#akafuckyou

[nctaweapon]

( @akafuckyou )

“I’ve never seen a lady put away that many shots.”

[hawkguybartcn-blog]

✞ - for my muse to talk about somebody’s death

Clint wasn’t sure how long they’d been sitting there, silence hanging between them. It felt like a while. The silence was nothing like the ones they’d once shared; it wasn’t comfortable. It was forced, heavy. He hated that.

The thing was, Clint wasn’t stupid. He knew a lot of people thought he was, but he wasn’t. He picked up on things pretty easy, noticed things other people sometimes didn’t. He knew Jessica had been walking on eggshells around him lately, and he knew why.

He didn’t know if she was trying to hide it, but if she was, she wasn’t doing a very good job. She’d go to mention something about a bar or a drunken exploit, and the story would die on her lips, choked off before they left her lips.

Clint understood it. Of course he did; Jessica would never knowingly make him uncomfortable, would never talk about something that she knew would upset him. Despite what she might think, she was never purposely cruel. And he appreciated it, appreciated her effort, but it wasn’t working. It only ever lead to these silences, and Clint thought if they continued, he might choke on the quiet.

“It was a Tuesday,” he said quietly, breaking the silence. “When my... when they died.”

“Clint,” she said, shaking her head, “you don’t owe me this. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Maybe I owe it to me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. Her mouth snapped shut then, expression hesitant as she nodded for him to continue. He nodded back, taking a deep breath. “He was drunk. Always was, I guess, but drunker than usual. Somebody stole some money from his shop. Or he just... spent it and forgot about it. He did that a lot, you know?” He smiled bitterly, shaking his head. “He accused me of taking it. Think he just wanted an excuse to kick my ass. He never looked too hard for those.”

Jessica flinched at that, but didn’t say anything. Didn’t interrupt. Clint was glad for that. He knew if he stopped now, he wasn’t going to start up again. Ever, probably. This was his one chance to get it out in the open. He thought maybe he needed that.

“He kicked the shit out of me. Not the worst time he ever did it, but... yeah. Called me a piece of shit. Told me no one’d... Nobody’d ever believe me. If I told. Mom tried to step in -- she didn’t do that often, and she didn’t try very hard when she did, but, hey, it’s the thought that counts, right? He threatened to start on her next, so, y’know...” He trailed off, shrugging his shoulders. Even now, his feelings about his mother were complicated. He wasn’t sure if he loved her for being the only person to show him affection or hated her for defending the man who’d beaten him. Both, maybe.

Clint sighed, running a hand through his hair before continuing. “He finished beating the shit out of me a couple minutes later. Guess it gets boring after a while. Who knew, right? Went over to mom and dragged her out of the house. Said he wanted to party.” There was more than a hint of bitterness in his tone. “It must have happened on their way to... wherever they were going. I’m not sure. Cops showed up at the door not long after they left, told us what happened. Think they expected us to be sad about it, you know? I mean, how often do you tell a couple of kids that their parents are dead and have ‘em react with relief?”

She swallowed, but didn’t say anything. Clint wasn’t even sure if he’d wanted an answer or not. Part of him desperately needed one, needed to know that he wasn’t the only one who’d been happy to lose people. Another part of him needed the question to stay rhetorical just in case he was alone.

“We went into the foster system after that. It was almost worse. There was never any chance of anybody wanting us, y’know? Everybody wanted younger kids. Undamaged ones. Plus, we didn’t want to get separated, and nobody’d be crazy enough to take both of us. We ran away not long after. Joined the circus. The rest... Yeah. You know the important parts. Parts that matter.” Leaving the Circus, joining SHIELD, meeting Nat, the Avengers. Those were the parts he hung onto.

“Clint,” she said quietly, hand hovering hesitantly near his shoulder. He offered her a tiny smile, a small nod of permission and she made contact. “I’m sorry. You didn’t -- fuck. Nobody deserves that. Not a kid. Not you.”

He shrugged. “Done a lot of bad,” he said uncertainly. “Hurt a lot of people.”

