Yup 🥺👉👈🚶‍♀️

My Tunnels Are Long and Dark These Days

Featuring snapshots of the three most important road trips in Zemo and John's journey of working together.

To love is to pretend, don't try to love yourself again That is the worst kind of pain We're not those kinds of freaks, amen We're a different sort of breed of men

KARAKORAM HIGHWAY, CHINA-PAKISTAN

Zemo sat slouching in his seat, one hand hanging out the window of the truck, another draped on the steering wheel. The road stretched out in front of them, disappearing into the shadows of the mountains and forests. The sun was not up yet, it was early morning. 5AM, where no one rose out of bed but the office workers, the labourers, the soldiers coming out of their blanket shells. And where no one entered into slumber but the gravediggers, the night-shifters, the soldiers retreating into their blanket shells. The truck had been trotting along the road for hours, a small brown beetle with its headlights shining pale yellow, framing the one-meter radius ahead of it. Twenty-four hours ago had been when they first kicked the ignition into its churn in the region of Kashgar (a former trading town along the Silk Road), and when the prospects of a proper ceramic toilet had bit the dust. Twenty-four hours come and gone, with Zemo quietly helming the operation.

From Kashgar, they had traveled to Karakul under the cover of night, a journey that had taken them six hours. There had been no scenery of note but white moonlight glinting off the peaks of the two tall snowy mountains, Muztagh Ata and Mount Kongur. The shimmering scales of the Karakul lake had enraptured Zemo for hours, greeting him whenever a sharp jolt in the road woke him from his slumber.

And now, after resting a few hours at a local abode, they continued on to Tashkurgan, where from there they would go right into the borders of Pakistan.

A small muffled sound came from the lump beside him. “What’s the situation?” John mumbled blearily, poking his head through the covers. Zemo cast him a sideline glance, frowning at his sleep-mussed hair and squinted eyes. “It’s not your turn yet.”

With a snort, John closed his eyes again and rolled over, facing away from Zemo. He settled into another deep sleep.

A big, military-looking truck drove by them, momentarily blinding Zemo with its headlights. Heartbeat quickened in his chest, Zemo sat up straighter and observed the truck through the rearview mirror, hoping for its retreat. He glanced quickly towards his small driving compartment, doing a mental catalog of the materials there: a driver’s license, a forged visa to pass the border customs, fake passports with cover identities for himself and Walker… good, very good. All according to plan. Zemo rolled down the windows of his truck slightly, listening intently. The roar of the military truck did not fade into a distant hum. Instead, there was the screech of tires and the sudden whirring which indicated only one thing- Walker had better practiced the cover story that Zemo told him to, or the ensuing events would be catastrophic.

The urgent, piercing honking behind them startled John into wakefulness. He bolted up, then as if realizing that there was nowhere to go, settled back gingerly into his seat. “Zemo…”

Zemo tightened his grip on the wheels. Flexed his knuckles once, twice. Gently, as if petting a startled cat, rolled the ball of his foot over the brakes. “Anderson, don’t panic,” he says with practiced calm. “Remember what we rehearsed?”

“Yeah, Niki,” John replies. Though his face was carefully composed, the telltale twitching of his leg told Zemo otherwise.

All John had to do as Anderson was play the part of a slightly confused USA diplomat, heading from China to Pakistan over some matters of a proposed trade deal. Niki was to be his driver and translator, a man who had been an exchange student in China briefly where he picked up some basic Mandarin. Zemo had learned barely enough to get the both of them through a ten, fifteen-minute exchange. For the rest of his persuasion, he’d have to rely on the forged documents and the facade of confidence. If all went well, they would be sent on their merry way very quickly, and deliver all eight billion dollars worth of SHIELD information straight into the hands of Contessa. Of course, Zemo had taken an innocent, ‘accidental’ look at the confidential information, and deemed it useless enough to give to the woman. If it were anything that he found potentially dangerous, he would dispose of it immediately. Dry kindling could turn into a wildfire in Contessa’s hands, and that was the kind of risk he would never take.

“Stay calm. I will settle it quickly. The officers don’t want to make a big deal out of this either- we will be on our way soon,” he hissed to John as soon as he heard the crunch of boots on the tarmac.

