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sloppy-butcher · 4 years

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Can I get some hcs for Freddy x reader who have like very love/hate reltionship? Like they annoy eachother constantly but still seek each others company. Thanks!

This is the first time I have ever tried writing for Freddy and to be honest, I am quite nervous I did him wrong. Please forgive any ooc characterizations i may accidentally give him - i tried my hardest to make him accurate to the 80’s version (yes, this one will be based on old freddy not the new one (2010 remake), hope that it okay <3) i also hope that you don’t mind if i make the reader a killer as i am only comfortable writing for freddy when the power dynamics are equal

Thank you for the request and i hope these are good enough for you

Headcanons for The Nightmare (Freddy Krueger) with a Killer!S/O who have a Love/Hate relationship

When you are an obedient little dog, when you kill mercilessly and the Entity grows fat from your bountiful supply of food, the spider-god showers you with rewards. Most forms of these appreciations take a physical appearance (new and terrifying outfits to adorn during your daily workouts or new weapons for you to play with). But there were some gifts that were intangible, and otherworldly and oh so irresistible to you - dreams. The Entity lets you sleep if you do well in trials and sometimes even offers you sweet, beautiful dreams. They were indulging at first, so totally vivid in their detail and color that you could almost lose yourself completely in their daydreams. It was a spider web most wonderfully and intricately made. A labyrinth of the mind. But it did not take you long to notice the spider lurking in the corners of his creation.

You spotted him often hiding under the shadow of trees, just standing there in the corner of your eye - one look and he would vanish without a trace. You would have thought nothing of the strange occurrence had it had only happened once and in only dreams. During your walks in between realms, you’d spot the man through the treeline. He was unmistakable in his silhouette and in the way his eyes glowed a horrid orange. You did not fear him however, he was no worse a monster than you were. Rather you were annoyed by his presence in both reality and dreams.

You bend down and pick up a rock, turning it over in your hands testing its weight and size. “Hey!” You shout at the man who halted his retreat into the dark, night wood at the sound of your voice. “Stay out of my fucking dreams, asshole!” You throw the rock at him, narrowly missing him and instead, striking a tree.

“Such a temper.” A hoarse voice coos from somewhere behind and you spin around to meet it. It was him, moving faster and quicker than air and appearing next to you, closer than ever before. You got your first good look at him. His skin was a sore pink leather and he smelled like smoke. “Trust me, sweetheart, I would if I could. Your dreams,” He takes out a hand covered in razor-sharp knives and mockingly strokes the hair out your face, “, are so boring.” You snatch his hand away from your face, barely noticing the sting of blades in your soft palm and the trickle of warm blood down your forearm. You did not grimace, did not cower, and did not back down. He grins at your defiant expression. “And here I thought you’d thank me for giving you the chance to live in such a wonderful world. I’m hurt,” He feigns agony, his free hand placed sorrowfully on his chest, “, good work always goes unappreciated.”

You scoff and show your teeth. “I would prefer nightmares if it meant I wouldn’t get to see you.” The man laughed and flexed his knife-fingers, fresh blood oozing out your wound.

“Oh babe, you and me both. I don’t like this babysitter gig anymore than you do.” He leans closer grinning with his horrible yellow fangs, the scent of a recent kill seeping off his tongue. “I prefer nightmares anyway.”

“You look like a nightmare.” You spit into his face, finally letting go of his weapon and glaring at him. He laughs again.

“You are a feisty one. I think you and I are going to get along fabulously.”

Of course, he did not heed your warning for that very same night you saw him again in your dreams. Though now, he made it a point, not to hideaway. He approached you and actively talked to you, following you around your dream like a resistant plague. He commented on your shit reality, on all the things you could have wanted to dream of, and yet you only wanted to be in an empty field at the brink of dawn. He shakes his head and degrades your poor taste with even more snarky comments. You knew you couldn’t do anything to him while in his dream but in the physical world - well, that is a completely different story.

If he was going to bother you while you slept like a buzzing mosquito, you decided to bother him when you were awake. In the real world he was much less intimidating, that aura of cosmic power that bubbled around him while in a dream state, was not present in the night air and you smirked at his weakness. You mentioned his height, asking how anyone could be scared of such a small man. He’d lash out, swinging at you with both his blades and his harsh tongue. He was easy to toil, easy to wind up but a task to deal with. Freddy could take a punch to his pride and deal out damage times 10. 1 mean-spirited remark deserves 10 more.

Freddy thrived on this back and forth. Ordinarily, he would turn his nose up at the idea of bickering with another killer - sure, some of them were fun, simple minds with which to bend and manipulate in dreams but most were already so twisted in their own self-delusions that well, he just didn’t find them all that interesting. But your mind was sharp and quick, built in the skull of a hardened murder professional yet dainty enough to still yearn for the sunlight world of goodness. A perfect balance. It had been a very long time since last Freddy had had a conversation of equals - a real conversation where the table was not shifted in the favor of either one. If he said something that crossed a boundary or hit a nerve (a task he sought out to do almost every night) you would turn on him, shoot daggers at him with the sole intent of murdering his little ass. Sure, it never really scared him but there was no denying that in a way, to spare with an equal really turned him on. To be challenged.

There were times when he would become too much. Like the static on a dead radio station, he would drone on and on about a certain topic he knew would heat your blood. Always poking his stick deeper and deeper into the bear until you’d bite. Luckily it was quite simple to turn him off - just don’t sleep. You never really needed to rest in the Fog anyway, tiredness never made its claim over your bones even after a long day at work. Sleep was merely a reward, after all, a gift that could be refused if so desired. If time could be recorded within the Entity’s world, then the longest you had gone without sleep, and without seeing that little creep, would have been 2 months. He had really pissed you off when in a dream he produced a small songbird and made you watch as he melted its skin off - all for sport. A sight that did not necessarily make your skin crawl but one that irked you. It was always a game with him, a competition to see who would break first and try to strangle the other. And, to be dead honest, it was starting to annoy you more than anything he could say or do. So you stopped seeing him, stopped dreaming, and stopped seeking him out in the woods. You were tired of always trying to be bested and frankly, his childishness was wearing you thin.

But there was no denying that in that quiet that ate up the space where Freddy used to stand, a strange loneliness would grow incredibly heavy and dreadful. You missed his rather repulsive company, his witty and sharp tongue always keeping you on edge and on your toes. There was no way you could stop your head from turning around to look for him, seeking out his small frame among the dark wood. It was lonely without the flies, silent and decaying slowly.

For the life of him, Freddy tried to move on. He had never tied himself to one person before, never allowed himself to latch on to anyone save for his favorite little toys. But with you it was different. It was fun to annoy you, it was fun to torment you in dreams. It was even fun when you reeled at him, hackles raised threatening to kill. It was exciting, it reminded him of the joy of being powerful and alive (in a sense). And when you never took his bullshit sitting down, when you'd raise to meet his call, oh how it set fire to his heart. To be challenged. He could feel himself wither away, the interest that you had sharpened only seemed to dull and break off in your absence. He’d hate to admit it, but he missed you. Missed your noise and missed that sweet dream of yours.

Both of you are too prideful to confess to the other that you were lonely. But when, one day, you find yourself dreaming a familiar vision, that built-up residue of solitude melted and you turned to face Freddy eagerly.

“Did you really think you could not sleep forever?” He crossed his arms over his gloating chest, a snake tongue flickering victories in between teeth. “I always get my prey.” You smirk, not surprised in the slightest by his rather rude welcome back. You look around at the grassy field surrounding you both shining a brilliant emerald, the sun feeling warm on your back, and the fresh, clean air carrying with it the scent of spring flowers.

“Aw, you missed me, Frederick?” You tease him with his unused full name, casting a devilish side-eye to the dream-demon. You see a flicker of panic, alerting you that you had hit the nail on the head before he spits and loudly proclaims,

“Don’t be so far up your own ass!” His golden eyes gleamed pure hatred at you. “It's not a hat.” You laugh at the face of the fuming man, knowing that despite how his actions appeared malicious and distasteful, there was no feasible way to deny that the dream he had made for you was spectacular and expressed something deeper than just surface-level annoyance.

#dbd imagine #dbd x reader #dbd the nightmare #dbd the nightmare x reader #dbd freddy krueger #dbd freddy krueger x reader

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bastetsbard · 3 years

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20 Questions, Writer’s Edition

Thanks for the tag @totchipanda !!

How many works do you have on AO3?

Um, I have two accounts. 1 is SFW, one is NSFW. 2 on the NSFW, 3 on the SFW, and I think 3 on FF.Net but I can’t get back into the account :( Not sure if I’m willing to link the NSFW account to this username yet...

What’s your total AO3 word count?

Adding the two accounts together, just under 20k.

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Some are posted, some are not yet, most may never see the light of day.

Published: Star Trek: TNG, Spirited Away, Jupiter Ascending, Grishaverse (specifically Six of Crows)

Unpublished and might never be, as I’m not currently active in the fandoms and/or they were terrible tweenager OC fics: Lord of the Rings, Magi: Labyrinth of Magic, Moribito: Guardian of the Sacred Spirit, Asklepios (whee, obscure manga!), Attack on Titan, Kotoura-San, One Piece (for like a hot second), Hunter x Hunter, Escaflowne, Trigun

I have like, so MANY other fandoms I’ll also read for. Which might mean I’ll also write for them at some point. <_<

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

I actually only have 5 fics total between two accounts so I’m just going with the top on each. (I promise I’ll finish the 7ish WIPs once my life settles back down a bit more (I hope) by next month.)

Um, currently one of the E-rated ones. >_> (Over 125!! Squee!)

On the SFW account: Collar (Jupiter Ascending)

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Almost always, unless I have some reason I don’t want to engage--e.g. spoilers or the commenter totally missed the point and I’m trying to be cordial.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Um, probably Collar? My fics tend to not be angsty. More FEELS than anything, but the angst usually has a tidy wrap-up before the real ending.

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

Yes, though it was just outlines. I think it was Escaflowne/Hunter x Hunter?

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Thank heavens no! But I fully expect to with a future one as one primary OC is an abortionist.

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

eheheheh. um. yes. F/M, might consider specific M/M ships in the future but not totally sure. I seem to enjoy putting my characters in funny-but-also-emotionally-resonant sexy situations.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

AFAIK, no, and I better not find any.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No but I’ve had a beta save my sorry ass.

What’s your all time favourite ship?

Honestly, I think Kanej might be it. Like, possibly forever. Even if I move on at some point they will hold a special place in my shipper heart. I’ve had SO many OTPs though. Royai, EdWin, Janeway/Chakotay, and Vash/Meryl are up there as well.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Seven Monsters, Seven Gods. It was supposed to be a sprawling continuation fic for Jupiter Ascending that involved Stargate-like universe-bending shenanigans, and also professors who are not what they seem. I would have had to write it in college but the moment’s past.

What are your writing strengths?

Eerie little personal details about characters that make them relatable and all too human. (I hope.)

What are your writing weaknesses?

Finishing shit. Also, complex plots are something I need to develop. Not abusing commas and em-dashes. Run-on sentences (fuck you, Cicero, you ruined me).

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

If you can get a native speaker to help you, then hell yes. Otherwise, you damn well better be pulling it from a well-vetted source to be respectful. Specific words and phrases are find for extra color in a story, as long as you’re being mindful. (e.g. I usually use names of specific dishes for a culture)

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

TNG, but I never published it. I had SUCH a crush on Wesley Crusher at 12 and it was a terribly indulgent Mary-Sue fic.

