and brushed aside the rest. Then I turned back to Zemo, who was still on his stomach, breathing hard against the floor.

“Work with me,” I instructed as I tugged at his shoulder. He obliged and pushed himself onto his back.

“Apologies,” he whispered up at me.

I almost dropped what was in my hand. He was the one dying, and yet he was apologizing to me? For a minor inconvenience?

I banished the thought. There was no time for that right now. If Zemo lost any more blood, there would be no chance of saving him.

I untucked his sweater to reveal his pale, taut abdomen, and the wound that marred it. The bullet had pierced him to the right of his naval, just below his rib cage. Hopefully it would leave no debilitating damage.

“The bullet is still inside,” I explained, keeping my voice as steady as possible. The medical kit came with two syringes of localized anesthetic. I held one up to him. “This will dull the pain a bit, but it’s still gonna hurt like hell.”

I watched Zemo’s face for any signs of fear. His eyes only hardened, and he nodded for me to proceed. After uncapping the needle with my teeth, I injected the anesthetic into the muscle of his side, though I must’ve jabbed a little too hard since it earned a wince from Zemo. I took note to be gentler.

Blood continued to pour from the wound. There were no towels in the medkit, so I hurriedly removed my own sweater and pressed it against Zemo’s skin to soak his blood. The cold air around us easily penetrated the thin fabric of my undershirt, but I barely noticed it.

“You don’t want me to live, do you?” Zemo suddenly spoke. His voice rasped with pain and fatigue.

I had to stare at him for a moment before I could form a reply. “Obviously I do. Why else would I be saving your life?”

“You’re saving me out of an obligation to Sam and James.” Zemo studied the ceiling now, avoiding my eyes. “And of a moral obligation to preserve life in general. But if you could discard all of that, and only act on what you believe is the logical choice, then you would let me die for what I’ve done.”

I didn’t want to discuss this. He was wrong about me, that was for certain. But the things I’d been wanting to say to him ever since meeting him in Madripoor, when Bucky had first asked for my help, came rushing to the forefront of my mind. I’d been so intent on saving Zemo from this damn bullet that I momentarily forgot everything I hated about him. And now, he just had to go and remind me.

“You tried to destroy the Avengers,” I nearly growled at him as I grabbed a pair of forceps. “And you did it because you decided on behalf of the entire world that it was necessary.”

“It was,” Zemo insisted. “Power corrupts. It blinds. They could no longer see their own flaws, and because of their power, those flaws became dangerous to the very people they were trying to protect.”

I removed my blood-soaked sweater and plunged the forceps into his wound. Zemo’s words were interrupted by a low groan through his teeth, but he didn’t stop. “Stark created Ultron. Rogers harbored a deadly super soldier. All with good intentions, yes, but each with collateral deaths. They needed to be torn down before—”

I purposely wrenched the forceps too harshly when clamping them around the bullet, forcing another sound of pain out of Zemo. This time he didn’t continue. Instead, he threw his arm over his eyes, hiding his reddening cheeks. His trembling free hand clenched the fabric of his own sweater.

I instantly realized how petty it was of me to harm him in this kind of situation, no matter how much his words angered me. A heavy sigh blew from my nose. “You say all of that, and yet we desperately needed the Avengers when half the world got dusted.” I extracted the bullet and tossed it to the floor. “They were disbanded when all of that happened, because of you. There’s a chance they could’ve stopped it if they’d been together. Say whatever you want, but your arrogance played a role in the worst catastrophe that’s ever happened to us.”

Zemo said nothing. His chest rose and fell with shuddering breaths. I could see the strain in his clenched jaw.

I injected him with the second dose of anesthetic, and with the few tools I had, I set to work on closing the wound. “They still saved us in the end,” I said. “They brought everyone back and stopped that space army from invading. Despite everything you did to them, the Avengers persevered. Thank god your plan to get rid of them failed miserably.” I paused to concentrate on stitching for a moment, and then I murmured, “I was dusted, you know? I wouldn’t be here if not for them.”