Zemo rolled his window down to the silhouette of a heavily-clad soldier, who was covered head to toe in military gear. His eyes seemed to be narrowed, whether it was from suspicion or simply fatigue.

“有签证吗？” (Do you have a visa?)

“有。” (Yes.) Zemo reached into the compartment and retrieved the documents. The soldier took a quick look at them via the torchlight and passed it back to him. Then, tipping his chin at John- “他是你的朋友？” (Is he your friend?)

“他是我的老板。” (He's my boss.) Zemo struggled to recall the words for a moment. “我帮他翻译。” (I help him to translate.)

“对于游客来说，这时间挺早的。你们从卡拉库尔来的？” (This time of day is quite early for a tourist to be travelling. Are you coming from Karakul?)

Zemo blinked, processing the words. “可以…重复吗？” (Can you... repeat that?)

The guard sighed, then said slowly- “你们从，卡拉库尔，来? ” (You came, from, Karakul?)

The pieces slot into place in his head. 卡拉库尔 - Karakul. You… from… you came from Karakul.

“对，对。抱歉，我的华文不好。” (Yes, yes. Apologies, my mandarin isn't good.)

The guard laughed, but there was no condescension or meanness in it. “对于老外来说，发音挺好。” (For a foreigner, your pronunciation is pretty good.)

He continues, “好，好，谢谢。打扰你了。不多说了，你们走吧。” (Yes, yes, thank you. Sorry for the disturbance, you can go.)

Zemo, displaying the kindest smile he could, nodded and bade the man farewell. He turned off the lights in the car and smirked, knowing John could see it- This is how a professional works.

Another voice rang out, different from the one earlier. “先别走。” (Don't go yet.)

Zemo’s foot froze at the pedal. John’s expression was one of pure confusion and panic, his calmness now barely held together. Through the conversation earlier, Zemo had already sensed him vibrating with stagnant energy, and now it was manifesting in dangerous, careless ways. Zemo quickly reached out to touch John shoulder and calm him down- he's learnt that the other man responded best to physical contact, something he himself detested.

John’s wild gaze lifted to a point above his shoulder and lingered there.

The sharp rapping at the glass behind him are like bullets to his ears.

Zemo turns around, “为何…” (Why...)

His voice died in his throat. Standing there outside the car, equally shocked- Karlen Constantine.

Zemo could recognize that face anywhere. The rounded jaw, the brittle mouth, and that hateful, hateful look in his eyes.

The same look he gave when Zemo framed him for murder and left a two-million-dollar bounty on his head in Madripoor. Eight years ago.

Zemo takes quick stock of the situation. Judging by Constantine’s badges- high ranking. Heavily armed. A long, long road ahead of them. Walker has no shield, not yet. That was still in the process of being manufactured in Romania. Car chases weren’t an option. Evasion wasn’t an option. Anything other than negotiation would lead to their death. Zemo swallowed the saliva that rested heavily on his tongue.

“Karlen, please,” he says. John inhaled loudly behind him, he ignored it.

“You son of a bitch,” Karlen laughed gleefully. “Oh, this has made my day. I’m going to enjoy this.”

“What the fuck is going on, Zemo?” John snarled, ditching the pseudonym. He knew the game was up, the only question was how they were going to get out of this situation.

“Karlen, I’m invaluable to you,” Zemo continues carefully. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest, and it’s taking every iota of energy in him to keep his voice steady, to prevent the wave of panic from engulfing his mind. Any wrong word, any wrong move, and he would be dead within minutes. The car was bulletproof, but at such close range… with a shotgun, no less… Zemo knew the specs of the glass well, but he loathed taking risks. “I can-”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Karlen screamed, spittle hitting the glass. “Both of you, get the fuck out. Hands where I can see them. Slowly. Fucking do it slowly, or I’ll blow a hole in your leg.”

With steady breaths, Zemo complied. He could feel the adrenaline rushing up to his brain, reducing everything to a frantic pulsing in his muscles, the instinctual urge to run or fight. He got out of the car, hands raised to his shoulders, holding John’s gaze steady- don’t do anything rash. Follow my lead. And surprisingly, John did. He followed without a single word of protest, even though Zemo knew he was aching to throw a punch, to smash his fist into someone’s temple, or feel the satisfying recoil of a gun vibrating against his bones.

Zemo felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed between his eyes, at the same time that John jolted forward and cried, “No!”