What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

Of the published ones? The erotica that currently has the most kudos. Even if one of my writer buddies still roasts me over specific historical details (we are writing equivalent periods 20 YEARS APART, my dear).

Of the unpublished, I’m loving writing one with a plot device OC who started off as mirror-universe me and got worse from there.

Tagging @voidfishersong, @bigwidogastenergy, @adhdchaosgremlin, @xandrei, @sloppywetbread, @loudsilence99

#memes #tag memes #20 questions #writing #fanfic #fanworks

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spidergwenstefani · 6 years

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Take Another Shot

@aw-hawkeye-no you did this to me. This was a single ship blog and then you did THIS to me.

anyways here’s a 5 +1 Castlehawk fic. 5 times Frank proposes to Clint and 1 time Clint says yes.

California’s not usually Frank’s scene. There’s too many gleaming white smiles plastered onto plastic faces. He prefers the east coast where everyone’s depressed and honest about it.

“You gonna keep checking your guns until these terrorists just give up and go home, or are we ready to go?” Clint flashes him a bright smile, although it’s a shade too genuine for Frank to really resent it.

“I like to be prepared. Just one of my rules,” he says, finally sliding his Glock back into place and giving Clint a short nod. “We all got rules, right? Helps us do what we do.”

“Yeah, okay,” Clint says, suddenly mock serious. He shoulders his bow to take Frank’s face between his hands, archery gloves pressing hard enough to smush his cheeks together. “My rule is no falling in love, got it? I know I make it hard, but I got no time for romance. I have a tight schedule of kicking ass and taking names to stick to.” He gives Frank’s head a little shake as if he’s gotta rattle some sense loose. As if Frank’s the type to go and fall for someone that easy. It’s classic Clint Barton humor. The kind of jokes that you have to keep reminding yourself to hate. The kind of funny that rubs you the wrong way until you blink and it doesn’t. Greater men than Frank have fallen to the charms of Clint Barton, but Frank’s specialty is putting up walls, so he counts himself safe.

“Agreed.”

“Great.” Clint’s smile is slow and mischievous. “Then let’s go catch some terrorists.”

“You know how much cooler you would sound if you said ‘Let’s go kill some terrorists?’” Frank says, but he follows Clint down the dark hallway anyways. He doesn’t look back, just sparing a half-assed handwave over his shoulder.

“There’s nothing cool about murder, Castle. That’s my other rule.”

>>==========>

There’s gunfire all around him, pinging off of exposed metal and concrete and generally raining down hell. Frank sinks his knife through flesh and his fourth guy goes down with a scream, clutching at his shoulder. Frank takes a second to tell himself that wasn’t quite murder while he kicks another guy hard enough to feel bone snap under his boot. If he gets medical help in the next few hours he’ll be alright. If he doesn’t, that’s someone else’s problem.

He pulls his Glock out of its holster to put a few rounds into goon number six, and wonders about Clint’s stance on permanently maiming. He’s not just gonna leave terrorists with perfectly good hands lying around during a firefight, ready to drag themselves over to a discarded weapon and take his team out from the sidelines.

Frank hears the seventh guy coming up behind him almost too late. Almost not enough time to sidestep the swipe of his knife, grab him by the arm, and wrench his shoulder out of his socket. Almost. The guy goes down like a screaming pile of bricks, and Frank can tell by the shouts behind him that Clint’s preoccupied, so he shoots him maybe a little closer to some essential organs than is strictly nonlethal. Whatever. There’s bullets flying around the place like confetti. The guy could’ve got hit by friendly fire. Frank’s got plausible deniability.

He turns toward Clint then, finger already tightening on the trigger, but freezes as soon as he takes in the scene.

There’s six guys already on the floor and only one of them is still moving enough to try and pull an arrow free from his thigh. Four more are swarming Clint and he takes down two in a motion so smooth Frank actually can’t tell if he drew a breath or not. He nocks two arrows and takes the other two out in one shot. Frank must’ve made some kinda noise because Clint spares him a glance, shooting him a blinding smile and fuck Frank and his walls because that’s an armor piercing round right there.

“Marry me,” he chokes out, realizing he’s standing there gaping like an idiot in the middle of a firefight and not quite caring. Clint’s face does a funny little show, going from surprised to disappointed to an eye roll in moments. He settles on scrunching up his nose just a bit, shooting another goon without looking so he can fix Frank with a critical stare.

“No. Jesus, Castle. We talked about this.”

“I changed my mind,” Frank says. A spray of bullets gets annoyingly close to his face, so he lobs a knife at the source. “C’mon. Right after this. You, me, city hall.”

“I told you, my schedule’s booked.” One of the last few guys tries for a kamikaze charge at Clint, and Frank hasn’t even taken aim before there’s an arrow sprouting from his chest.

“We could do it now,” Frank tries. “I bet one of these guys is ordained.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, turning back to finish off the last few with laser focus. “I hear that’s the number one fallback plan for ministers. Terrorists, all of ‘em.” The last goon goes down and Clint steps back to survey the damage. “Alright, Castle. How many of these guys did you kill?”

“Uh,” Frank says. The floor is slick with blood, and he offers Clint an apologetic shrug. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

Frank’s boots thud against tile as he races down the hallway after Clint, ducking as bullets and goddamn lasers go flying past.

“Remind me why I agreed to help you with Avengers business again?”

“Because you like watching my ass while we run for our lives?” Clint tries, taking a sharp right and not bothering to check if Frank follows. He does. He’s not letting that ass out of his sight. “Because deep down you’re a good person?”

“It was the first one,” Frank grunts. Another laser blast goes past, mere centimeters from his face. Goddamn lasers. They leave the air behind them crackling in a way bullets never do. It’s putting him on edge.

“Backup should be here soon,” Clint says as he skids around another corner. “Then we won’t have to keep retreating.”

“If you hadn’t lost your bow, we wouldn’t have had to run in the first place.” Frank swears they should be going in circles by now. Fucking AIM bases. Fucking AIM bases and their goddamn lasers and Clint. Motherfucking. Barton.

“Not my fault,” Clint shouts, diving out of the way of a laser that somehow ricochets off the wall. “Dunno how I was supposed to know a putty arrow would react with a vat of acid like that. And I took down half the base, didn’t I?”

“Stealth mission,” Frank grunts. Their next turn is even tighter, and he hits the wall with his shoulder before bouncing back. The AIM agents are falling further and further behind, their shots getting sloppier, but they’re still too close to lose in their labyrinth of a base and Frank and Clint can’t keep this up forever. “You said this was a stealth mission.” The hallway they’ve turned down is slightly wider than the others, and Clint falls back slightly to run at Frank’s side.

“Carry me,” he says, and Frank glares at him. Clint’s panting and his face is flushed, but he’s a far cry from out of breath.

“I always fucking carry you,” Frank says, but he scoops Clint up anyways, somehow wrangling him into a bridal carry without falling ass over teakettle.

“Rude,” Clint says, immediately squirming out of Frank’s grip and throwing himself over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry. “We’ve worked together like twice.”

“And yet,” Frank says, not bothering to finish his sentence. He’s going slower now under Clint’s weight. They have a decent head start on the AIM agents, but whatever Clint’s trying to do better get done soon. He feels Clint fumble with the holsters on his back, and then he’s drawing out the rifle Frank keeps strapped to him.

“Keep running,” Clint says, like Frank’s about to stop.

“Start shooting,” he gripes back. He feels Clint go still, digging his elbow into Frank’s shoulder to steady himself. The sound of bullets and lasers gets closer, and Frank can practically feel the shrapnel nipping at his heels.

There’s one shot, then four more in quick succession. Clint pauses to take a deep breath, and then five more shots ring out. He hears a strangled shout of pain, and then they’re not under fire anymore.

“Woah there, Castle,” Clint says, giving Frank a pat on the ass like he’s some kinda horse. He skids to a stop too fast just to be an asshole, and Clint goes tumbling over his shoulder.

“Don’t ever make me do Avengers shit again,” Frank says, bending over to catch his breath. Clint just beams up at him from the floor, practically hugging Frank’s sniper rifle. His chest is rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon, and his cheeks are flushed bright red.

“That was hot though, right?” Clint says. “I feel like that looked totally hot.” Frank’s too busy clutching at the stitch in his side to agree. Clint closes his eyes, letting go of Frank’s rifle to let his arms flop out at his sides. “You think you could do the princess carry again? That was definitely hot.”

“I’m saving it for the honeymoon. You gotta say ‘I do’ before I bust that move out again,” Frank says, and Clint opens his eyes just so he can roll them.

“Nuh uh. Figures. I always end up going for the good Catholic boys.”

“Really?” Frank knocks the toe of his boot against Clint’s shoulder and he snickers.

“No.”

There’s a dog barking somewhere in a far off alley. Police sirens are blaring, but they’re always blaring in Brooklyn. Frank’s boots skid against wet asphalt as he stumbles, falling back into the shadows and clutching at the wound in his side. He’s lost a fair amount of blood. He can’t tell exactly how deep the wound is in the dark like this, but he can tell it’s more than a scratch. He’s walked away from worse, but Frank’s not stupid enough to think this isn’t bad.

He grits his teeth and stumbles again, careening into a trash can that falls over with an ear-splitting crash. Somewhere out there, the dog starts barking louder.

“Fuck,” Frank spits out, letting his head fall against cool brick. He’s not sure exactly what part of Brooklyn he’s even in. He lost Kingpin’s men a while back, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to risk being seen while he looks for some kind of street sign.

The brick of the brownstone Frank’s collapsed against is kind of soothing. The cold against his face edges into his brain slowly and makes a nice contrast to the pain pulsing in his side. He lets his boots skid out from under him, sliding down to sit in the shadows. All things considered, Brooklyn isn’t the worst place to die. Frank lets his eyes slide shut and listens to the barking dog draw closer.

>>==========>

There’s a wet tongue slobbering all over Frank’s face, and the smell of dog breath pulls him back into reality. He groans, lifting his hand to bat the dog’s face away, but somebody’s already pulling his snout back, scolding him gently. Frank cracks his eyes open to see a familiar face, blond hair as unkempt as usual and blue eyes darkened with worry.

“Clint?”

“Jesus, Frank. Warn a guy before you show up in his neighborhood with a stab wound, alright?”

“Didn’t mean to end up in your neighborhood,” Frank says, and Clint’s face shifts just a little, a cloud of hurt falling over all the worry.

“Okay. Yeah, that’s- that’s kind of worse. You just planned on bleeding out in a back alley without giving me a heads up?”

“I thought you were in California.” Frank’s mouth feels like sandpaper. He pulls himself up enough to take in his surroundings and realizes he’s in a bedroom. He’s in Clint’s bed.

“I’ve been in town for about a week,” Clint says. He passes Frank a glass of water that was waiting on the side table. Frank takes it gratefully, almost draining the cup before he speaks again.

“You didn’t call.”

“Neither did you,” Clint says. He finally lets go of the dog he’s been holding back by the collar. A one-eyed mutt that seems to blend in seamlessly with the soft disarray of Clint’s place.

“I thought you were in California,” Frank repeats. “Otherwise I would’ve.” He puts the glass back on the nightstand, not bothering to smother his groan of pain. He can feel stitches in his side. Clint knows the damage.

“How’d you get stabbed?” Clint asks, pushing aside a purple t-shirt that Frank definitely doesn’t remember putting on to examine his well-bandaged side. Most of the light in the room is the warm glow of a lamp, but sharp white light is spilling out from an open bathroom door where Frank can see the contents of a first aid kit strewn around the sink.

“I was a thorn in Kingpin’s side.”