It was then that Zemo finally moved his arm from his face and looked at me. I avoided his eyes, concentrating on his injury, but I could feel him studying me.

When he spoke, his voice was soft and raw. “I was spared, but I remember that day vividly. I was in my prison cell. The guard had come to deliver my meal, as he always would. It was so much like clockwork that I did what I’d always done every single day— stood at the door and waited for my meal to be handed through the slot.

“Only this time, the tray of food clattered to the floor. The guard had dropped it. I remember how it looked when he raised his hand, only to see it blowing away, like smoke. And then the rest of him scattered into ash. The worst part was, he hadn’t even screamed. He was simply gone.”

Zemo audibly swallowed. “I knew I wasn’t dreaming. Something terrible was happening. From the confines of my cell, I tried to see if anyone else had suffered the same. I caught a glimpse of more dust down the hall. Likely another guard. I started to hear other prisoners screaming through the walls. There was nothing I could do but wait for it to happen to me.

“But it never did. I sat on the bed for hours, wondering when I would disappear, and yet I remained. I didn’t learn what had happened until four days later, when one of the prison workers finally informed me. Even then, all they could tell me was that a battle with cosmic forces had taken place in Wakanda. We had lost. And whoever had been victorious was the one who’d done this to us.”

Silence then filled the room. I’d finished his stitches, and all that remained was to clean and bandage the wound. I silently mulled over his words as I continued working.

“I did consider it,” Zemo finally admitted. “That it had been partially my fault. But at the time, I refused to accept such a thing. What I’d done was necessary, and that was that.”

His words made me bristle. “Do you still think that?”

“I want to.” Zemo laid a hand over his eyes. “For so long after the destruction of my home, I thought of nothing but revenge. Everything I did from that moment on, I did for my lost family. Tearing apart the Avengers was for them.

“And then half the world became dust. I’d wanted to prevent further tragedies, and yet the very opposite happened. And I don’t want—,” Zemo’s voice broke, and his grimace deepened. “I don’t want to believe that the one thing I did for my loved ones was the wrong thing to do.”

I was very gentle now as I cleaned his stitches. My heart had begun to ache. I looked over at him, and though he attempted to hide his eyes beneath his hand, I could see much more than physical pain in his face. And to think, I’d hated him so much only moments ago.

Zemo’s other hand still tightly clenched the fabric of his sweater. I reached out to place my own hand upon his. I could feel him trembling.

“There is so much more you can do to love and honor your family’s memory,” I said quietly. “And it’s never too late to start.”

Zemo didn’t say anything, and he didn’t show his eyes. But, after a moment, I felt his hand relax, and his fingers threaded through mine. The small gesture made me smile.

“I still have to finish fixing you,” I whispered, surprised by my own unwillingness to let go. Zemo released my fingers, and neither of us said anything more as I bandaged his wound to the best of my ability.

Once I was satisfied with my own work, I pulled his sweater back into place and pushed all the supplies aside. I then positioned myself by his head, and, very tenderly, I moved his hand away from his face. Zemo’s eyes, rimmed red with fatigue and emotion, met mine. For a second I found myself lost in them. There was a rich vibrancy in the brown of his eyes, framed delicately by long, dark lashes. I didn’t want to look away.

But I remembered why I was here, and I checked the pulse in his neck with my fingers. It was worryingly slow. What he needed was a shot of adrenaline, but the medkit had nothing like that. We would just have to hope his body could recover itself.

“Am I going to make it?” he asked, a faint smile playing at one corner of his mouth.

“Too soon to say, unfortunately,” I answered. No sense in lying to him. I placed my palm against his forehead to check his temperature. “You’re not too warm though, so that’s good.” Without thinking, I ran my fingers through the locks of his disheveled hair to smooth it, and only caught myself after the fact.

