#violetquiver

@violetquiver asked: i keep choosing you

Bobbi   looked   at   him,   really   looked   at   him   —   the   way   his   shoulders   tensed   when   he   said   it,   the   way   his   eyes   searched   hers,   as   if   afraid   she'd   flinch   from   the   weight   of   it.   I   keep   choosing   you.   The   words   settled   in   her   chest   like   a   stone   and   a   lifeline   all   at   once.   There   had   been   so   many   years   between   them   filled   with   silence,   with   sharp   edges,   with   wounds   neither   of   them   quite   knew   how   to   bandage.   But   here   he   was   again,   saying   it   plain,   no   tricks,   no   arrows—just   Clint.

She   crossed   her   arms,   not   to   push   him   away   but   to   keep   herself   grounded.   “You   always   say   that   like   it’s   simple,”   she   said,   her   voice   low.   “Like   choosing   me   doesn’t   come   with   scars.   Like   this   time   it   will   be   different.”   But   she   wasn’t   angry.   That   was   the   old   version   of   her,   the   one   that   had   to   keep   proving   she   didn’t   need   him.   This   Bobbi,   the   one   standing   in   front   of   him   now,   was   tired   of   pretending   it   didn’t   matter.   She   blinked,   trying   to   steady   the   ache   behind   her   eyes.   “You   say   you   keep   choosing   me—but   what   does   that   even   mean   now,   Clint?   Because   I   don’t   want   to   be   a   habit.”

@violetquiver

Her silence betrays her, there’s no humour tonight and no banter, just quiet eyes trained on the screen. Some days in this job hit harder than others…when they did. Kate tries, desperately, to take all the feelings sitting in her chest and place them in a box. Quite literally imagines herself placing all of the confusion, the anger, the upset and resentment she had and placing them into a box she could put on a shelf in the back of her mind. Kate had always intended to deal with it later. That she would simply get around to it when it suited her, then she kicked it down the road. It was always a job for tomorrow.

Was it the healthiest? No. Did it work? Most of the time. 

Sometimes…it leaves you hollow. The problem with putting it away for another day was it never saw the light. She had people who cared in her life, she had Clint, she had friends, and yet most of the time, when the despair and memories hit, she simply smiled and made herself busy. An attempt to hide and cover up the fact that she felt disconnected and far away. It left her with the urge to leave, to get in her car and drive until the road ran out again. 

While it was what she wanted to do, she was unsure it was what Clint would let her do. The silent invitation was one she wanted to accept, but also at the same time, the little voice at the back of her head thought it too nice. 

For once, she didn’t listen to it. Shifting over she curled herself into his side, let her head fall onto his shoulder, and she is silent for what feels like an eternity before she asks.

@violetquiver asked: ❝ you look so good when you're falling apart. ❞

John's   laugh   was   low   and   dry,   like   gravel   in   his   throat,   caught   somewhere   between   disbelief   and   arousal.   He   lay   half-propped   against   the   headboard,   sheets   tangled   at   his   waist,   breath   still   uneven.   Clint’s   words   echoed   in   the   dim   room—sharp,   mocking,   and   threaded   with   something   that   made   John's   pulse   thrum   hotter.   That   bastard   grin   of   Barton’s   hadn’t   faded,   the   one   that   always   pushed   just   far   enough   to   leave   John   teetering   on   the   edge   of   wanting   to   pin   him   down   or   crawl   underneath   him.   Maybe   both.

He   turned   his   head,   eyes   dragging   over   Clint’s   bare   chest,   the   bruises   already   blooming   along   his   ribs   like   war   medals.   “Is   that   right?”   John   said,   voice   rough.   “Guess   that   makes   two   of   us,   then.”   His   hand   moved   without   thinking,   dragging   up   along   Clint’s   thigh,   slow,   as   if   daring   him   to   make   another   smartass   comment.   All   cocky   silence   and   heat,   the   kind   that   made   John   want   to   bite   down   and   leave   marks   no   one   else   would   see.   There   was   something   maddening   about   the   way   Clint   looked   at   him   when   he   was   wrecked—like   he   enjoyed   seeing   the   cracks   spider   out   across   John’s   composure.

ride or die meme status: accepting from: @violetquiver

TJ would be lying if he said he wasn't taken aback by Clint's words. First because he wasn't expecting that reaction from him. And second, more importantly, because he couldn't quite remember when was the last time someone had actually stood up for him. Sure, his family had pulled strings, use of favors and connections to silence rumors or deviate attention. But beside them? No one really cared. He was the perfect punching bag to the public.