“So he put a knife in yours,” Clint says, still so close. He runs his thumb over the top of the bandages, and Frank feels himself shiver. Clint sits up a little more, his face a few inches from Frank’s. He’s not sure if he’s ever seen Clint this serious. “I ordered pizza. Before you showed up, I mean. I saved some for you.”

Frank groans, loud and shameless, and grabs Clint’s arm to pull him just a little closer.

“Marry me,” he says.

“No,” Clint answers, but he still leans in and presses their lips together.

“You- really? You have intel on MODOK and you won’t tell me? What the hell, Frank?” Clint’s on the genuinely-pissed side of joking, but he’s sitting on Frank’s couch, wearing Frank’s t-shirt, and patching himself up with Frank’s bandages, so he can’t find it in him to do much more than smile.

“C’mon, Hawkeye. Don’t be dumb. You’ve worked for SHIELD. You know information ain’t free.” Clint huffs, throwing a pad of gauze Frank’s way. He just grins and lets it bounce off his chest.

“See, I thought we just shared things with each other. I thought this was a relationship, not just some kind of exchange of services.”

“Sure,” Frank hums, sitting forward so he can run his hand up Clint’s ankle. Clint kicks him away half-heartedly. “But my source went through hell to get this particular intel, so it’s going to cost you.”

“Fine,” Clint says, sinking back into the couch and glaring at the TV. “What do you want for it?”

“Marry me?” Frank asks, sliding his hand up to rest on Clint’s thigh. Clint just crosses his arms, keeping his glare on the screen like he gives a shit about Mythbusters.

“No, fuck you, Castle. Settle for a blow job like a normal boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Frank says, grinning even wider. Clint’s cheeks turn pink and Frank can see him struggle to keep his eyes on the TV.

“I said what I said.” Clint’s voice is a little softer. Still pissy, though. “So? You really gonna withhold intel from your boyfriend?”

“You play a dirty game, Barton,” Frank says, sliding his hand up to play with the hem of Clint’s t-shirt. His t-shirt. Clint finally looks back at him, something genuinely affectionate undercutting his glare.

“Yeah, I play a dirty game. Sure. ‘Marry me,’ Jesus Christ.”

“Marry me,” Frank pants, breathing his words against the sweat-damp skin behind Clint’s ear. He rolls his hips and Clint gasps, arching up into him and scraping blunt nails across his back.

“No,” Clint says, biting his lip hard as Frank presses him further into the mattress. “Fuck. No- Oh god. Do that again.”

Frank obliges and counts Clint’s moan as a consolation prize. He presses his fingers harder into Clint’s hips and slides his lips down his jaw.

“Yes,” Clint groans, nails digging into Frank’s back. “Yes, yes. Frank, right there. Fuck, yes.” Frank bites a mark into Clint’s neck and does his best to reduce him to nothing but ‘yes.’

+1.

There’s still bullets whizzing by overhead, still bad guys with guns searching the complex, trying to track down Frank and Clint. They’re holed up pretty good for now, out of sight of any cameras and sheltered enough from gunfire behind layers of steel and concrete. They’re nowhere near free, but Frank watched Clint take out four guys with one arrow and get a fifth on the rebound not twenty minutes ago, so he’s not sure he can keep going without getting the question out of his system and the damn box out of his pocket.

“Hey,” Frank says, tugging Clint back from where he’s peering around their barricade. “Hey, is this a bad time?”

“For what?” Clint asks, and he searches Frank’s face for a moment before he looks down at the ring box sitting open in his hands.

“Marry me?” Frank asks. “While I’m down on my knees and all that.” Clint’s staring at the little red box, and Frank can’t tell if the paleness in his face is from surprise or just blood loss.

He blinks and then looks back up at Frank, fury glinting in his eyes.

“Fucking what?” Clint hisses, just barely quiet enough not to give away their location through the cacophony of gunfire. “Are you kidding me? ‘Is this a bad time?’ Yeah, Frank. It’s a bad fucking time.”

“Is that a ‘no,’” Frank asks, still too high on adrenaline and the thrill of a good fight to do anything but smile.

“Are you serious? Fuck you, ‘marry me,’ I got shot!” Clint gestures emphatically at the gash in his leg.

“You got shot a little,” Frank corrects. “I’m not hearing a ‘no.’” Clint’s jaw clenches and then he grabs the box out of Frank’s hands.

“You’re the worst,” Clint says, pulling the ring out and tossing the box to the side. “Some fucking husband you’ll make. Yes, okay? Yes. Come on, put it on me.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Castle,” Frank says, sliding the ring onto Clint’s left hand. It’s subtle, just brushed steel with a short message etched into the inside. It fits perfectly, and Frank feels a surge of happiness no adrenaline rush could match. He leans forward, trying to catch Clint’s mouth in a kiss but only managing to plant one on his cheek as he turns his head away.

“Nuh uh,” Clint says, biting his cheek like he’s holding back a smile. “If you think I’m gonna be Clint Castle ‘til death do us part you’ve got another thing coming. Our kids’ll get prime alphabetical rank with Barton and I’m not letting you take that away from them.”

“It’s one letter off,” Frank laughs, and Clint’s beaming anyways. He kisses him then, and Frank can feel the cold metal of the ring against his cheek when Clint pulls him closer.

#my fics #castlehawk #Clint/Frank #Frank/Clint #Hawkpun #i've never shipped anything that didn't have a ship name #yikes

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5questions · 5 years

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Joselia Hughes

Joselia "Jo" Hughes is a Black 1.5-generation Cuban-Jamaican-Guyanese-American writer and artist from the Bronx. She lives with Sickle Cell Disease (HBSC) and ADHD.

Where did you find the 3rd grade poem? How did you decide to include it? What other collage or found art/poetry do you like?

The 3rd grade poem was from a collection of student works, Witch’s Brew, released by my grammar school, Horace Mann. I have two issues from 2nd and 3rd grades. Both of my works were quartered in the “Fantasy” section. There was another section called “Feelings” and, I think, The Sky more accurately suggests a feeling. Scratch that: it explicitly discusses a feeling. This misidentification by academic administration/curatorial staff (which doubles as a political demonstration) is telling. I think it explains a lot about the root confusion between what I have felt/feel to know as Experientially True versus what I’m told to know as The Truth. When considering the emotional and material lives of Black femmes, we must remember Black femmes have been historically disallowed, disavowed and dispossessed of creative virtuosity. Too often, we are strapped in the monolith of stereotyped caricature dictated by the manifested destiny written into commandments/constitution of misogynoir. Black femme virtuosity is reappropriated, regesticulated and worn like some earned bloody body wisdom by the Opps (Oppressive Forces). While I didn’t have those terms as a child, I experienced the consequences of misogynoir in conjunction with dis/ableism and classism, which aren’t separate entities but necessary vices that amplify asphyxiation. Is disabled Black femme loneliness only permissible when classified as fantasy? That shit don’t sit right in my spirit. I also used the poem because the title is Witch’s Brew and my zine, Heartbeats But No Air (HBNA), is a kind of exorcism. A few years ago, I pieced together that my maternal grandmother was a covertly practicing Bruja. With the widening reclamation of ancestral wisdom by BIPOC, in an effort to decolonize our existences, I was tapping into that tender tendon of wisdom.

Understanding my grandmother’s practice reminded me that she wanted to name me Darthula Verbena (daughter of God, enchanting and medicinal). I started referring to myself as DV, my pre-name, and inspected my childhood. That’s been a remarkable endeavor. I had to teach myself to play again. Through play, I learned how to feel. Learning feeling meant learning the qualitative and quantitative nature of the labyrinth of my thoughts. Once I learned some of the turns of the labyrinth, I could feel to know how to navigate the terrain without fear and engage in the rigorous study that’s always characterized my central self. Play is a code switch. I often think of code switching as a means to subvert/refigure power differentials. To hide in plain sight by retooling “seeing” to perception/sensing. How much are we perceiving/sensing? How often do we mean perception/sensing yet default to “sight”? Perception/Sensing adds dimensionality that isn’t always articulated with and through “sight” and “seeing”. Ralph Ellison’s identification of “lower frequencies” and J. Halberstam’s configurations of Low Theory do this work. I toy with these multiplicities in the zine. I work low to the ground which means I work close to my heartbeat, my central drum. I work meta; I go beyond. I like to sprinkle codes, tickle clues, tuck in questions, sew in wisdoms so I know what I’m doing, why I’m doing it, who I’m doing it for and to always remember the fun of FLiP (Feeling, Learning, iPlaying).

Some of the works/folks who’ve helped me FLiP are Dana Robinson’s meditative and piercing collages; Zulie’s mind bending, heart wrenching, time suspending zines; Nikki Wallschlaeger’s I HATE TELLING YOU HOW I REALLY FEEL; Seth Graham’s tattoo practice/paintings/unbounded love of outer space (they’ve done 3/4 of my tattoos); Amanda Glassman’s razor sharp poetry and encyclopedic curiosity; L’Rain's music has literally helped me scale the side of a mountain and carried me through hospitalizations; KT PE Benito’s multidisciplinary liberation praxis and collaborative friendship; Zoraida Ingles' holistic creative prowess (a conversation with her is why Heartbeats But No Air, as a title, exists); and Marcus Scott Williams’ writings/video/sculpture work that readily embraces the persistence of ephemera. This isn’t an exhaustive list—I have a solid library of books and papers and zines and tunes at my crib—but, genuinely, I’m inspired by everyone I’ve had the honor to encounter.

There are themes of love and race and beauty and culture and self-transformation in this book. Paired randomly, some pieces may not make as much common sense together, but as a whole, it feels powerful and cohesive. What was the structuring process like for this chapbook? Each zine is different, right?

It is one zine. I find it cool that you consider HBNA a chapbook made up of many zines. The word chapbook had never crossed my mind. I walked into the process with DIY zine logic and HBNA was printed using office photocopiers. I think the feeling of cohesion you mention is what happens when you witness a lot of parts of one person. In this case, you’re witnessing a lot of different parts of me, my thoughts, my actual labor. Whole is the goal ‘cuz people are whole. I am whole. I consider HBNA a single revolution of myself— one big twirl around a fire, a sun. I was in a very strange place. I’d alleviated, with the help of acupuncture and CBD products, a significant amount of the chronic pain I’d been experiencing since August 2014. I fell around love with someone and rose in love to myself (thanks Ms. Morrison and Ms. Stanford!). I was in an unfamiliar painless trance. I created and tinkered with all of those pieces during a very short period of time from Summer 2017 to Summer 2018. HBNA was originally named Girl Pickney (the prose pieces were written under that moniker) and before that NggrGrl (a nod to Dick Gregory). I wrote the poetry in an even shorter period of time—March to July 2018—and the poems are actually part of a full length collection that I wrote in those four months. I didn’t decide on the layout of the zine until I was with two friends formatting it for printing two days before I was going to read at The Strand and sell it. I kept all the pages, the puzzle pieces, in a folder. A lot of book structuring, for me, is based on emotional knowing—when to slap, when to pound, when to breathe, when to confuse, when to stun, when to anger, when to tell, when to soothe. All of my structuring decisions are fly about to get swatted dead but fast enuf to fly away first intuitive. If I’m channeling that intuition, I know I’m in running in the proper heat and lane.

You were in an MFA program at one point. How does this chapbook contrast with your style from before that program and during that program? Did that program have an effect on your writing? This doesn’t feel like the most MFA-y writing, which is why I ask, and which I mean as a compliment.