“You look like hell,” I joked, trying to play off my action.

“I hear dying can do that to a person.”

I let out a small laugh, and Zemo smiled.

“I don’t think I can stay awake,” he then said, and his face fell. I could tell he was exhausted.

“Yeah, well, your body could probably use the rest. Go ahead and sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

Zemo nodded, his eyes already closed.

I went hunting around the abandoned building and, beyond all luck, managed to find a suitable blanket in a cluttered closet. After beating the dust from it as best I could, I returned to find Zemo asleep right where I left him. Breath came from him slowly and evenly for the first time in a while. I covered him with the blanket. The sun would set soon, and nighttime would chill the air even further.

The cold was finally getting to me, I realized. My limbs had begun to shiver now that I wasn’t concentrating solely on Zemo. My sweater, however, had become useless after soaking in so much blood, and I’d only been fortunate enough to find one blanket. There was only one option left.

I found myself retrieving Zemo’s long coat from where I’d tossed it into the back of the car and, with a sigh, I slipped my arms in and shrugged it on. It was actually comfortable, and definitely warm. I made sure to grab the pistol from Zemo’s holster and stuffed it into the back of my jeans before returning inside.

Now all that was left to do was wait. I pulled a chair up to the window and sat myself down, mentally preparing for a long night. The chill air made me bury myself deeper into the coat until its fur collar reached my nose. It smelled good, I realized. Really good. And I hated to admit that because it meant Zemo smelled good. Despite the uncertainty over how it made me feel, I continued to deeply inhale the scent of him.

It kept occurring to me that Zemo’s life could slip away at any moment as he slept, so I looked back every few minutes to make sure I could still see him breathing. He always was, and I was always relieved.

I wondered what Sam and Bucky were doing. Did they make it out? Were they searching for a new safe house? I could text Sam and suggest this place, but the surrounding area was too much of an unknown factor. It was best if I simply waited and left it up to them. In my mind I begged them to stay safe.

At some point I fell asleep in my chair. Allowing myself to drift off while keeping watch was irresponsible, but I must’ve been far more exhausted than I realized. When I opened my eyes, it was suddenly nighttime outside.

None of the street lamps were powered, and none of the other buildings showed signs of electricity. The only source of illumination was the full moon as it rose above the horizon. Its pale light washed over the streets outside and filtered through the window, turning the room around me into shades of gray.

It was by the light of the moon that I saw Zemo sitting not far from me in his own chair at the window. He was wrapped in the blanket I’d found, and he looked rather alert as he watched the world outside.

“Hey,” I greeted in a whisper.

Zemo turned to me and his face softened. “Good morning,” he replied, his voice low and still a bit raspy. “Though, I say that less than literally.” He gestured at the night sky and smiled.

“How are you?” I asked, wanting to get straight to the point. “How do you feel?”

“Still tired, still in pain, but I think I’ll be all right. I was able to get up and walk over here well enough on my own.” Zemo indicated the blanket. “Thank you for this, by the way.”

I shrugged, implying it was no big deal, then realized I was still wearing his coat. “You probably want this back, huh?”

“No, no,” he shook his head, “keep it for now. It’s quite cold in here. And... it looks quite good on you.”

I didn’t want that to make me blush, but it did, and Zemo smiled a lopsided smile. At a loss for words, I looked away.

And then something occurred to me. Something that I’d picked up on during other conversations with him, especially when he would speak of his family. How everything about him seemed to be rooted in the past and not the present. So, as I stared out the window, I cautiously said, “If this had been up to you, would you have chosen to die?”

The atmosphere became uncomfortable after that. I feared I’d crossed a line, but he had done the same when he’d suggested I would have let him die under other circumstances. I wanted to know his answer.

After a long and tense stretch of silence, Zemo quietly spoke. “Yes. As you were helping me, there were moments when I wished you would fail so I could finally see the end. Years ago, on the day I tore apart the Avengers, I tried to put a bullet in my head. The merciful then-Prince of Wakanda stopped me, and I sat in my prison cell every day wishing he hadn’t. Death, to me, has always felt like an inevitability that wasn’t approaching fast enough.”