“Don’t FUCKING move!” Karlen roared again, clicking off the safety. “Stay where you are or I’ll fucking kill him. Zemo, he answers to you, right? Tell him.”

Zemo glanced away to catch John’s horrified stare before his head was painfully yanked back by the roots of his hair. “Hey. Eyes on me. What did I say?”

“John, don’t move,” Zemo said slowly, grimacing as Karlen’s grip tightened.

“Now kneel.”

Zemo complied, breathing heavily. He could feel the fur of his jacket sticking to the back of his neck, and how hot his entire body felt, alight with energy. The aching of his scalp and knees had faded into a dull buzzing, overtaken by the hyperawareness of Karlen, his every movement, and Walker’s unyielding presence at his back.

As if sensing the same, Walker leaned forward carefully to place himself in Zemo's peripheral vision, discreet enough that Karlen wouldn't notice.

"Three years. Three years, I had to run and run and run. All because you stabbed me in the back, like the fucking coward you are. We were friends, but that didn't mean shit to you, did it? I'm glad your fucking wife and kids died. I hope they suffered. Oh yeah, I hope they screamed. I'm going to make this very painful for you too, Zemo."

Zemo's hands were trembling with the force of keeping them from Karlan's throat. It was taking everything he had to restrain himself. He tipped his chin up, looked straight into the matching pair of hateful eyes, and spat at Karlen's feet. "Fuck you."

It barely sounded like his own voice. The hate was thick sewer sludge, bubbling past the broken glass in his throat. A blinding burst of red splattered across his vision- Zemo flinched from the force at which the rage slammed into his mind. I will kill you. I will peel your skin from your bones, bit by bit. You're going to be screaming like a pig by the time I'm done. Constantine, you'll wish you were dead-

Karlen punched him so hard his entire body collapses to the side. Zemo tasted blood on his tongue, and god, it was pouring out of his nose. It wasn't broken, however- he turned his head just in time to prevent that. The lights look blurry- his eyes were watering.

Another kick connected with his stomach and Zemo cried out in pain, curling up into a ball.

Stop, stop, fucking stop, someone was shouting. When his head finally stopped ringing, he realised that it was John.

"You're friends with this guy?" Karlen laughed. "Oh, come on. He's just going to stab you in the back too. In fact, I'm sure he's already plotted multiple ways to kill you or fuck you up."

"He's tried," John laughed mirthlessly. His voice dropped into a low growl, a voice meant for spilling dirty little secrets- "Many, many times."

"And guess what, I'm still here. You aren't. A word of advice? Don't take yourself so seriously. You don't mean shit to him if you can't keep yourself around," John continued.

Zemo struggled to push himself back up, panting hard. He can't gather enough air to shout, stop talking. Those words laid like a brand against his skin, spelling out the name John Walker, a possessive claim.

I'm special, John Walker practically crowed.

And Zemo hated that he was right.

"If you like him so much, you can join him." Karlen laughed, raised his gun to John Walker, and fired.

He was fast.

John was faster.

The bullet buried itself harmlessly into the ground. The soldiers startle, reaching for their guns. One shot, Karlen's body dropped. The muffled thump launched Zemo's body into action. His fingers found a gun, and without blinking he whirled and pulled the trigger three times.

A few more shots rang out, and two more men are down.

Zemo swayed on his feet, but before he could collapse, there were strong arms around him, leading him to the car. He's shoved into it in a daze. John Walker entered through the other side, at the wheel.

"Shh. Shh. Hey. Hey, princess, look at me." A damp cloth was pressed into his hands, and he instinctively brought it up to his nose to staunch the bleeding. They're both breathing harshly from the fight. Gunpowder blue eyes stared back at him, brows furrowed. Light glanced off the mirror, staining John's hair a warm golden. Zemo was reminded of his vintage brass rulers, the beautiful old smell they had...

Wait. Light? He lifted his head to see the sunrise, then the time on the electronic clock. 6.05 AM. The tourist buses would be moving out soon, which meant-

"Drive," he whispered, and John kicked the car into high gear without a word.