I’ve attended a few schools. I’ve completed fewer than I’ve attended. Until my late 20s, I was shy and desperate for people, those noun-verbs, to stay. This desire for people to stay meant I spent an inordinate about of time and energy relegating the difficult parts of myself to the margins of the margins and continually stepped into social/academic shoes that did not fit. HBNA was the first fitting of the bespoke shoes I can now emotionally afford to make. The first copies I sold had typos! I misspelled my own pre-name and that’s exactly what I needed to happen. It needed it to happen because I’m full of mistakes and yet! I try! I understand HBNA as a radical refutation of embarrassment. Depending on when you purchased a copy, you’ll see I used white-out to make a few corrections. No two zines are the same; only 80 copies exist. I’m printing 12 more copies (they’ve already been claimed) and then on to new pastures! The zine was printed in three different places (two offices I don’t work in and a local printing shop) and I was lugging around 800 individual sheets of paper that I stapled, numbered, indexed and decorated with stickers by myself…standing barefoot on the carpet of Staples in Co-Op City, listening to Ryo Fukui’s Early Summer on repeat until I finished and then I jetted to the Strand to read. HBNA was how I knew to embody my physical, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual labor. I’m a goofball with zany ideas, an indifference to external definitions of relevancy, sickled cells and a lot of chaotically grounding love. I write for myself first. Of the school lessons I did receive and learn, there weren’t many I didn’t later disassemble to rebuild, freak unfamiliar or completely misunderstand. J. Halberstam calls this “failing”. Rejigging failure has been such a gift to me. How wonderful! A failure AND still happening? Fuck yeah! I was a wildly uneven student whose knees buckled at mere thought of rigid academic authority. After years of shame and refusal, I can finally admit I am an autodidact. I intentionally get lost and navigate in and to the direction of my own senses. School didn’t teach me to write for myself and that’s who I always have to write for. If that’s selfish, so be it. I am my first audience. If I’m sus of me, then me and myself got foundational problems. I know my writing is non-institutional and that lack of institutional alignment and support, while scary as shit, pushes me to make and take risks to believe beyond the immediate demands/plans/remands of whatever external force I am facing. My writing is constantly colliding into A New I can’t predict. I’m fully committed to unfolding, unraveling, for curiosity’s sake.

What’s a typical day like for you?

My day to day life is as predictable as it is unpredictable. I am formally unemployed and have been for awhile. I live on very little cash and am kept afloat because my mom is a gem and hasn’t kicked me out. My days are 100% influenced by the weather and I spend a good portion of my time negotiating how to minimize the occurrence of vaso-occlusive crises and other complications from the disease I have, Sickle Cell. Between January 2018 and January 2019, I was hospitalized three times. Each hospitalization was about a week long and recovery took significantly longer.

Here’s a sketch of what I call a really great day: I wake up before 10. If the night’s sleep was especially restorative, I can comfortably rise at 8. Depending on how my body feels, depending on how much pain I’m enduring, how much fatigue is shrouding/clouding my faculties, I decide if I have the energy to take a shower. I do the bathroom routine, get a cup of orange juice and take my medications (Endari, sometimes Adderall, Folic Acid). I use the first hours of wakefulness to connect with loved ones via text-phonecalls-DMs and browse the internet for headlines-news-updates-new smiles. I wear my fits comfortable. I call comfort my uniform—upend normcore to body sensible—sweatpants/leggings, pullover, one earring (although I’m leaning to pairs again), handy dandy baseball cap and sneakers. I keep it simple. If the weather is aight—if it isn’t too cold or too hot and if precipitation is mostly at bay and air quality isn’t extremely poor—I go outside and get some living exercise. When able, I take extremely long walks. Once I walked over 50 miles in a week! It’s my preferred form of meditation. Walking/body movement grounds my ADHD symptoms more effectively than stimulants, strengthens my body for potential Sickle Cell episodes and satiates my unyielding need to feel connected to other people. I’m at my best when outside and happening. Illness can create an inescapable interiority. Inside reminds me of the hospital and my relationship with the hospital is, at best, fraught. Walking allows me to follow myself. I engage in peek-a-boo with babies, witness accidents, smile at strangers, duck the eyes of leering people and learn how to love differently too. I go to playgrounds and swing. I take photos and notes. If I’ve got a lil cash, I ride the subway for fun. I poke into shops, admire graffiti and other street signs. I have one woman dance parties on sidewalks. I rest on park benches and read. I pick up grub from hole in the wall spots—you know—I live my life and embrace as much as I can while centering kindness and gentle flow. The walks are my favorite part of my job, which I do not have. When I return home, I rest then get to crafting which I sometimes call spelling. Crafting/Spelling can be anything from adding to my I-Box, spitting verses from the abstract (poetry), spinning short stories, detailing journal entries, doodling, painting, knitting, researching & studying, dancing & stretching, bugging out on Twitter or reading. My bedroom is my studio so I work small yet widely. I intentionally provide myself with many targets so I can a) keep my thoughts and feelings flowing b) find the connections between all of my actions and c) mitigate the stress that sits in the heart of a lone project. I am a multifaceted, multifauceted being. Why not turn on all the taps?

The more long form prose pieces in here have the feel of nice punch-y flash fiction. Are you writing a fiction collection without poems and collage in it? I want to read that, too :)

Hahaha! You’re onto me! Yeah, I am writing another book of poems, a manifesto zine and a collection of fiction. I’ve been writing a collection of fiction since 2012. I had a lot of the difficultly writing the fiction because I was too attached to the title, the characters I conceived needed to grow up with me, and I experienced many years of unremitting and improperly managed mental and physical illness. I was holding onto and telling lies. The shame woven into those lies kept me silent and scared. All of that shit needed to get integrated or dropped. I couldn’t enter the prose/fiction I’m currently writing without learning how to survive myself and the world and bottom-belly-believe in survival too. I’m getting there— healing with primary, secondary and tertiary intentions. Won’t say much about the fiction pieces of than: ~15 stories, lyrically speculative fiction, capital B Black, disabled, and queerfemme parables of creation and destruction and maintenance. My website is in flux but I do readings and performances. Hit me up on Instagram , Twitter or email me at [email protected]. Might take a minute for me to respond because I’m thoughtful yet questionably organized. Now go play, ya’ll!

Unintentionally wrote a poem in the interview. I call it A.B.B in Lieu of A.B.C

beyond

fly, about to get swatted dead but fast enuf to fly away first,

always believe beyond

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wintaer-bear · 7 years

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Tulips (M) Ch. 1

Pairing: Jung Hoseok x Reader x Jeon Jungkook Genre/ Rating: smut, mature (18+) Word Count: 6.3k ***WARNING: mature themes, strip/bar/club!AU, mentions of cheating/infidelity, explicit content, slight alcoholism and a flirty Jungkook Summary: Jung Hoseok is over you. He’s been over you. So when he sees you drinking up the bar with Jungkook, he has every intention of leaving it alone - until he doesn’t.

inspired by: Cheat Codes and Nickey Romero’s ‘Sober’

The best cure for a hangover is to keep on drinking. At least, that’s what you’ve been telling yourself for the past two weeks. The boggling head pain disappears with another sip of wine. Two more and the empty feeling in your chest becomes so full with fluids you can’t remember a time is was anything but.

2:33 AM

You pick up your phone, not even bothering to see who’s number you’re dialing. At this point, it doesn’t even matter. You could care less about the company so long as it’s someone willing to drive over in the middle of the night with another bottle of wine.

“Hello?” The voice is bleak and shy, one you don’t immediately recognize.

“Come over,” you stay, focused on your articulation. “Let’s drink. Bring your own beer. And I'll take whatever white they have left on the shelf.” You eye into the opening of the bottle to make sure it’s empty. Every drop counts.

“Y/N?”

“No, you bozo. It’s me, Y/N,” you say pitifully. Despite your attempt to sound as sober as the next, you’re a slurring mess and it becomes evident that the person on the line doesn’t find you amusing by the pause. “Look, are you coming or not? I’ve got a whole contact list of people to go through if you’re not.” The phone is brighter than you remember and it hurts to look at it directly. It’s all a blur of colors through your wet eyes.

“I’ll be there in a few. Hang on. Same address?”

“He got the vacation home and I got the condo. That’s just how a divorce works, I guess.”

The other line of the phone goes quiet, side for the rustling against the speaker. You can hear a voice in the background asking where the recipient of the call is going but you can’t make out a response. Your eyes sting. The desperation in the question evident even through the phone. A shaking tone you resonate with all too well.

“Okay, I’m heading over. Try not to die, or whatever.”

“Don’t forget the alcohol.”

You end the call. The conversation already forgotten as you push yourself off the floor. The room is spinning, shaking your steps as you make it into your kitchen in search of more alcohol. You look in the cupboard. The wine rack. Twice. The freezer for some hard liquor. Nothing. A dry house it would seem if there wasn't a display of empty glasses all over the counter tops. A heavy breath of disappointment escapes you as you make way towards your bed. Your bed. The thought brings a sickening thought to your stomach and manifests in a liquid hurl from your mouth. There’s nothing left in your stomach to regurgitate. Nothing but the acidic sludge from the past week and a half. You don’t bother cleaning it up. Not now at least. You leave it for your sober, functioning self to deal with - whenever that’ll be. Sobriety, who is she? You don’t know her.

The room turns dim. You want to fight it. How foolish you must look, fighting your heavy eyelids beside the puddle of alcohol. If only he could see you now - the miserable state you knew to be inevitable. Your mind blanks at the thought.

11:11 AM. I wish this hangover would just end.

You wake in your own bed, sunk in on the softness of the sheets. You haven’t the slightest clue how you got here but it’s only assumed that you’re a higher functioning drunk than you give yourself credit for.

“Nice,” you give yourself a mental pat on the back. It’d be a real one if you could manage to roll off your back. But the covers keep you snug, comfortable with their weight on top of you - until you realize it isn’t.

You jump out of bed. The bed you used to share with your husband. Ex-husband? The term is still new. It’ll take some getting used to.

You haven’t slept in it in weeks. Not since the day you came home to Jason tangled up in the sheets with someone else. Someone thinner than you. Younger than you. Perhaps even prettier than you. You don’t know. You didn’t get a good look before slamming the door back in and heading downtown to your attorney.

You hate this condo. You always have. It’s never been comfortable enough to be a home - your home? No matter how many personal additions you add to the vast space, it reflects twice as empty and is just as unfamiliar walking through. The pillared wedding photo that hangs at the end of the hall. The arrangement of fake bouquets that decorate the end tables of the living room. Even down to the collection of keys and heels that hide at the entrance of the foyer. All these things seem out of place, misplaced and forced to fit in some geometrical shape when in fact, you are an oval. An odd shape of curves and bends - one that really knows no ending or beginning; one that simply just is.

The days get longer and progressively easier. You throw out one remnant of you Jason at a time. His toothbrush, his console, his chair. Though your marriage was rocky at best, you had still grown fond of the idea of falling in love after the fact - the idea of welcoming home a loving husband who thought about you during his day, evident by the bouquet of flowers he picked up on the way home. The fairytale quickly turned sour upon receiving adequate documentation. Documentation stating you legally husband and wife by the state and the ticket to his inheritance.

Then you begin to throw out things that remind you of him, things that make you queasy. Items like the plastic petunias by the door and the spices he uses to flavor his steak. Eventually, you’re able to throw out items belonging to the both of you. You get a new bed. New sheets. New end tables. The wedding picture is replaced with an abstract shelf and even though the shelves are empty, it still feels more alive than the masked smile on your face in the removed portrait.