His answer was difficult to hear. I could feel tears welling in my eyes. Nobody, no matter who they were or what they’d done, should have to feel such hopelessness.

“But,” Zemo continued, and the way he stressed the word made me look over at him. “Now that I am sitting here, watching the moon on this peaceful night...” Looking into my eyes, he added, “with you... I feel only the urge to thank you for saving my life.”

For a second I was stunned. Then I couldn’t help but grin. I caught a tear from the corner of my eye before it could fall, and I murmured, “You’re welcome.”

He seemed content with that. In fact, with as calculating and sharp-witted as Zemo often was, he seemed more relaxed now than I’d ever seen him before.

“When we get back on our feet,” he said rather amiably, “I’d like to make some of my favorite tea for you. How does that sound?”

“It sounds lovely,” I replied, and I meant it. I buried myself deeper into his coat, inhaling the scent of him, hoping he wouldn’t notice what I was doing. But the movement made me realize something was missing. I reached for the back of my jeans.

“Oh— !” I exclaimed.

Zemo lifted his brows at my sudden outburst. Then, he understood.

“You’re looking for this,” he casually remarked, pulling the gun out from under his blanket. “Apologies, but I do need it for myself.”

I folded my arms, unable to keep the annoyance from my face. “Are you gonna use it as leverage on me?”

Zemo placed the gun onto the windowsill. “Absolutely not. It’s merely precautionary.”

I wasn’t surprised that he’d snuck the gun away from me, but it bothered me nonetheless. “So you’re still as shifty as ever. Has anything you’ve said in the last few hours even been real, or was it just more manipulation toward some end goal you have?”

Now Zemo was the one who looked insulted. “Not a single word I’ve said to you has been a lie. In fact, you’re the only person in the world I’ve spoken these truths to.”

That hit me hard. I sheepishly looked away, remembering the undeniable intimacy of everything he’d told me. “I shouldn’t have said that,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Zemo sighed. “I know it’s difficult to trust me. I wouldn’t trust me either. But please trust that these last few hours have been very real for me, and I have meant every second of it.”

I looked at him once more and was captured by his gaze. There was something genuine in his dark eyes, something vulnerable, something pleading.

Zemo gave me a sad smile and said, “I don’t often have the luxury of living in moments that feel real anymore.”

All of my doubts suddenly melted away, and I knew exactly what I wanted. Pride and hatred had left me long ago.

I stood from my chair and closed the distance between us. Zemo kept his eyes on me, curious but unguarded. I reached out, beckoning for his hand, and when he obeyed, I brought his hand to my mouth, buried my nose in his palm, inhaled deeply, and I kissed him there. All traces of tension left me in the moment my lips met his skin.

Zemo watched as I turned his hand over and placed a gentle kiss upon each knuckle. I looked at him, wordlessly asking for permission to keep going, or for him to stop me if he didn’t want this.

His answer was swift and immediate. The hand I was kissing slipped away from me, and then Zemo was standing, taking my face into his hands, and he claimed my lips with his own. The blanket fell from his shoulders into a heap at our feet.

I couldn’t believe how much I’d been wanting this. His scent was even more intoxicating than his coat, and he tasted wonderful. I parted my lips as we kissed so I could taste him even further.

But then he moaned hard against my mouth. The sound was so strained that I broke away, startled. Zemo was grimacing, and his hands dropped from my face to hold his side.

I hid my disappointment. It wasn’t his fault, after all. “You need more rest,” I insisted gently.

With a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh, Zemo lowered his forehead onto my shoulder, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding him there.

“I’m pretty sure what you have is called a traumatic injury,” I teased, “and you need to take care of it. Besides, we’re both still covered in blood. Not exactly romantic.”