"I'll text Contessa to put a roadblock on both sides and clear up the scene as quickly as possible. Once at Tashkurgan we'll leave the car, take the tourist bus, and blend in with the rest. I will arrange for Contessa to meet us earlier than was planned. When we arrive in Pakistan, we need to get past the border security. Even though we're compromised, this will not be risky. It's broad daylight and there are too many people at the border to cause a scene. The congestion will be in our favour. Clear?"

"Crystal."

"And the next time, I'll tell Contessa that travelling at night is a bad idea."

John frowned. "Hey, don't blame yourself. No one knew this was going to happen."

"We were nearly killed, John."

"Yeah, what's the big deal? Do you know how many times I've nearly been killed, Zemo? More than I could count. And trust me, this does not even come close." John laughs brightly. "We got outta there fine, yeah? Trust me. Not even close. It was a team effort."

Zemo looked down, and saw the slight quivering of his leg that John tried to hide. He dragged his eyes up to John's face, and recognised the tiny, near-imperceptible strain in his eyes... something you would not catch unless you were specifically looking for it.

You can be a really good liar if you tried, John.

"You're special to me, you know." the words came out in a rush, stumbling over one another. It sounded like a confession, and Zemo hated how it made his heart stutter, how his hands tingled, how the pain and the anger faded away into a schoolboy-nervousness.

The entire world, bottled down to a single response.

And he waited for an answer with bated breath, though he was uncertain of the question he had asked, if any at all.

My ending thoughts:

John Walker tells Zemo about love, like how a parent tells their child about the unobservable universe, about the untouched depths of the ocean, as if whispering: don't fear the unknown, for we'll explore it together.

Inspiration and images were taken from:

Zion National Park, United States (Utah)

Black Canyon of the Gunnison, United States (Colorado)

Trollstigen, Norway

Transfăgărășan road, Romania

Karakoram Highway, China-Pakistan

Images were taken from Google, not owned by me.

War of Hearts

Stay with me A little longer I will wait for you Shadows creep And want grows stronger Deeper than the truth

Zemo helps John Walker put on his combat gear for an upcoming mission.

John stretches out the taut piece of fabric. It’s inlaid with kevlar (even a supersoldier goes down when they take a bullet), slightly thinner than usual for mobility’s sake. He turns to Zemo, raising an eyebrow. The man in question was tugging a pair of boots from the trunk where his uniform was.

“It will do the job, but the bullet will still hurt.” Zemo remarks. Often, when shot, the pain will not register fast enough. John had experienced it before. He would feel a blinding fire in his gut, and his feet would still be moving even when his body crumpled and folded under the hit. And lying there, in shock, he had thought- I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot. Over and over, blood spilling out of him, before it registered that he’s been hit again by another bullet. 

“Just don’t freeze,” Zemo reminds him again.

“It’ll hurt just as much as being shot normally, just that the bullet won’t penetrate. You’re betting that I can handle the pain?” John knows he could, but it’s fun to rile Zemo up.

“You will handle it.”

“And if I come back with a shit ton of internal bleeding because of your negligence?”

Before he knew it, Zemo was centimeters away from him, gloved hand digging viciously into a blackened bruise on his torse. John grits his teeth to prevent himself from making any sound. Zemo leans in, close enough that John could feel the heat of his breath and inhale the delicate scent of cherry blossom tea. “Then take it as your punishment, and don’t be so foolishly careless again.”

Zemo takes a step back from him, fixes him with a searching gaze. John inhales slowly, recognising these moments as the eye of the storm, the silence and bated breath before thunder cracks the sky. He has learnt to treasure them. “And- I will not be negligent around you,” Zemo says, voice catching in his throat. Then he says, a faint sterness in his voice that told John it was a reminder- “Not in anything I do.”

The words what do you mean are on the tip of his tongue, but John presses his lips into a tight line. He doesn’t want Zemo to spell out the obvious for him- attachment is negligence as well.

Zemo seems to be pleased by whatever minuscule reaction (or lack of) that he showed. The man nods to himself, satisfied, as he turns away and reaches for John’s shield.

John puts on his suit with quick, practiced tugs. Then he buckles the buttons, alternating red and black, one by one in a slanted line down his chest; he squats down, yanking on his sleek combat boots. When he looks up, Zemo is observing him silently, head cocked to one side. John freezes, wondering if Zemo had been standing there the whole time, motionless, looking at his every movement. He reaches for his laces by the side table, but Zemo’s hands find his. 