You rebuild the condo into something warmer. A dwelling place rather than an empty space to rest. A place of living plants and fresh scents of flowers from the Sunday market. You replace the barren walls with wallpaper of red bricks of and grey stone, something you’ve always found homey but the previous thought to be distracting and a waste of his money. His money. Funny how much of his money is now yours and how much more easily accessible it is than when the two of you were together.

You even start rekindling friendships, reaching out to those you’ve lost contact with over the volatile years of your marriage. Friends from college, some from high school. Dancer friends. Friends who have forgotten you all together.

You should feel ashamed, embarrassed for dropping your friends to climb up the social ladder only to return three years later, but if there’s anything you’ve learned through your shit show of a marriage, it’s that pride and ego get you nowhere.

At first the conversations are light. A few “Y/N, how are you” and “I’m so glad you called.” But, as conversations go, the talks get progressively more intimate and dark. Questions concerning your divorce spring up. Subtle jabs to your character are thrown. Some conversations even go as far as angry feuds and impulsive hang ups. It’s not to say you don’t deserve it. Once you got hitched to Jason, you dropped your entire life all together to assume the role of an aristocratic home wife/bitch, arrogance you assumed with the last name.

By the time autumn ends you feel yourself caught up. You’ve hosted a number of brunches for the girls and spa nights for whoever was willing. Jessica has two kids now. A 2 year old boy and infant daughter. Her husband works in construction. Jonathan, is it? Nadi is working on getting into nursing nursing school, a newfound passion she picked up after graduation. Kimmy teaches middle school dance and volunteers at a studio on weekends. All the information is overwhelming. Heartwarming, but overwhelming. You can only feel yourself as someone unaccomplished as you stare into the mirror. It’s just you. No children. No husband. No profound calling. Not even a stable job. All you have is this condo and the alimony. Which sounds great at the forefront, but is isolating and lonesome come seven o’clock when everyone has to return home for familial and occupational duties.

No one mentions it. No one dares too. Not even Jessica who, unsurprisingly, is still into afternoon gossip despite her motherhood. There’s no news of how he’s doing. What he’s doing. You don’t know the slightest thing about him and it honestly feels like he just dropped off the face of the earth since your split.

It would be inaccurate to say you’re not interested, that you’re not the least bit curious of the details. You want to know. You want to satisfy some of the darkest parts of you that still believe in youthful promises and romanticism. But there is not so much as a whisper of his state of living. What did you expect, after all?

“I’m coming, I’m coming. I’m almost there. Give me three more minutes and I’m there,” you speak into your phone as you weave through groups of people. The voice shouts back at you to ‘hurry it up, or so help me God.’ But try as you might, the bustling foot traffic this evening leaves little to no room for a single person to squirm through. You’re caught at each stop light, staring at the traffic signs as if it’ll make the fluorescent walking man appear any faster. You’re late. You’re always late. It could be your own party and you would still be late.

By the time you reach the front doors of 148 Nadi and Kimmy are nowhere in sight. You can only assume Nadi couldn’t wait to get her birthday celebration started and is lost in the labyrinth inside. You enter, expecting the venue to be no different than the clubs Jason used to take you to on the rare occasion he took you anywhere. The bouncer scans your ID, then scans you, giving you the up down before he steps aside to let you enter. His smirk is mischievous, flirtatious if you didn’t know any better. Upon entry to it’s foyer and coatroom, you automatically notice the gold trim of the venue. It adds a subtle elegance to the otherwise occult atmosphere. There’s no wonder Nadi asked you to book a party here for her birthday.

You’ve heard of 148’s exclusive and strict entry policy. As many times as Nadi has tried to get on the list to check out the dance club she just didn’t have connections to the ‘right’ kinds of people for entry before it reached max capacity. People who weren’t on the list with reservations and VIP perks had to wait in the endless line, hoping parties would leave the club early - they usually didn’t.

It takes you longer than you expect to find them, in the middle of the dance floor no less. Nadi has two cups of mixed drinks in her hands. Why does that not surprise you? Kimmy, the teacher, you have to remind yourself, is hidden between two adoring men who look like they want to eat her. You pull both of them to the side, both to save them from themselves and the hounds around them.

“Shots?” You offer, dragging them to the barside. It’s packed, full with buzzed entailed fun and a whole lot of shoving. By the time you escape the hell hole and return for birthday shots, Kimmy has her tongue down some rando’s throat and Nadi is chatting up a group of girls who are obviously as drunk as she is. Sighing, you take the shots by yourself and leave the empty plastic on a high table. You forget how particularly unfond you are of clubs and the amount of alcohol it takes for you to ease up - or maybe that was just you in general. Bitchy, uncomfortable and alcohol dependent.

You allow Nadi and Kimmy to have their fun. It’s not every day they get to live a life of grandeur and aristocratic demolition. Though, you must note, the frequency has increased since your return. Shaking the thought, you try not to think about it. You try not to ponder the idea that you may not actually be the worst type of female out there. Your friends wouldn’t use you for social ties. No, that’s strictly a Jason thing to do - a sort of evil reserved for the privileged, petty and jealous.

You make your way to an empty booth, one by the edge where you can keep an eye on Nadi and Kimmy in the event they bite off more than they can chew. It’s dark on the dance floor, but Nadi’s sparkly sequin dress makes for a terrific tracking system. You order yourself another drink with the server, this time taking it slow as you sip it for content rather than falsified fun.

“Mind if I join you?” The owner of the voice slides himself in the seat opposite of you, now face to face as he speaks. You recognize him as the bouncer from earlier, the one with the over friendly smile. The same smile stretched out on his lips now as he runs his tongue over its outline - not that it’s where you’re looking.

“Not that you actually meant it, but yes, actually. I do mind. Those seats are reserved for my friends.”

“I could be a friend. Jungkook,” he introduces. His voice is flirty, a tone that reminds you of Jason when he speaks to his secretary - and any other able female. It automatically makes you defensive, no harm to him.

You roll your eyes but stretch out your hand to greet his anyway. “Y/N. Recently divorced.” You play his game and try to make this exchange as awkward as possible.

“Nice.”Jungkook shrugs at your statement and points to himself. “On-again-off-again boyfriend. Right now we’re off. Might be permanent depending on how this goes.”

“She found someone better?”

“Worse. But I was talking about us.”

“Unforntunate.”

“At least we weren’t married.”

You pause. Then laugh when you register the lightness of his words. You’ve never joked about your divorce before. Just a whole lot of unnecessary sympathy and curious questions.

“And the resting bitch face ceases,” he smiles back.

“On the occasion.”

“Glad I’m here to witness such rarity. Can I get you another?” He stretches his gaze to your drink. You hadn’t even noticed you had emptied all its contents into your system. Jungkook waves down the same server from before. She looks at you quizzically as if she knows what’s going on here and proceeds to whisper something in Jungkook’s ear before disappearing behind the bar.

“Work,” he assures you. “Nothing important.”

“Obviously,” you can't help will roll your eyes again. “I can’t imagine what would be more important than sabotaging what’s left of your relationship.”

“I appreciate your sarcasm, but rest assured, if my girlfriend and I break up, again,” he stresses, “it has little to nothing to do with what goes on between us tonight.”

“Did I mention the reason behind divorce was adultery?” He dodges your blows well and you’re finding his responses mildly entertaining.

“So you’re experienced, then?” He raises an eyebrow at you and you scoff.

“He,” you clarify. “He cheated.”

“Unfortunate,” he mocks. The drinks are delivered twice as fast as yours and is twice as full. “Cheers to failed relationships.” You clink your glass with the bouncer’s, unstopping and relentless until its contents are finished.

You don’t know how long you stay in the booth drinking and mocking the bouncer that should probably have already returned to his post, but it’s enough to get you feeling light headed and free.

“Here’s a question,” you stammer. “A rich spouse who cheats or a faithful but poor spouse who does what he can? And I mean, poor. Like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory poor.”

“Cabbage soup for dinner? Why is that even a question? The rich spouse.” Jungkook spits up a little in his mouth. “But keep the poor guy on side. You know, just in case.”

“Is that who you are? The ‘just-in-case-guy’?”

“That,” Jungkook slurs, “implies I’m a good man. I’m just the poor guy on the side.” He winks.

“Noted.”

You get up to use the bathroom.

“Hey, where you going? Are we moving this party elsewhere?” He calls after you, scooting out of the booth to follow.

“Bathroom,” you whisper, pushing the rising man back down in his seat. “Who knows if I’ll come back.” You didn’t notice from across the table, but his eyes are wet with sparkles. They’re as reflective as the leather jacket he has on - the one perfectly outlining the curvature of his long arms and broad shoulders.

“Or, we’ll see if I’ll still be here.” He pulls you down into the booth with him as he falls, the silhouette of your face inches away from his as you nearly fall on top of him.

“Odds are you will be.” You don’t break eye contact as he further lessens the space between you.

“Go home with me if you’re right?”

You shouldn’t let a smile slip from your lips, but it escapes you anyway. “Doubtful,” you say, bopping his nose with your pointer finger and breaking the intensity of his gaze. You rise yourself off him and head towards the lady’s room, quickly turning your stance in order to hide the blush bestowing on your cheeks. It’s the alcohol. It has to be the alcohol.

As you walk back, you take notice of the multitude of stages. You must not have noticed them before, full of dancers and entertainers blending in with the dance floor. But now, in their ending glory, the stages are empty and resemble something of a trampoline - a short lived fun followed by immediate revelation that you can’t actually fly, or do backflips, or toe-touches. Why you mind functions like this, you have no idea. You’ve worked on being more positive, promise, although it doesn’t show.

You stop by the bar. Again. You figure another drink or two won’t hurt. You’ve still got enough self control to tell bouncer boy Jung… Jung… what was his name again? Whatever. You’re in total control. “You’re not going home with him. You’re not,” a play by play you have to repeat to yourself.

Your analytical interpretation marks a halt when you catch an ambiguous, but oddly familiar silhouette by the corner. A silhouette that is quickly growing larger as you blink to make sense of it.

It’s odd. The presence. The sharp motion. The stranger almost reminds you of something you can’t pinpoint. Something you’ve felt before. Like a favored winter morning, or early sunset. It’s on the tip of your tongue. The familiarity, the brute movements. Then it hits you. Caught in the sudden flashes of the ceiling strobe lights and brought to focus by the Jack and Coke, the figure almost looks like him in the dark.

A sudden pang burns in the hole of your chest and you panic - a panic different from what you’ve been feeling. A panic different from walking in on Jason. A panic different from being alone through the empty nights. This unrelenting feeling burns cold. Burns an icy blue and stupefies your entire being. There is no anger laced at the source of this sentiment, no resentment. It’s just absolute wrecked longing accompanied by an overwhelming sense of guilt.

Hoseok.

You eyes dampen the second you catch his stare glaring back at you. There’s no mistake it’s him. Four years later, and here you are, still a puddle at his feet and he knows exactly what he’s walking into - who he’s walking towards.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink tonight,” he says with authority. You don’t even try to fight him as his hand grabs the plastic from yours. Hoseok finishes it in a single gulp. You know this because you can see the outline of his Adam’s Apple move just once, in a slick and defined motion. When he finishes, he crumbles the plastic in his fist and swings it to the side, gaze still intent on yours.

“Let’s go. I’ll take you home.” The man you haven’t seen in half a decade drags you out of the club. You don’t even think about the friends you’re leaving behind. Or the boy still waiting at the booth. You don’t think at all. No questions. You just let it happen, afraid if you think about it too hard, the fingers between yours might disappear in some kind of torturous, luminous dream.