He looked up at the other, blinking a few times as he tried to process it. He would probably brush it off, pretend it wasn't of such importance. But deep down, those words meant much more than he could ever admit.

"Yeah, well... you wouldn't be the first to say something you don't really mean."

@violetquiver continued from here.

Clint had been in plenty of chases across multiple cities and sometimes he did fine, but Bucky had also heard that he'd fallen off of a building and landed on a windshield twice recently, and Bucky outrunning everyone only for Clint to end up at street level with brand spanking new injuries really didn't do them all that much good. Then Bucky would have to backtrack and find a way to help him out all because he let Clint live his monkey daydreams. Not interested, not today.

He was tired and didn't feel like running was the other set of reasons, and though he had trouble giving himself the break of allowing for 'self-care' reasons to influence anything, he'd done it this time. The easiest, fastest way to dodge the whole situation was to awkward their way out of it, and Clint had once pointed out that he didn't look like much without his 'scary ass arm', so from behind without the resting bitch face and with a coat already on to cover his arm, it seemed like a winning option.

That was everything practical about the situation in his mind, most of it not taking into account the Clint Barton of it all. It was a good plan, but for a few seconds Bucky thought that Clint was going to freak out and either throw him off, punch him or both, which would have accomplished the opposite of his goal. It shut the guy up - an unexpected good thing about the whole ordeal - but he'd never imagined himself silently wishing that Clint Barton would just kiss him already. The man did get with the program finally so that it didn't look like Bucky was assaulting someone on the street (a good thing, right?), but that presented other issues.

Like the way Clint's arms wrapped around him and pulled him in until they were flush against each other, only Bucky's own arms awkwardly still fisted in the front of his shirt and even that...didn't fit, not if he was supposed to look like this was normal. There was an equally practical reason for his arms to go up over Clint's shoulders, since the height difference when doing so helped hide his face, but there was little more that could be done and while he appreciated that Clint was a good kisser, he wasn't sure that he needed the pleased humming. Oh, but it got worse.

Bucky thought it would be a quick thing and then they'd part like nothing had happened and he'd hopefully escape having to hear about it ever again. Clint took any chance to take a shot at him, any ammunition possible to tease and poke fun right down to making shit up at times just for a reaction, so Bucky was inclined to give him as little as possible. That was when Clint apparently decided to shoot a very different shot - any plan Bucky had to pull back was thwarted by a hand winding through his hair to hang on and Clint demanding better access. The tug adjusting the angle of his head drew a harsh sound from his throat that was swallowed up by Clint's lips and he could only hope that it was missed, or maybe even read as some kind of complaint instead of some expected moan or groan punched out of him.

If Clint knew that, he'd never live it down. Shit, were they in the clear? If he pulled away and turned around, would he reveal them both and make this whole thing for nothing? He should have put his own back to the wall, except then he'd have had to get a view past Clint, who was actually pretty enormous in a way that was deceptive when he was slouching and lounging around acting like he was harmless and silly. Another tug and adjustment drew another soft sound from his throat and he tensed in a way that he didn't see Barton not noticing, which was really the point where he had to risk calling it. He was not here to embarrass himself further and instead pulled back, a little breathless, to tilt his face in near Clint's ear like he might continue this encounter with something saucy; he didn't. "Can't turn around. They still there?"

( @violetquiver || sent x )

"Isn't th...that supposed to b-be my line?" The medic uttered out as finished applying a bandage around Clint's arm. Another day of, well, whatever Clint was doing and another day of Cole helping but he didn't mind. It made him feel useful these days. They were sitting with a mirror in front of them, so Cole looked up at his reflection and the bags under his eyes. "Are you sure you d-d-don't hurt anywhere else?"

The first few times Natasha had been given such an information, she’d been surprised… several ago. Now, resignation merely washed over her, coupled with something almost comforting in the familiarity at such a Clint-like behaviour.

random dialogue status: accepting from: @violetquiver

A smirk formed on TJ's lips at the other's words, casually giving him a once over at the same time. He was hot, and there was something intriguing that drew TJ's attention. Mysterious, dangerous maybe. Definitely TJ's type. He could play this game. "Not sure if I should be flattered or concerned," he replied teasingly with a raised brow. He wasn't going to give in that easily, so he'd let the other work a little bit. "Liking what you see or just assessing my threat level?"