“I don’t mind,” Zemo said, his voice muffled against me. He turned his head and began to kiss my neck. My skin had been chilled by the night air for hours, and the sensation of his soft, warm lips was lovely. My fingertips dug into his shoulder blades. I felt his hands on my waist, and he tugged me forward, bringing my body closer to his.

“This truly does look so satisfying on you,” he whispered against my ear just before pulling his coat off me. I let it fall to the floor and threw my arms back over his shoulders.

“Zemo,” I murmured as a tender protest, knowing we shouldn’t do this when he was so badly injured.

But Zemo took it a different way. With a sigh he began to suck at the skin of my neck. A whimper escaped me as my body tensed deliciously, and my fingers tangled in his hair. I realized it was the first time I’d spoken his name with such affection. I repeated it, no longer protesting, and he lightly nipped my neck with his teeth. It made me press my body flush against his, and I could feel how much he wanted me. I wanted him, too.

The reality of the situation fully dawned on me then, and I couldn’t help but giggle in spite of everything.

Zemo skimmed the tip of his nose along my jaw to my ear and said in a low voice that made me shiver, “What’s so funny?”

“You,” I answered truthfully. “You and me. I just never expected this.”

After one last kiss to my temple, Zemo stopped, and he lifted his head to look at me. There was apprehension in his eyes now. I didn’t want him to misinterpret my meaning, so I pulled him back to me and captured his mouth with my own.

I was kissing Baron Helmut Zemo, the man who almost destroyed the Avengers. The man who manipulated Bucky like a pawn. The man who was usually three steps ahead of everyone around him. But he was also the man who’d lost everything he’d ever loved, and maybe that was why I felt him surrender himself into me so easily, so eagerly.

I grasped his chin with my thumb and pulled his mouth open so my tongue could finally explore him. He made a soft sound, but didn’t pull away. I felt his hands run under my shirt, up my back, across my chest, all over me, as I tasted every inch of his mouth. I wanted more of him. I wanted all of him.

But he’d been shot not even twelve hours ago. I forced myself to break away from him once more.

“We have to stop,” I whispered. “Your stitches are gonna tear if you get too excited.”

Despite the pain and fatigue that was evident on his face no matter how hard he tried to hide it, Zemo still managed to grin the first real, full smile I’d ever seen on him. It took my breath away.

“All right,” he said. “You win.”

“In fact, you should be lying down, not keeping watch at the window.”

“You know what I think?” Zemo asked, giving me a fiendish look. “I think you should join me on the floor.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Someone needs to be lookout.”

“If they knew our location and were coming for us, they would have come by now.”

He wasn’t giving me any room for argument. Sighing, I grabbed the blanket from where it had fallen. “Need help getting down there?” I asked.

He responded by holding out his hand. I grabbed it and steadied him as he lowered himself as carefully as he could. When he finally laid flat, he let out a groan.

“It’s not comfortable down here at all,” he muttered. “And yet, now that I’m here, all I want is to sleep.”

I laughed and followed suit, stretching myself out on the floor beside him, and I spread the blanket out over us both. “Try to rest. I’m staying right here.”

Zemo rolled onto his good side toward me, and he buried his face into my hair. I felt him plant a kiss there. He then spoke something very softly in words I couldn’t understand. I assumed he was speaking Sokovian.

“What does that mean?” I politely asked.

He chuckled. “Someday I will translate it for you.”

I pouted up at him. Zemo kissed my hair once more.

“I promise it was only good things.”

“I believe you.” I took one of his hands into mine and entwined our fingers. There were old callouses on his, softened from the years he spent in prison. I kissed the back of his hand.

“I could’ve sworn you hated me with all your heart yesterday,” Zemo said. His deep, rumbling voice was pleasant against my ear.

“I did,” I admitted. Lowering his hand, I looked into his eyes. His gorgeous brown eyes. “I don’t anymore.”