It’s your greatest fear - both loving and hating the same thing. It’s something more potent than a guilty pleasure, more rudimentary than a complex emotion of lust. Hoseok is that. The taste you can’t get enough of, but the touch that kills you - something you’re reminded of during the silent drive home as he shifts gears between stop lights. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t have to. His clenched jaws structures enough conversation for you to understand what isn’t said.

He still hates you. He still cares about you. He still -

“Don’t ever come back to 148. I’m putting you on my blacklist. They won’t let you in.” His words are cold, harsh and rigid. His eyes are still glued to the road but somehow you feel as though they are focused on you instead as you shrink beside him. You want to say something, but you vocal chords betray you, frozen in his presence.

“Hoseok... I…” you finally manage to murmur as he stops outside your complex. Hoseok doesn’t wait for you to finish your sentence. Instead he rushes out his door in a fury you’ve only seen once or twice and opens your door with enough force to jerk the entire car in his direction.

“Get out. Go home. I’ve got to get back to work.”

As if his threat of disappearance are the magic words your throat has been waiting for all night, you voice solidifies in the air. “Blacklist? Work? You work at 148? Since when? Why?”

“Get your head out of your ass, Y/N. Go inside.” He pauses to look at you through the doorway. “It’s cold out.”

For a second you finally find his eyes familiar, warm. But they soon disappear when he realizes you’re not budging from the passenger seat.

“I’m not here to play games with you, Y/N. Get out.”

You don’t want to leave. Not like this. Not when he’s so close. Not when he can disappear for another half decade.

“Come inside,” you say, soft and vulnerable. You bite the inner side of your cheeks to prevent the stream of tears threatening your stability. You’re not sure you have it in you to beg him to stay.

The grip he has on the top of the car door tightens and he takes a moment to maul over the offer while jaws lock in place. “I can’t.”

Two words never hurt so much. You don’t want to come of like a spoiled brat, crying at the first sign of rejection. But it more than that. His words run deeper than you would like to admit. You know the weight that the few words he has for you carry, the effort it takes him to roll them off his tongue.

“I’m not,” you assure him. “We’re not-”

“I know,” Hoseok interrupts. “But that doesn't change anything between us.”

“You know?” You stand, curious. You hadn’t thought he would keep tabs on you. If anything, it should be the opposite. Hoseok should be trying to completely obliviate every trace of you, removing you from even the deepest parts of him.

You feet drag you closer to him, a magnetic effect that occurs on its own accord. It takes a moment to adjust, to silently ask for his permission to rest your hands on his chest.

The moment your fingers make contact, you can feel all your atoms rush to the tips of your palms. Every piece of you wants to touch him, to be touched by him. It’s a feeling you haven’t forgotten. Misplaced, but not forgotten.

Hoseok must feel the same exhilarating rush because he pulls your waist in closer to his own, a gesticulation you’re sure he’ll regret in the morning, but right now could care little to nothing of. A sigh of content escapes your mouth. The night could end here and you would be okay with it.

But you’re greedy and you want more. You want him.

Your fingers clutch the fabric of his shirt and pull the final gap of your upper bodies to a minimum as your lips splay on his, asking for entry. The cold, rigid stunnation of his first gaze immediately set on fire by the sheer intensity shared between your longing lips.

He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t pull away. He never does. Hoseok has always loved you in immoderation. He’s either 110% or none at all. And right now, he’s the former, the years caught up on his tongue.

There’s not a moment to breathe between the hungry kisses you share. Whether it’s your air or his air you’re breathing, you’re unsure. The kisses are wet and sloppy, but you can’t bring yourself to take your time with him. It isn’t until he moves his hands up the spine of your back and lips down the side of your neck that you’re able to get words out.

“Come inside,” you repeat, this time more daunting than anything.

“I shouldn’t,” he breaks his kiss as he breathes out into the cold night air.

Shouldn’t. That doesn’t mean he can’t. His words excite you. You’re one step closer to having him bending you over the dining table and taking what’s rightfully his. Your twat clenches at the thought of him back inside you, filling you in ways only he knows how.

“Please,” you speak into his ear, lips running down his neck in return. “I want you, Hoseok. I need you.” He groans underneath your touch, bites his lower lip as you begin to suckle on his exposed collarbone and run your hand against his covered groin.

You weren’t lying. In this moment, you did want him; you did need him. Whether or not he needed or wanted you was unclear and was what was keeping you from leading him up the steps of your condo in the first place.

“Come inside and let me feel you.” You’re now at a standstill, unsure if your begging is coming off as desperate and annoying or a sort of foreplay he’s developed over the years of your absence. You nuzzle your forehead against his hard chest, eyes shut tight to refrain from breaking the last of your resolve, from damaging the dam of tears you’ve so mercilessly held onto these past few months. “I’ve missed you.”

Hearing the tremble in your voice, Hoseok lifts your face from his chest, traces your lips with his thumb and slams the car door behind you.

“I swear,” he breathes, “you’ll be the death of me.”

The rush to your door is frantic, drawn out with extended kisses every other step and light fondling in the next. It’s a wonder no one hears you moan Hoseok’s name into the night as he pulls at your bare skin, impatiently guiding him to your bed. He grabs your ass in the elevator, slides his hands between your thighs as he pulls your backside into him.

“How much did you miss me?” he asks into your ear. It brings a tingling sensation to your knees, a high a girl can only reach from pleasures of the flesh. His fingers dance on your thigh as you’re a whimpering mess before him. “Tell me,” he commands, this time rough as he bites your shoulder. You shiver in excitement as he replaces his hands with his thigh and spread your legs up from behind. The heat lost from his hand elicits a utterral groan before you realize the return at the band of your skirt. “How much you missed my fingers,” he slides his slender fingers down your slit, teasing until you’re a begging mess.

“Hoseok,” you moan.

“How much,” he inserts his middle finger. “Did you miss my fingers inside your tight pussy?”

You hiss at the tease, the frolicking of his fingers outlining your core with your own juices. You want him. You’re ready for him. Even without his incessant teasing, you’re wet enough to take the entirety of his cock. You turn around to tell him, to dive into his mouth and let him know how excited he makes you but just as you do the elevator bings and comes to a halt, finally indicating your arrival.

You wet his lips with a quick kiss and grab hold of the bottom of his lips with your teeth, sucking just enough to get him riled and irritated. Smirking, you give him one final look before whispering in the lobe of his ear. You press your body to him, holding the jawline that moments ago were clenched in your presence. “Almost as much as I miss your thick cock filling me -”

You don’t get the chance to finish. Hoseok’s hold is tight as he grabs you by the curve of your buttocks and wraps your legs around his waist, smothering you once again with desperate laid out kisses.

“You’re so fucking greedy,” he says. “Thinking about my cock while my finger is already inside you.”

There’s no stumbling over passcodes, Hoseok doesn’t ask for or directions to your bedroom. Odd, seeing how he’s never been in your condo before tonight.

“Condom?” He asks, pulling his shirt over his shoulders. They’re more masculine than you remember. The sharp protrusions of his acromion now hidden behind the firm roundness of his muscles.

“Third drawer on the left.”

You’re in a hurry to catch up to him and undress, tearing off the pantyhose beneath your skirt.

“Hey,” he fumbles back onto the bed, kissing the bareness of your inner thigh. “That’s my job.”

“Your job,” you pull his jawline up to you, kissing him once again to let him know how much you want him. “Is to fuck me senseless into these sheets. Can you do that for me?” A smile thins his lips mid-kiss.

“I think I can manage.”

And manage he does.

Hoseok drives his teasing fingers from the sides of your hips towards your breasts, latching onto them as he traces the midline of your body with his tongue, only stopping when he gets to the tip of your clit. He pauses to kiss it, the tiny spot of stimulation. The coolness of his breath elicits a sigh from your choked mouth as you press him deeper in your cunt. His tongue does a rude dance along your slit, but refuses to enter.

“Unghhh,” you beg. “Please Hoseok, don’t tease me anymore. Just fuck me. I’m ready for you. Feel.” Your command is backed by the efforts of your hands as you use them to guide his own from your breast to your core. He lets you guide his fingers around you wet pussy, inserting them at will. The stretch of both your fingers in your unused cunt elicits more pants from your shortened breath. He chuckles in amusement, enjoying the desperation of your dripping cunt.

“Mmm,” he hums, rubbing circles around your swollen clitoris. “Stay still for me baby, let me finger fuck you.” Hoseok takes his thumb and index finger of his left hand to hold your clit open as he inserts two fingers from his right inside you, pumping in and out at an uncontrolled rate. His tongue drags along your inner thigh until they replace his fingers.

“FUCK,” you gasp. “Just like that Hoseok. God, your tongue is the best little fuck.”

At that, he indulges his tongue deeper in your cunt, tasting your thick juices as he struggles to refrain himself from using his teeth to trace your insides. He’s missed you. He’s missed your taste.

Your pussy twitches at the sound of him unzipping his jeans and your mixed juices begin to soak down your slit as you stare at him, replaying all the dirty things he’s done to you in the past. Fucking in the high school gym, fingering you on the bleachers of the football stadium, eating you out in his car the first night he got it, pounding into you the study rooms of the university library. There was nowhere the two of you haven’t fucked. Nowhere but here. The home of you and your ex-husband - the man who ultimately stole you away from Hoseok.

You watch him roll the condom onto himself as he lays back, back resting perpendicularly against your headboard. The same headboard, you imagine, that will be knocking against the wall by the end of this session.

“My turn,” he commands. “Ride me. Show me how much you missed by dick stretching your tight pussy.”

You immediately crawl over to him, allowing your tongue and breast to kiss the tip of his dick before you run it along your entrance. He shivers at the wetness of your mouth.

“Shit,” Hoseok hisses. “Just like that. Suck me just like that. Fuck me just like that.”

You hum in response, taking as much of his thick cock as you can.

His cock twitches in the back of your throat, activating you gag reflex. You can’t help but cough from his precum caught in the back.

“Why don’t you use your other entrance, dollface,” he murmurs, tapping the high end of your ass. You do as he asks, running his tip along the entrance of your slit. Unable to hold himself back like before, Hoseok lifts his hips in order to penetrate you.

“Ah, ah, ungh, ho- hold on,” you chant. He’s relentless, unceasing in his thrusts and doesn’t allow you to adjust to his width. A sadistic pleasure flows through your body. You love this, the pounding of his helps below you. Although he was the one to suggest you on top, he can’t help but control the tempo of his pleasure. You feel too good, your pussy too tight from the lack of use.

Hoseok flips you over on to your back, towering over you and hitting your clit as he continues to pound. “Take it. Fucking take it,” he groans in between his shoves. “Your pussy.” Thrust. “Is so fucking.” Thrust. “Unghhh - tight.” Thrust. “Did he even fuck you right?” Hard thrust.

The question is meant to be redundant, demeaning to Jason’s masculinity and praising your cunt, but you can’t help but catch the despair hidden in his tone.

“No,” you say, soft beneath him and grabbing whatever parts of his back you can as he jackhammers into you. “Never. He could never make me feel as good as you do.”

“Fuck,” Hoseok moans, burying his face in between the crevice of your neck. “I’m going to come. Your pussy’s too tight, I’m gon-”

You interrupt his speech with a formal kiss, running your fingers through his hair as he pulsates inside you, indicating his release. You pussy clenches around him as he does, milking his seed for all it’s worth. Even with the condom catching all his ejaculation, it excites you to have him come inside you, a sort of taboo that speaks a undetermined connection.

When his breath steadies, Hoseok rolls off on top of you and heads for the bathroom, disposing of the used rubber in the wastebasket by your bedside.