Oh. when had he taken off his gloves?

Wordlessly, Zemo lifts him from the floor. John could smell the leather still lingering on his bare fingers, and the softness of his touch, calloused only on the middle finger where a stylus rests. These are hands that hold heavy gold chalices and silver letter-openers, sharp as a knife. And they stamp royal carvings into hot wax, sealing letters that will decide the fates of millions.

John’s blood turns molten all of a sudden, pumping hard and fast under his skin. He wanted to spill blood all over those dainty fingers, and knowing Zemo, it could be golden ichor. He imagined it crusted into fingernails, could nearly taste it hot on his tongue, war paint befitting of royalty. 

He lifts Zemo’s hand, holding that wild gaze, and plants a chaste kiss on the back, chapped lips sliding against soft skin. “Baron,” he says, reveling in the shaky inhale that he hears.

Zemo’s eyes are wide, pupils dilated. His hand hovers over where John’s heart is. After a few seconds Zemo retracts his hand as if burnt and glances away, with the expression that John has come to associate with cornered and run. But he does not take a step back, doesn’t even make up some bullshit excuse to run away. 

John knows that neither shock nor fear can make Zemo come to a standstill. So here, there is something inexplicably different that has pinned him to place like a dried butterfly to a corkboard.

“Hold still.”

He watches, mesmerised, as Zemo sinks to his knees and begins to lace up his boots, fingers working deftly to thread string through metal rings.

When the job is done, Zemo straightens again and looks at him square in the eyes. Fully clothed and ready for combat, something deeply calm has settled into John, reducing the world around him to a gentle hum. “US Agent,” Zemo says. His expression is not loving or warm, but his brows are furrowed in worry and John knows it’s the closest thing to kindness he’ll get.

“I’m here,” John says. It might have been a trick of the light, or his brain hallucinating some source of comfort, but he could’ve sworn there was a smile on Zemo’s lips just then, for barely a second.

But walking away and out of the equipment room, he hears a soft good luck behind him, and knows there’s no doubt about it.

I can't help but love you Even though I try not to

Me just looking at all the posts that are going ‘WHERE ARE THE FANFICS???? I want to read the fics ’

And just sobbing because I’m writing a long ass fic that I can’t upload anywhere because the ship is just too illicit

Lmao I was laughing nervously in the theatre because I was like- guys, that was a CHOICE 👁👁

I saw someone pointing this out....(sorry I didn't know who you are anymore if you saw this please notify me) this must be part of Simu Liu's fault too because he literally can't take his eyes off of Tony Leung on set he was so star struck 🤣. Simu HE is your dad in the movie please.

Bro…… you are me……. I am you…….

Am I the only one who usually is only capable of shipping one person for one fandom, although I may like a lot of the other characters very much?

* By “shipping” here I mean actively spending time searching gay ships centered around that character and reading fanfics.

(I’m only talking about myself, who’s incapable of shipping heterosexual couples)

For the MCU, although I love most of the heros and villains and even, uh, just normal citizens, I’ve been only interested in Bucky centered ships.

That being said, now here comes the first exception: now I just desperately need some Wenwu gay ships……

Sirene

Featuring snapshots of the three most important road trips in Zemo and John's journey of working together.

Le notti a cercare buone stelle

Ritrovarsi in mezzo a strane sorti

Quanto siamo storti

HARKANSA PASS, ROMANIA

John loosened his grip on the steering wheel, leaned back into the leather-clad seat with a sigh. He took his eyes off the road briefly to look at Zemo from his peripheral vision. The wind was whipping through the man's hair, throwing it up into a wild brown halo, strands nearly shining golden where it was struck by the sun. Zemo's face had regained some color since their trip started two hours ago. The shadows had faded from his cheekbones and under his eyes, leaving the barely noticeable smattering of freckles behind. He had started slouching slightly in his seat like a cat, squinting against the setting sun.

The trees were whizzing past them, behind them, in front of them. John had wanted to track some of them down with his eyes, a stray bird there, an oddly shaped trunk there, but they sped away as soon as they came, leaving him disoriented and dizzy.

He asked if Zemo was comfortable, and that seemed to rouse the man out of some daydream, who had to blink several times to get the dazed look out of his eyes and process John's question, before nodding. Zemo seemed to struggle with himself, lips opening and closing wordlessly a few times, then came a hesitant question after a while, torn away by the wind, "Do you need me to take over?"