“Stop. That doesn’t mean you deserved... all that.” 

Clint gave another little shrug, a motion that could either be taken to say agree to disagree or as him relenting that she was right. He wasn’t sure which was his intention, and judging by her expression, neither was Jessica.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered. “Point is, I’m not --- I’m not gonna break. If that was gonna happen, it would’ve already happened. A long time ago. You don’t have to tiptoe around me, Jessica. I’m okay. Really.”

She didn’t quite believe him, and he wasn’t sure he did, either, but the silence wasn’t quite as heavy after that. He didn’t feel like he was suffocating anymore. It wasn’t quite as light as it had been before everything, but it was close enough. Maybe they’d get back there sometime. For now, this was enough. It had to be. It was all they had.

[punchlincs-blog]

@akafuckyou

    pop !!  harley smacks her gum loudly, intentionally between her teeth.  “ say.  what’s a nice lookin’ gal like you doing with one of those scary, pervert, peeping tom cameras ??  are you tryna get an upskirt shot or somethin’ ?? ”

[pietrosmaxximoff]

✂ - for my muse to rescue yours from danger

He found her in an alley. 

A lifetime ago, there would have been a joke there. He might have cracked a smile, might have approached her with a friendly laugh, might quip about how she seemed to live in places like this.

Now, he clenched his fists at his side and tried to keep himself from doing something he’d regret.

He didn’t think she’d seen him, and he figured it was better that way. If he heard her voice, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. (Maybe that was a lie; Pietro was pretty sure he knew exactly what he’d do. What he wasn’t sure of was whether or not he’d regret it later. Maybe that said more about him than anything.)

He could have been across the city in a second, and he almost was; he had no desire to be any closer to her than he had to. Some days, being in the same city as Jessica felt like too much. But something caught his eye, and he hesitated. A red light dancing on the back of her head, a stark contrast to the black of her hair.

For Pietro, life happened in slow motion. It was something many people knew, part of what made his patience so thin, part of what made his temper so short. At times, it was a pain -- waiting for anything was excruciating, almost like torture. (Almost. Pietro knew enough about torture to keep from making that metaphor.) Other times, it came in handy. Gave him time to think. 

It was a fraction of a second, but to him, it was longer. He considered his options. Part of him screamed to leave, to run away and let whatever happened happen. She didn’t know he was there, and the person at the other end of the scope probably didn’t, either. He could leave now, go back to the tower, and go about his day. Tomorrow, he could read in the papers that a registered superhuman (he refused to refer to her as a hero, even privately) had been killed, read the reasoning and pretend to be shocked. Wanda might see through it, but no one else would, and she wouldn’t tell. Even if she blamed him for it, she’d never hold it against him. He knew that.

Later, he’d wonder if he should be ashamed by how long he’d stood there, watching the dot dance on her head. He’d wonder if he should hate himself for debating whether or not he should allow her to die. (There was even a second where he considered staying to watch, a moment of sick curiosity that wanted to see it happen.)

He wasn’t sure what changed his mind. Maybe it was the thought of his sister, the knowledge that she’d save anyone, even someone she hated. Maybe it was the fact that Magneto, if he were there, might make the decision to leave and Pietro was desperate to prove that he was nothing like the man since Lorna’s revelation. 

It wasn’t some sense of heroism. It wasn’t because he was good. Pietro knew that.

He didn’t go to Jessica. The idea of being that close to her wasn’t a good one, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to shove her from the bullet’s trajectory without shoving her a little farther. (The memory of Beckett’s body slamming against the wall and the resounding crack as his neck snapped came to mind.)

No, approaching Jessica would do neither of them any good. Instead, he ran to the building the light was coming from, sped up the fire escape and was standing on the roof in less than a second. The man was in all black, gun resting on the edge of the roof. He looked up as Pietro joined him, and though Pietro couldn’t see his face under the mask, he heard a nearly inaudible gasp of surprise.