It takes him awhile to return, but when he does it’s with a fresh towel in hand. He wipes you clean, taking his time as he views the aftereffect of orgasm. He didn’t even think about your pleasure, about your orgasm - a new concept to you entirely.

Your hands catch his mid-thigh and there’s a second of stillness.

“Stay?” You whisper, hopeful and unravelled. He clenches his jaw again, a new habit he must started when he’s deep in thought. The second of hesitation is enough for you to ask for more. “Please.”

He nods, gently as he crawls back in bed with you, wrapping his familiar arms around your waist. You bare bodies feed off each other, heat being the only form of communication between two close-but-distant vessels. You fall asleep to the rhythmic sound of his strong breathing, counting as the moments between you are fleeting.

“Hoseok?” You want to shout, but the sound comes out as a mere whisper beneath your breath. You repeat his name like a mantra, like a child making a wish in the last determining seconds before she blows out the candles. It takes all your restraint to refrain from charging over there yourself to turn the stranger around in order to confirm or disconfirm his identity, which makes it all the more upsetting when the stranger turns around with the wrong nose. With the wrong lips. With the wrong eyes. It’s not him. It’s not Hoseok.

You wake with a jerk.

5:22 AM

The red digits stare at you. The sun’s not yet up. But Hoseok is. And you hear him shut the door behind him.

A/N: this is part of the Appease (strip/bar/club!AU) Series.

ps. i know. i hate OC too. she’s a indecisive, self-loathing, drunk, unreliable, piece of poo (aka me). stay tuned to see how much more fucked up homegirl is.

pps: lol @ me, no editing, whut whut.

#bts smut #hoseok smut #jung hoseok smut #jhope smut #jungkook smut

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mostfacinorous · 7 years

Text

FIRST LINES MEME

Tagged by @veliseraptor to share the first lines from my ten most recent fics!

(I am going by most recently updated.) 1. Little Talks co-written with @portraitoftheoddity The rush of stepping between worlds never got old, and the adrenaline that came along with it powered Loki through any nerves that might otherwise have manifested on his way into the lower branches of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s headquarters. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was going, the place only ever glimpsed through the eyes of others and accessible to him only through memories of memories. But it seemed to him that the more secret, the deeper these mortals were likely to bury it. And so he made his way, as silently and innocuously as possibly, further down the spiraling labyrinth of heavy doors and sidestepped scanners. Until he got stuck.

2. Let’s Talk Shop “Ever since the merger, the guy’s been grating on my last nerve. But I can’t fire him; he’s one of our strongest performers, and we inherited his five year contract.” Nick sounded resigned, but still angry. “What does he do that’s so grating?” Steve asked. He’d interacted with Loki, and found him… polite, if cold. And maybe a little full of himself. But none of that seemed to be worth the level of complaints Steve had been getting about him. “He’s disdainful, he’s proud, he tries to take control of any project I put him on, he doesn’t know how to work with anyone-- hell, I put him on his own brother’s team, hoping that Thor would help dislodge the stick up his ass--” Steve lifted an eyebrow and glared, and Nick had the good grace to look a little embarrassed. “Sorry. Figure of speech.” “Or the start of a workplace harassment suit, if he feels like his job might be at risk.”

3. Give Up the Ghost He wasn’t lonely. He didn’t get lonely. He’d developed an immunity to that a long time ago. He was alone, certainly, but that was fine. It meant he could be left to his own devices, left to his notes and trials of various new uses for old magics, new ways of bending his power, new shapes to bend it into. He may not have been a fighter, but he more than made up for it with his abilities. It was just a matter of honing them. And that was what he was doing, the first time he created it. Called it. Summoned it.

4. Second Chances; New Beginnings “Things get bad for a while. Then you folks start popping up, we figure out who you are, toss you together, and things get good again. Until you die.” Fury was looking out at them over his steepled fingers. “Seems like a pretty raw deal for us, though, doesn’t it? I mean-- my life’s kind of on a track right now.” The guy who spoke, Tony, was slouching low in his chair, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on top of his fashionably dishevelled hair. “Problem with that is, you talk like you think you have a choice. You think I’m offering this to you? Hell, if I got to choose, I wouldn’t pick a bunch of kids for starters. Wouldn’t decide to bestow powers on those three-- they look like they each wish they could claim a corner to stand in. And I sure as hell wouldn’t choose some entitled little shit to protect Earth, but here we are. You’re Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. Congratulations.” Fury stood, looking around at what he had to work with. He didn’t seem overly impressed.

5. There’s a Spark Loki'd been on Earth for a couple of years, now. Or at least, he'd been regularly causing havoc on Earth-- usually in New York-- for that long. That wasn't the same thing, necessarily, Steve realized. Not when even Asgard couldn't lock him up or shut down his abilities to travel. It'd been odd though, the way things had sort of tapered off on his end. He hadn't killed anyone in over a year. Hadn't made any grand demonstrations of power, forced people to kneel or sing his praises-- less ego mania, less appearances overall. Heck, the last time they'd seen him, he'd shown up in the Avengers' living room with a box of kittens. Mind you, those had all been high level mob bosses before they were kittens, but the point remained. The guy wasn't exactly pulling big schemes these days.

6. Thin White Lines “What is this, Thor?” Steve's voice broke through the hubbub from his other teammates when Thor appeared, his brother in tow. He was on a lead-- and the image didn't sit particularly well with Steve, but neither did the one of Loki running amok and potentially destroying New York. Again. “Asgard's laws of recompense.” Thor spoke with an almost hesitant gravity. “Which are what?” Natasha asked, words somewhere between sharp and drawled. Steve shot her a grateful look; she, unlike Tony and Clint and Bruce, seemed to be in the game and not just reacting. Not that he could blame them, but it was nice to have a solid voice of reason standing next to him. “Loki's crimes against Midgard are great enough to warrant his death. The laws of recompense allow him to do what he can to reverse his damage and lighten his sentence accordingly. He will, of course, be punished for the lives he took, the damage which is irreversible, but for the rest--” Thor broke off, looking hopeful. “If you will allow it, we may save my brother. My friends, I would not ask this of you if I had another choice.”

7. I Know No I It wasn't as though he was innocent in all of this. It wasn't as though the damages done to his body, mind, and powers made him somehow magically absolved of his guilts and wrong doings. All it did was make at least one of his brother's friends less likely to pulverize him at the first glimpse. When he'd woken in the vibrant light and starch whiteness of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Hospital room, he thought he was in some new level of hell. There were tubes in his arms, wrapped to his fingers, and so much of him was encased in such heavy material that he thought, for a moment, that his captors put too much faith in old wives' tales about the powers of iron to bind magic. Until he realized that they were cloth, and even being so slight a substance, they were too heavy for him to lift. Only then did the panic fully settle into his chest, and the monitors at his side began shrieking their shrill mechanical chimes. He knew where such technology resided, and immediately knew where he was and why he was there. He was on Midgard. And he was weak and broken, devoid of his immortal strength, and so filled with a distant dull pain and so dull of wit that he knew he must be under some sort of sedation. He was mortal, and most likely abandoned here by Odin's decree. After all, mortals do not belong in Asgard. They have people here to tend for their sick, their invalids. Everyone knew Odin’s stance on his son’s intended. He assumed as much was true for his false son, as well.

8. What a Lovely Day Humans were incredible things. They always had been. Exposed to pain constantly for long enough, they could become used to it, accepting of it, to the point where they forgot what it was like to not be in pain. The same could be said of the hum and the vibrations of the bike beneath him. He knew that once, back when he’d first stumbled across this old Indian, it had seemed too loud, too rough. Now, though, he forgot about it, forgot that he’d known no noise other than it and the occasional crunch of his own footsteps over the crust of the dirt. Forgot that, once, he had been able to get from one place to the next within a single afternoon, on real roads, even gravel roads, that didn’t kick up dust and coat his throat. He deserved the discomfort though, because of what he couldn’t forget. Because he knew that he was responsible for this. Humans were incredible things. But even with as modified as he was, as strong as the good doctor and Stark could make him, there were a few pains that he could never quite come to terms with. Not the physical ones. But the Misery. The guilt. He was meant to save people, to inspire hope. Once, he had tried to let himself be that. Tried to give himself that, to make it his mission… now he stayed as far from people as possible. The hope in their eyes felt like knives, and not seeing it there felt like failure.So he was left with himself, his thoughts, his guilt, and the rattle of his bike. And this wretched heat that made his back stick to the back of his own shirt. He wasn’t driving aimlessly, though. There had to be one person who didn’t see him as the statue without a pedestal. He had to have survived. That was what Bucky did, was survive. He’d lived through ice, and years, electricity being poured into his brain. Lived through abuse and assignments and assassinations... surely he lived through some sand, some heat. He was out there, somewhere, wandering the great waste, and every gleaming light on the horizon made Steve’s mouth firm a bit. He hunkered down against the bike, tucking his face behind his shield, which he’d mounted at the front-- no longer bright colors, now just a dust collector, stripped of all its grandeur. Like the Earth. Like him.

9. Wish Upon A Star “It is heavy and uncomfortable.” He wasn’t complaining. He was just… stating the obvious. Even as he pushed a finger between the strap on his neck and his skin, trying to adjust the helmet so that it did not drag so. He had to raise his voice to be heard, had to lean forward and angle his head so that his mouth was close enough to the man before him to be audible over the drone of the engine and the roaring of the wind around them. “You trying to tell me that two feet of metal horns is lighter than a faceless motorcycle helmet?” There was no mistaking the amusement in his companion’s voice, and Loki scowled and crossed his arms, tightening the grip he had on the other man with his knees and thighs. Horses, he’d been told, were out of style on Midgard.He wasn’t certain that he liked this better. In fact, he was fairly certain that he didn’t like this very much at all.

10. What Would I Give At Bucky's funeral, Steve stood stock still, certain that if he moved, if he turned, if he so much as reached a hand up to brush away the tears that were still falling, he would shake apart. He'd always known Bucky would die being a hero, but he'd always figured they'd go together-- it would be because of something he did. The lack of guilt when that turned out not to be the case didn't make anything easier, though.There was no casket, because there was nothing to bury. Bucky had been lost at sea. He'd tried begging him to enlist in the reserves, or the army, or the air force. Steve had spent his entire life afraid of the sea, and if he hadn't already been weak and sickly and unable to enlist because of it, he still wouldn't have been able to follow his friend. At the time, he'd wondered if maybe that wasn't the point. But on his leaves, it became obvious that Bucky legitimately loved the ocean, loved being out on it and all the workings of the ships he served on. Steve felt happy for him, glad that his friend was doing what he loved. But he missed him, too. He'd only been out for eight months when the letter came in. There had been a man overboard, and Bucky went after him. Neither of them were recovered, and at the time of the writing, the other man had not been identified. Maybe a stowaway or the survivor of some other ship's misfortune, but not one of their own. How like Bucky, didn't matter who it was, if he was around, he felt like it was his job to save them.

#Writing meme #that writing thing I do #I don't know who to tag???#If you want my tags take them please #MCU #ok so AU where...#I'm not even gonna bother explaining #if you're curious you can go look for yourself.

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mothmanwearstiaras-blog · 7 years

Text

At Virtue’s End: Chapter Four

SUMMARY: “If we had been following Negan from the beginning, we would be rooting for him.”

MASTERLIST When we find Negan in the series, he and The Saviors are well established and going strong... this is the story of what happened before all of that.

[AU with some canon thrown in for good measure. Begins shortly before the outbreak and will follow through to where we are in the series.] Negan x OC.