"At the next stop," John replied. The next stop would be a few hours away, but Zemo didn't need to know that. For good measure, he reached over and gave Zemo a little pinch on the back of the neck just to see the man squirm. "Thanks for asking."

"... Likewise."

John tilted his head slightly to make sure Zemo could see his smile.

The road around them was wide enough only for two cars, and that was enough since not many cars came around this road. The sun was setting, the clouds were low. They were paper-thin wisps in the distance, but dark sinking little pieces of debris above his head that looked like concrete rubble. They were so solid and impenetrable that the sunlight clung to their edges, never sinking in, making them a beautiful red. John thought beautiful, beautiful, beautiful over and over again till he thought he would pass out with the wonder of it all, the landscapes he imagined as a child.

In front of them, the mountains were falling away, the sides of the high cliffs were fading, the layers and layers of dirt and rock giving away. John found himself almost missing what had gone, the stupid little yellow trees perched on the side of cliffs, or the huge huge walls beside him as he drove, like they were carving a path through, and how the rays would slip out from the peaks of the cliffs, would splatter the hood of the car in yellow, and they would play with him, mischievous, slipping away into complete grey one second, and blinding him like a laser the next.

Yellow, yellow, like autumn, stretching up and up so high and high that if he lifted his head up all the way to see the tops, he would lose sight of the road. And he'd be so enraptured and hypnotized, eyes held up to the sky, not paying attention to their direction anymore, maybe not even caring.

The road swerved left and right in staccato in front of him.

"It's odd, John, to choose a road like this..." Zemo says.

"It's odd?"

"Not many roads are like this one. Not many roads, especially not roads to deliver vibranium..." Zemo murmured, trailing off. For a moment, the illusion was shattered and John was reminded of the six kilograms of vibranium in their trunk, his soon-to-be shield.

"Maybe odd wouldn't be the right word for it," The other man rectified. He was smiling. "Magnificent is a more apt description."

So the walls were falling now. Beside him, Zemo sits up a bit straighter, leans forward in anticipation. The moment their view clears, beside him, he hears a shaky gasp of wonder- beautiful, echoing his own thoughts.

Zemo looked like a child seeing fireworks for the first time.

It took a few seconds for him to realize that he had forgotten to revel in his own wonder and joy, or throw up his own love to the light, that first experience, the wonder and mystery beyond every singing of it, as your world opened up and drew you in; one gate closing and one gate opening, in a little bubble, a snow globe. He had missed it. He had missed the half-second that would lift the air from his lungs in a roar.

It wasn't the splendid view that imprinted itself into his retinas, it was another man's joy.

He tastes something bittersweet at the back of his throat.

He put his gaze back to the road, continuing to drive, but then Zemo tugged at him insistently. "Stop, stop," Zemo whispered. So he pressed on the brakes, the car rumbled to a slow stop. Zemo reached over, turns the ignition off, and without any other words he opened the car door and steps out.

The crunch of boots on a rock-and-asphalt road was a welcome relief to the hum of the engine. He moved out of the car, went to stand beside Zemo. And that was when he hears.

Everything was silent. Pure silence. Then it began. The wind started to pick up into a howl over the hills, darting through the trees and bushes, and all the around them there was such a loud overwhelming rush of leaves, the groaning and creaking of trunks, that John felt that the world was nearly trembling apart in his hands. The two of them were so minuscule in the large expanse of landscape, yet he felt completely in control.

And in front of him stretched mountains long and unending and ceaseless, fading away into the clouds, and at the closer slope of the valley, winding down roads, the sides were painted with trees, tall towering spikes of green shooting through the land like needles through a needle cushion, so tall that even in the distance they appeared huge, and if you were to stand under one of them you could not raise your head high enough to see the top, the trunks that you could not wrap your arms around, everywhere you looked half your vision would be smothered by wood and bark and pine needles.

They were the most beautiful brilliant shade of hunter green, like oil paint, a stark contrast to the yellow-green of the soft meadows below. That shade of yellow-green was like if he looked at a grass field of canola flowers and backed away far enough until everything blended together. Down in the winding roads, there was a small little farmhouse, red and dainty, its shadow cast long against the ground by the sun's rays. John was reminded, and he looked back, at his own shadow, both of their shadows. A little smile played on his lips as he realized that their height difference was made more apparent by the sunset.