And he kissed me, deeply, lovingly. Everything had changed in a matter of hours, and I was thankful.

“Now go to sleep,” I said after we broke apart. “You seriously need it.”

The smile Zemo gave me set my heart alight. “As you command,” he whispered.

[esamastation]

Poetic nonsense

Shimmering

He wakes up to a glow, an overwhelming brightness coming from all around him. It permeates him in and out, coursing through him like constant blast wave and for a moment he's blinded by the strange radiance, unable see or sense or even think.

Chakra, he thinks. This is chakra.

Father, he thinks at first and then – no, father is long dead as is uncle, their Chakra has joined the world. Indra then, except even Indra never felt this oppressive – and this feeling, it's coming from everywhere, all around him, it's like he's surrounded by hundreds of people, all of them with power, all of them with chakra of their own. It's like he's surrounded by a rainbow; countless of individual presences with hues and tones, all of them effecting their individual aura of chakra, so close together that they're almost melding into each other and he can't tell them apart – except, except that is impossible.

Isn't it?

Struggling against the outpouring of power all around him, he tries to calm his mind and bring his senses into order. Calm, he thinks and breathes, quiet, he thinks and exhales. Still as a pond's surface, the raging might of a river coming to rest beneath its waves. Balance, stability, peace.

The brilliance fades into a more manageable shimmer and he can fit into his head again. And then he can see – feel the chakra signatures all around him. He's staring up at stained wooden ceiling in blank faced shock – and all around him there are people with chakra. Not just the bare handful of his clan and family. Not the mere dozens of his father's temple. Not even the near half a hundred Indra amassed.

There are hundreds of them, hundreds and hundreds if people with chakra of their own.

And then Uzumaki Naruto crash lands in his head and nothing – everything – makes sense.

Incomprehensible

Ah, he thinks as his head explodes. That makes sense.

It makes absolutely no sense.

Things fall all around him in mismatched order – he's in wrong place, in wrong time, this isn't home, this place is gone and hasn't been build yet. Konoha is a distant future thing which from one point of view has been destroyed and rebuild but doesn't even exist, but it does, it does, he grew up here – except he couldn't because, because that was future. Past. Future.

He is two people in his head – and lifetimes in between, flickering in and out. Ashura first and Naruto last, and Ashura on base and Naruto all over the top. He grew up in his father's temple – in the orphanage and then alone. He grew up in the shadow of his brother – looking up to the Hokage monument, at his father. His father was the Father of Ninshu – his father was a fantasy and he still sometimes didn't dare to believe it. He grew up disappointing but loved. He grew up hated and over came.

Naruto had done something and Ashura couldn't make sense of it at first.

They lived centuries and centuries apart – and this moment and time is wrong for both. Distant terrible future to Ashura, who can look back and see the progression of events, how badly things went, the empires built on the ashes of Ninshu. Lost past to Naruto, who looks back to it with regret and sense of lost potential, all the things he could've done, if only he'd been a little smarter about it.

Time and space, they think. Goddamn it, Indra-Sasuke.

Fluent

Naruto embodied Ninshu and never really knew it – it came naturally to him. Ashura can see it, remember it – look ahead to it? – and it's a weirdly nostalgic unease he gets from it. Naruto had never known Ninshu, didn't know a thing about it – but he followed its tenets.

Working for others, with others, against others – becoming better for it. He shares what he has without second thought – time, effort, chakra, dispensing it all out with little restraint, bettering what was around it like it was the most natural thing. Most of all, though, most of all... he spent his entire time matching his beliefs against opposing ideals; his most cherished fights are always those of words and his victories are the new, transformed ideals that came out of those verbal, mental fights. And he never even knew that it was the core of Ashura's Ninshu.

Oh, Naruto thinks, because he never realized. Of course not; Ninshu is dead. And yet of course it comes naturally to him; Naruto was Ashura.