Author's Note: This is where the fun really begins... it’s definitely my favorite so far. :)

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Chapter Four:

There was a lot to be said about the comfort and familiarity of a childhood home. Something about waking up in the same bed and being surrounded by the same four walls as when you were ten years old and your biggest worry was if Anthony Flynn merely liked you or if her 'liked you' liked you had the tendency to put her mind at ease. The pale green wallpaper was still the same as it had always been and the large four poster bed was a beautiful antique that she had been all too happy to accept as an eighth birthday present. The entire house always smelled of one delicious pastry or another and when the large bay windows at the front were open the sunshine poured in and lit the entire place up like something out of a dream.

Early April had the tendency to be a wild card as far as the weather went, one day it was bright and warm while the next could be downright cold. Today was going to be gorgeous and Samantha's grandmother had decided to spend the morning tending to her garden. They had eaten breakfast together and Samantha felt that the least she could do was tidy up and do the dishes. She refused to let her mind wander back to the night before and what had happened between her and Negan... at least for now. She had switched shifts with Candice and gotten herself an unexpected day off, she was not about to waste it wallowing away in self pity about her love life.

The sound of the front door squeaking as it was pushed open pulled Samantha out of her thoughts and back in to reality. She could just make out her grandmother's footsteps as she walked down the hallway leading towards the kitchen.

"That was quick!" Samantha called out as she grabbed a couple of paper towels from the roll by the sink and used them to dry her hands. "Hey, I was thinking about heading in to town," she called as she tossed the paper towels in to the trash can, "you should come with me! We could do some shopping and grab lunch, a good old-fashioned girl's day! What do you think?"

A sudden, strange choking sound reached her ears and Samantha was rushing towards the hallway in an instant. The sight of her grandmother had her skidding to a stop just past the doorjamb, her socked feet sliding against the hardwood floor. The first thing that caught her eye was the large wound bleeding profusely from her grandmother's left shoulder. The blood oozing out of it had covered the front of her pale yellow dress from collar to hemline and dirt from the garden was caked all over her body. Her eyes had all but lost their bright blue coloring and a dull, milky white had replaced it. Her hair had fallen from the clip she had tucked it in to earlier and was strewn wildly about her head and face.

Samantha's first reaction was to go to her, to help her in any way that she could, but something in her gut was telling her to keep her distance. If her grandmother's appearance wasn't enough of a clue that something was wrong the way she was moving would definitely do it. Her feet were shuffling awkwardly across the floor and her wounded shoulder was sagging in a way that made Samantha question if she was even able to move it.

"Gran..." Samantha whispered as her hands rose to a protective position in front of her. "Grandma, can you hear me?"

The old woman cocked her head to the side and let out a snarl as she continued shuffling forward. Samantha matched her step for step in the opposite direction. She racked her brain for any sort of explanation as to what was happening. Was she having some sort of a stroke? That wouldn't explain the wound on her shoulder... Had she been attacked? But what of her other symptoms?

"Grandma it's me. It's Samantha." Her heart skipped a beat as her heels met with the stairs to the second floor. "Gran..."

Her grandmother's pace quickened and the sudden change in her gait had Samantha fleeing up the stairs before her mind had even had a chance to process her movement. Samantha reached the second floor landing and paused for a moment, bending over the stairway's railing to look down at the scene below. She was horrified to see the woman crawling up the stairs on all fours after her. Her grandmother's shoulder sagged beneath her weight every time that she attempted to use it and her head was still cocked to the side in that wholly unnatural manner.

Samantha was trapped and the only thing she could think to do was run straight for her bedroom. She flew through the hallway as fast as her feet could carry her and slammed the door shut behind her. She fastened the lock and quickly wedged her vanity's chair beneath the handle before rushing to her nightstand and grabbing her cell phone. She dialed 911 and felt her heart sink further in to her chest as the busy signal rang loudly in her ear.

"Shit!"

She could hear the horrible, guttural sounds coming from the hallway and she knew that her grandmother would soon make it to her door. She grabbed her boots from the side of her bed and pulled them on to her feet as fast as she could. Not knowing what else to do, she opened the window and climbed out on to the roof of the porch outside of it.

Samantha crawled on her hands and knees over to the side of the house before lowering her feet to the rose terrace that covered the brick walls beneath her. Her heart skipped a beat when one of the old wooden pieces gave way under her weight but her foot quickly found purchase on the sturdier rung beneath it.

She climbed down the side of the house and hit the grass below her with a quiet thud. The moment her feet touched the ground she knew that she was not alone. Crouching down as low as she could, Samantha crept slowly along the side of the house and carefully poked her head around the corner. There were two men in the front yard and a woman on the porch; all three of them were moving in much the same way that her grandmother had been inside and had the same strange film covering their eyes. The two in the yard seemed to be meandering about with no real direction while the one on the porch was staring intently through the windows by the front door.

Samantha turned on her heel and moved towards the back of the house as quickly as she could. After peeking around the corner to make sure that it was clear she took off running through the back yard and in to the thicket of trees that lead towards the main road.

The acres of woods that surrounded her grandmother's house were dense and easy to get lost in. It had been years since she had explored them and she panicked for a moment when she realized how little she recalled of the twists and turns of their natural labyrinth. Despite her fear, she moved onward but the further she got from the house the more turned around she became.

The sight of the brook ahead of her caught her attention and she knew immediately that she was in trouble. She was headed in the complete opposite direction of where she needed to go and she fought the urge to cry out in her frustration. Her anger quickly turned to fear when she caught sight of another one of those things coming towards her from the other side of the stream. He hadn't seemed to notice her yet but she felt her panic grow nonetheless.

Samantha took cover behind a large tree and sunk down against its trunk. Her head was spinning as she looked around her for a rock, a large stick, an abandoned tool... anything she could use to defend herself if any of the creatures came too close. She found nothing and her heart began to race even faster. She was going to have to run and she knew it would draw more attention to her. If the thing across the brook didn’t realize that she was there already then he would soon enough.

She took a deep breath and bolted to her left. The man beyond the brook took notice immediately and changed his course to follow her trail. In her attempt to keep the man within her line of sight, she completely missed the large fallen tree until her foot trapped itself beneath it and sent her soaring face first over top of it. Her hands rose on their own accord to break her fall but it was too late, her ankle give way with a sharp twist and she knew that she had only gotten herself in to more trouble.

She pushed herself to her feet and cried out as her ankle sagged beneath her weight. Blinding pain shot up her leg from every damaged nerve and she immediately fell back to her knees. She began to crawl as quickly as she could but she knew that the man was steadily gaining on her. She saw the loose gravel of the driveway cutting through the trees up ahead and she knew that reaching it was her only chance at survival.

Samantha forced herself back to her feet. The pain was almost unbearable and it only seemed to get worse with each passing step. Tears were streaming down her face and she let out a loud scream when she felt hands wrap around her shoulders from behind. She fell back to the ground with a sickening thud as a large weight crushed down upon her back. Running on nothing but pure impulse, she braced her hands against the ground and pushed against the creature behind her. The spur of the moment maneuver managed to earn her just enough space from her attacker for her to turn and face him.

He was on her again in an instant. His teeth chomped down and smashed together in front of her face and each snarl became louder than the one before it. She pushed against his chest with all of her might but she was no match for his full, unbridled weight bearing down on her from above. With every last bit of strength she had she pushed the man abruptly to the left. By some small miracle, he lost his balance and rolled off of her giving her one last chance to break free.

Her booted feet worked vigorously against the pain shooting up her leg. She grabbed blindly at the trees around her and used them to propel herself further along her intended path before throwing herself down in to the center of the roadway.

Tires skid to a stop and she could smell burnt rubber as the truck that had been barreling down the driveway came to a screeching halt on the gravel. She looked up just in time to see Negan jump from driver's side of the vehicle and move past her with force. A baseball bat was held firmly in his hands and he pulled it back over his shoulder as he moved steadily towards the thing in the woods behind her. She rolled on to her back as quickly as she could and watched in abject horror as he swung on the thing with all of his might.

The sound of wood breaking through bone was unmistakable and Samantha couldn't stop the scream that escaped her lips. She watched in a frozen state of shock as the man's body fell limply to the ground and settled in a bloody heap upon the grass.

The woods went silent. There were no more snarls or hurried footsteps. The only noise she heard was the sound of Negan's labored breath as turned to face her. His eyes roamed her form from top to bottom and the expression she saw on his face was a mixture of anger and determination that was wholly unfamiliar to her. She didn't dare move a muscle, she wasn't even sure if she was breathing.

"Say something." His voice was low and gruff as he reaffirmed his hold on the bat. His gaze locked with hers and her mind fought to form words. His eyes widened when she didn't respond and she saw a quick trace of fear flicker across his face; it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "Say my fucking name, Sam!"

"Negan." Her voice was no more than a whisper but she saw the immediate relief that flooded his features.

"Fuck, doll." His words came out in a hurried exhale as he lowered the bat to his side and ran a hand through his hair in obvious relief. "I thought for sure-" Whatever he was about to say died in his throat as another piercing shriek tore through the calm and a young woman emerged from the woods across from them.

Negan turned on his heel and the bat was once again raised to the ready. "Get in the truck!" He called as he moved towards the woman.

"Negan!"

"Get in the fucking truck!"

Samantha jumped to her feet and limped towards the passenger side of the vehicle. She climbed inside with as much speed as she could muster and pulled the door shut behind her just as the sickening crack of bat to bone filled the air around her. She covered her ears and screwed her eyes shut and only opened them again when she felt the weight of the truck shift as Negan climbed inside.

"We gotta move." He said as his hand found the gear shift and swiftly put it in drive.

"You just..."

"It was them or you, Sam. I sure as shit wasn't about to let it be you." His voice cut through hers and his tone left no room for discussion. His foot hit the gas pedal and the truck momentarily peeled wheels before taking off once more in the direction of her grandmother's house.

“No!” Samantha exclaimed the moment she realized his plan.

“Your grandmother-“

“Don’t go back there! She’s…” Samantha didn’t know how to finish that sentence but the look she saw on Negan’s face as he glanced her way told her that he knew what she was saying. "She's like them."

“Fuck.” He muttered softly. "Sam... baby-"

"Don't." She said sternly, her gaze rising towards the roof of the truck in an attempt to fight the tears that were forming within her eyes. This was not the time for crying. "Just... just get us out of here."

Negan didn't need to be told twice. Without another word he eased the truck to a stop before turning the wheel and taking off in the opposite direction towards town. He took the long winding road at a speed that only someone familiar with it could but as soon as they hit the main road it was time to put the pedal to the metal.

The tension in the truck was thick and they sat in silence as he drove. Samantha kept her eyes trained outside the window and tried her hardest to gather some sort of a clue as to what was happening around them. It had started off slow with one or two of those… people… wandering around the side streets but the closer they got to town the worse things proved to be.

Everywhere she looked was carnage and bloodshed, people running, their neighbors dying, and folks she had known her entire life screaming for help. Samantha turned away as she saw a woman being taken down by a small group of the monsters outside of the bakery but the view she got of three people tearing in to a man’s stomach by the farmer’s market was even worse.

"What the hell is going on?" She asked quietly, her voice nothing but a whisper against the roar of the engine.

"Fuck if I know." Negan answered bluntly. "Fuck if anyone knows." --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think! Hearing from all of you makes it feel a lot less like I’m just screaming in to the Tumblr void lol.

#negan #negan fanfiction #negan fanfic #negan x oc #negans thirst squad #@negans-network #negans-network

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