He didn’t say anything as he ran towards the man, didn’t say anything as he shoved him away from the weapon and knocked him out cold. A shot rang out and his heart leaped into his throat. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to see when he peered through the scope, wasn’t sure if it was relief or disappointment that burned in his chest when he saw Jessica, alive and well, glancing around wildly with a bullet lodged in the wall a few inches from her head. He wasn’t sure it mattered.

Pietro didn’t wait around after that. He dropped the man at the police station with his weapons as evidence. Before he left, he took the phone from the would-be-assassin’s jacket pocket and sent a text to her number. She wouldn’t know it was from him, he hoped.

Someone is trying to kill you. Watch your back. Next time, there might not be someone there to save it. 

(He still wasn’t sure if saving her made him better or worse than he had been before.)

[pyrcpsionic]

@akafuckyou

   “ you look like the kinda person who carries around a lighter.  i’ll give you ten bucks for it. ”

[trishwclkcr]

@akafuckyou​

“You’re not registering, are you?” Trish asked, the worry evident in her tone. “They don’t know about you. They don’t have to. They shouldn’t.”

[frcnkxcastles]

☕ (lol her only loved one is trish kill me)

☕: my muse comforting yours after the death of a loved one

He didn’t go to the funeral.

Frank had never been good at funerals. He never knew what to say, never knew what to do. He didn’t even know if there’d been one for Maria and the kids. If there was, it’d been when he was still in the hospital. Her mom probably put it together. It was probably better, without him there.

He stood at the edge of the cemetery for the graveside service, far enough so he couldn’t hear the preacher talk about blue skies and better places, but still close enough to watch the crowd. He recognized a few faces.

The crowd thinned after the coffin was lowered into the ground and the dirt was pushed over it. After a few minutes, a single person stood at the graveside. Frank knew who it was before he got close. 

He walked over and stood by her side, staring at the freshly dug grave. There was no tombstone yet. It was something they didn’t tell you about funerals -- when a person died unexpectedly, it could take weeks to get a grave marker up. Months, if money was tight. The only thing marking the grave was a small marker by the funeral home to make sure the right person was buried there. It was impersonal and official.

Patricia Walker, it read, b. April 5, 1984. d. January 16, 2017. Age 32. 

For a while, neither of them said anything. Jones held her flask, hands shaky as she brought it to her mouth every few minutes, Frank had his hands stuffed in his pocket.

“Does it get easier?” Jones asked, voice small and hoarse.

He could lie to her, he knew. He could tell her that it got better, tell her that one day she’d be able to think about Trish without remembering the blood on her head or the stillness of the body on pavement or the way her eyes stared at nothing. He could tell her all of that.

It wasn’t true. None of it was true.

“No,” he said finally. She nodded like it was the answer she’d been expecting, like she’d known before she asked and had just needed confirmation to be sure. “Doesn’t get easier. Doesn’t stop hurting. You get used to it, one day. If you’re lucky.”

“Did you? Get used to it?” She turned the flask up again, making a small, frustrated noise when she found it empty. Frank dug into his pocket and produced a small bottle of cheap whiskey, unopened, and offered it to her. He’d figured she’d need it.

“I’ve never been lucky,” he responded as she took the bottle. She opened it and took a gulp, offering it to him and taking it back when he’d taken a swig.

“Me either.”

The chuckle he let out wasn’t quite humorous, and neither was hers when she joined in. But it wasn’t empty, either, wasn’t as lost or hollow as her voice had been when she’d first spoken. For now, that had to be enough. The rest would come later. She’d be okay.

(Maybe he would, too.)

[hawkguybartcn-blog]

(✉ → the BEST goddamn avenger): u haevnt shown up @ my aapartment askiing 4 booze so im assuming things went well w nat or u got lost in a dumpster somewwherre. do i haev 2 sedn claire 2 fish u out or what

( ✉ → designated zombie killer): who is claire do you know someone who has experience fishing people out of dumpsters because i might need her number for future reference( ✉ → designated zombie killer): but yeah( ✉ → designated zombie killer): it was good( ✉ → designated zombie killer): went good( ✉ → designated zombie killer): you were right