Excavation

They get up and set aside the mental for the physical. They already know where they are – the future-past is unmistakeable for Naruto and too alien for Ashura. That ceiling, these wall and floor boards – cut with machines, Ashura wonders, with saws that work on their own, with grinders that made perfect, smooth finishes – Naruto knows them because he lived surrounded by them most of his youth.

This is his apartment, the one he lived until he left it and Konoha behind at age of thirteen. When he came back, he was housed in the temporary Shinobi housing next to the academy instead – he'd meant to rent a new place as soon as he got into swings of missions, but... things had gone to head too quickly.

Konoha, which to Ashura still seems like fantastical future, was destroyed not that much after.

But Naruto knows this place. His jumpsuit is there, thrown over the back of his kitchen chair – in his fridge, there is milk, expired. He hasn't done his laundry, unsurprising, and his scrolls and books and homework is a mess strewn about the floor.

There's a headband there, scratched metal against brand new bandana cloth. Iruka-sensei had given it to him – given his own headband to him – and Naruto had refused to give it back. In the end they had done a swap – Iruka had gotten the new headband that would've gone to Naruto, Naruto had taken his old one, only they'd changed the bandannas around. So Iruka went away with his original cloth but new metal while Naruto got a new one cloth and old metal. This way Naruto wouldn't forget, Iruka had said and ruffled his hair.

As if Naruto could ever forget.

Ashura looks in on these memories, mental and physical, curiously, poking at the headband – insignia of a village, of a clan, of a title and rank, how peculiar – and at the memories that came with it. Indra-Sasuke had one too. Naruto had put a scratch on it. Indra-Sasuke had left it behind.

Of course he did.

Dust

As they poke around the future-past of Naruto's old home, they begin to clean it up. Which one of them starts it, it's hard to tell – Neither was that cleanly in life. Ashura had always needed someone to nag at him to bother and Naruto never had that, so he'd never just bothered. But they both had grown up, grown something like responsible, and the mess of Naruto's past self is that of a child.

Things on the floor, dust in the corners – expired food items in the fridge. They neaten things up as they glance over them, making the bed where they woke up, folding the clothes on the floor, throwing the dirty ones on the hamper, before picking up the home work of school they no longer went to – school, Ashura thinks, is a wonderful idea. Naruto thinks he's nuts.

Naruto, sadly, has almost as bad a handwriting as Ashura does.

They're examining some essay Naruto had once tried to write and never finished on time, when the window is blown in.

Rain

When Indra had walked out, it had been a terrible weather. When Sasuke had done the same, it had broken out to an outpour, washing away tears neither of them shed. In every life, he always walked away. In every life, they always chased after him, to no avail.

He crashes into Naruto's apartment, covered in water and looking angry and confused and tense –it's a near miracle the window didn't break. Ashura and Naruto look down at him and Indra glares out of Sasuke's eyes, how very nostalgic.

"So," Ashura says. "That didn't go as planned."

"Idiot," Indra says. "What did you do?"

"Me?" Ashura asks. "I can't do this; I don't even know how this happened.

"You used Ninshu," Indra says. "You must've. Only Ninshu could do this."

"I think this might be on me and Sasuke," Naruto says. "It's not like you were even here before."

"Idiot," Sasuke answers. "They were always here."

Nostalgic.

Correction

They never figured out their father's Ninshu, neither of them.

Indra was supposed to, but he turned his eyes so deep inward that he couldn't see past his own eyes. Ashura on other hand only had eyes for others, and so the points of self reflection were largely lost on him. Father's Ninshu was both closer to self and farther from world than either of them could grasp. It was about the universe, and one's place in it – concept too wide and too alien for either of them. It was balance with the world.

And they were never balanced.

From his own beliefs, Indra had developed Ninjutsu. From his, Ashura had built up his Nindo. He'd been named the successor of Ninshu eventually, much to Indra's chagrin, and he'd tried to live by it – but the self reflection of Indra changed the world before Ashura's reflection of the world could take root.