In the distance, the mountains were the pale shade of blue cast over by the clouds. Blue and golden mixed in with the sunlight. Ah. Maybe he had an epiphany then, for John thought, blue. It was blue that he was smelling, blue and golden in the air all around them. He looked to Zemo again. There was the hazy swirl of pollen in the air, settling on his eyelashes and his nose, blown from the flowers down the valley. He was coated with it, that invisible perfume.

John laughed. "Pretty," he said.

"More than pretty," Zemo said. "It's magnificent."

John smiled wider and wordlessly turns to the horizon again.

The sun touched his skin, his face, leaving his back cold. It was just a saturated red bloom across the horizon line now, fading into the mountains. And it became dark so quickly, so soon, that John was surprised when he looked at Zemo once again and saw that the other man's pupils were black and dilated like a cat's. The trees seemed to grow taller in the darkness, stretched by their shadow. The grass shined wet and oily with the moonlight. The world became a lot bigger, as the blackness of earth merged into the blackness of the sky, spiraling into galaxies and constellations above them.

He pointed to Zemo the Big Dipper, the Cassiopeia, and finds Polaris, the true North. They were stars that he'd trace in the war zones, above the sound of gunfire, to get him home. Then the Orion, and to Mintaka, the first star to rise in the constellation. Through all this, Zemo listened silently, occasionally nodding or asking questions.

He draped a blanket over Zemo's shoulders. He let his hands linger there, tracing the edge of the fabric, then slipped one hand under his purple turtleneck, resting at Zemo's trembling hips. There were bruises there, in the shape of his fingers. Some yellow and fading, some new. This was more intimate than usual, tonight, a new game that Zemo wasn't used to. But it would be back to normal in the morning, and John would remember that there was nothing gentle about Zemo, nothing redeemable for all his cruelty and vengeance and loathing. And Zemo would hurt him, over and over, taking him apart bit by bit, only to lie in bed shaking and shuddering, screaming John's name as he came, snarling hurt me, make me feel it, in a twisted form of self-punishment.

But for now, he could savor the moment. Those pretty eyes hold his own, nearly black in the darkness. John knew they were the true shade of brown, pools of honey in the light.

Maybe poison or aphrodisiac would be more accurate, for who he really was.

He couldn't resist - "Pretty."

John didn't need gentle. He's learned that gentleness is only a disguise for something more insidious. He needed madness and sin. Zemo was both in spades, and pretty as a striking cobra.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Zemo laughed hoarsely, but pulled him down into a kiss nonetheless.

Inspiration and images were taken from:

Zion National Park, United States (Utah)

Black Canyon of the Gunnison, United States (Colorado)

Trollstigen, Norway

Transfăgărășan road, Romania

Karakoram Highway, China-Pakistan

Images were taken from Google, not owned by me. Harkansa Pass is not a real location.

To the person who was once called @niki-fucking-lauda, even though your account is deactivated now, I’m happy for you and I hope you’re in a better place off tumblr.

If you still happen to see this, all the best and good luck.

🍀

Simu Liu I need an explanation

(translation on right: my dad is more handsome than your dad)

Holy shit. Holy fudging shit. This is so good and poetic. WTF. Do you have golden fingers because this is amazing. WHAT THE ACTUAL HECK THIS IS SO GOOD? AHHHHHH??!?! Dude i- i just... i... THE WAY YOU USE WORDS IS AMAZING DUDE I WISH I COULD WRITE LIKE YOU

Last Rites. Zemo. Angst. His fate is inevitable; no matter where he goes, he is driven by loss.

Two roads diverge and in one moment, Zemo and the Baron split apart. There’s Zemo on one side of the great divide, watching his whole world crumble around him. There’s the Baron who said fuck the mission and took his family on holiday someplace far away and quiet; he hears the breeze sighing in the long grass and holds his wife just a little closer.

What could’ve been. What could’ve been. What could’ve—

It’s a sigh like a dying curse and Zemo hears it every moment of every day. It flavors his coffee and wraps around his ankles to bind him in his cell. It tells him listen, when she said she felt so scared, what did you say?