Humans were, in the end, more likely to look inside than out. Ninshu died – and Ninjutsu reigned supreme. And they died before they could either understand or appreciate the effects it would have on the world.

Looking back to it now, they can't even wince. The world built upon their fight, into clans, into Senju and Uchiha, into wars, into villages, into Konoha – into now. Stones piled up on a base that has a crack running right through it can only stand sturdy on either end – and nothing truly bridged that divide, it had only grown wider as the stones had piled.

At some point, the stones had collapsed – in Hashirama's and Madara's time perhaps, or after – and covered the crack in mess of scattered brickwork. But the fault line was still there, and nothing was sturdy anymore.

On that fault line of ideals wars were waged.

Cup of Tea

Indra curses and Ashura makes tea with what little Naruto has to offer in his dingy little apartment. Naruto makes faces at Sasuke, who rubs at his eyes as if he has a headache. Understanding tastes like stale leaf, drank from chipped cups.

"So to recap," Naruto says. "Sasuke used Rinnegan to try and undo – stuff. I messed with it without meaning to with it because," he waves a hand in vague gesture of compassing everything in the world, "you know. Ninshu."

"Tch," Sasuke answers and glares at him. "I didn't mean to bring you along."

"You couldn't not," Ashura says and looks down at Naruto's right palm. The seal is gone from the skin, but the connection is there. "Father joined you two together when he passed on his power. The connection was rivalled and opposite and because of that, strong."

"Damn old man," Indra mutters, looking down at Sasuke's left palm. "Always tampering with events, even now."

"Are we where you meant to go?" Ashura asks, looking to Sasuke past Indra's glare. "One would think you would have gone earlier."

Earlier – to a time before the massacre.

Sasuke looks down and presses his lips together for a moment. "Uchiha died for a reason," he says then. "It was a stupid reason but if they hadn't, things... would've turned out worse."

"The coup they were planning would've destroyed this place, inside out," Indra agrees and looks away, at the window he and Sasuke had crashed through. "Even if they had managed a bloodless coup – which they wouldn't have – Uchiha would have eventually killed everything Konoha stood for. Their ideals were... wrong."

Ashura tilts Naruto's head while Naruto hums, not quite getting it. He can understand Ashura's interest though – because that sounded like acceptance, maybe even submission, to something Indra fought hard against. "So ideals are important then," Ashura asks, sounding smug.

"Shut up," Sasuke mutters and he looks almost embarrassed. "Konoha is corrupt and hiding it behind this veil of greater good which makes it even worse, but it's still... better than most villages."

"Uchiha would have made it like other villages," Indra says.

Rain and Sand, Naruto thinks and Ashura shudders.

"Konoha was strong and successful because it got closes to bridging the gap," Ashura says. "Because we built it together."

"And it became weak," Indra says harshly.

"Yeah, because you left," Ashura mutters and takes a gulp of stale tea.

There's a tense silence for a moment before Naruto clears his throat. "So, why now?" he asks and looks towards his headband, sitting on the table near them. "This is before genin exam, isn't it?"

Sasuke looks that way too, but he doesn't know the significance of the scratched metal against brand new untested cloth. "Yeah," he says and looks away. "It seemed like the best change point – without having to wait useless for years."

"Huh?"

"Change of personality at this conjunction won't be too noticeable," Indra explains coolly. "Because Kakashi doesn't know Sasuke personally and it is understandable for new Genin to affect new traits. In academy, it would have been noticed by the teachers."

"And I thought I could fake it until Land of Wave – after that everything can be chalked up as post trauma," Sasuke shrugs.

Ashura hums and Naruto nods in agreement. It makes sense. Except, "You think we can fake this?" he asks, motioning between.

"Well, this wasn't exactly planned, was it?" Sasuke mutters.

"This will affect more than your plan of changing future events," Ashura says and looks at Indra. "Doesn't it?"

Indra scoffs and looks down and says nothing.