(I’ll be home soon)

But there is no home, not anymore, not since he stood on the threshold of the end of — not the world but his world— and saw the ruin of everything. What is a man without a country? What is a man who smiles despite the knife in his gut?

The Baron watches the seasons change across the wasteland and he sees his son grow up. He says all of this is yours, every stone and every blade of grass. He hears about the city’s fall and is somehow unsurprised; Avengers are synonymous with ruin, with trails of destruction left behind while they retreat to their tower and lick their wounds. The Baron says all this is yours, every smear of blood and every shadow; when I die— not if, but when— don’t follow. Build a better world. He says— he says— but all his words are wasted.

Our father, who art the source of malice, gathers every thread and pulls us close. We pray the devils take us, for they at least are honest; they at least have made no promises.

And here comes Zemo with a face like a summer storm, wild and torn by thunder, all his ghosts around him like a mantle and if he smiles it’s only because he senses his nearness to the other side. He walks like a man who has nothing to lose because he doesn’t — his heart is gone, all the bones of his dear ones buried in the earth far from home because the family crypt was crushed and all its many sleeping dead thrown about like so much straw. Here comes Zemo with his gloves and his coat and even if he hides his face his eyes are still there, dark and piercing, every blink an indictment and every tear a curse.

Here comes Zemo, the trinity of ghosts: father, son and spouse; he sees the other side and doesn’t wonder why couldn’t it be that way because there is no time; he sets his plans in motion and shepherds them to the outcome he wants (the outcome he needs; he has the grief of love, of lovers, of someone who’s only ever known violence as a tool, who doesn’t fear death or pain but only the shards of his shattered heart that pierce through him)

Our father, who shows us the back of his hand, who curdles our milk and picks the lashes from our eyelids, our father, who shows us a door that’s locked and barred—

The Baron sees his people scattered, broken; he traces the threads of their dissolution back to the source, which is the Tower; he hears their cries for mercy and for aid and somehow, somehow, he is the last of their royalty, the last one with enough pull to do something (enough money squirreled away, at least, and the implacable cruelty needed to show no mercy). He says I’ll be home soon and goes to carry out his duty. If I let it go, if I let it go,

(We’ll be together)

We will never know peace. We will never know the satisfaction of looking at the stars without wondering who will descend to tear us apart.

When the Baron returns with blood on his hands (how they fought, but cleverness and tech and all the money in the world are no match for the calculated rage of a man who kills to protect, who will ruin angels to tear their prying eyes from those he loves)— when the Baron returns—

(I’m home)

—it’s to a quiet house and blood on the walls; the last of those he loved now dying on the floor and there’s a message. There’s always a message. You couldn’t protect us. So many dead, and when we looked to you, you’d fled. And then you left to chase your dragons, but the wolves slipped through your door. The Baron doesn’t cry. He can’t cry. He buries his dead and closes up his country house; he will find those responsible and share his suffering.

Our father, who maketh us to lie in green fields, who draws the stars down to drive them through our flesh. Our father, who pulls fate’s threads and cuts them free. Our father, king of filth and decadence.

Zemo lets his beard grow and thinks about what could have been. It’s a petty, weak indulgence and it makes him ache; it makes his hands twitch with the need to hold a gun again, to act, to move. He reads, he listens to the radio, he waits. He pushes the sleeves of his hoodie up and leans against the bars.

Zemo has a visitor. He sees his way out and he smiles his crooked smile.

Our father.

Saved.

So, let me guess— you just started a new book, right? And you’re stumped. You have no idea how much an AK47 goes for nowadays. I get ya, cousin. Tough world we live in. A writer’s gotta know, but them NSA hounds are after ya 24/7. I know, cousin, I know. If there was only a way to find out all of this rather edgy information without getting yourself in trouble…

You’re in luck, cousin. I have just the thing for ya.

It’s called Havocscope. It’s got information and prices for all sorts of edgy information. Ever wondered how much cocaine costs by the gram, or how much a kidney sells for, or (worst of all) how much it costs to hire an assassin?

I got your back, cousin. Just head over to Havocscope.

((PS: In case you’re wondering, Havocscope is a database full of information regarding the criminal underworld. The information you will find there has been taken from newspapers and police reports. It’s perfectly legal, no need to worry about the NSA hounds, cousin ;p))

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