That’s okay, baby. It happens. I could give you a rundown of what’s gone on. Want it in Clint’s ask?
ooc; Yes, please. That would be fantastic. Thank you so much <3
ooc; I’m really sorry for being pretty much AWOL the past few days. I’ve been having a rough couple of days and my rp’ing muse more or less bottomed out during that time. I’m gonna try to get back into the swing of things, though, and get all caught up with what’s going on.
(Can somebody please message me a summary of what I’ve missed? D:)
Also, how is it even humanly possible for one person to misspell ‘blowjob’ eight times in a row?
I mean really, once I can understand, but eight times?
Now you’re just being senselessly cruel.
Lights Will Guide You Home
Natasha had drifted in and out of sleep for most of the morning. What sleep she did manage was hardly restful, thoughts and flashbacks swarming her mind and causing cold sweats. Of course she knew that if she’d taken something for the pain, it would have likely eased her into sleep, Natasha was tired of feeling numb to things. Even if they were physical as opposed to emotional.After some time, she simply gave up and studied her bedroom intently. It wasn’t a place she spent much time in. And she would to make it a point to change that. At least in the coming days she was promised off. The redhead was nearly tempted to shut her phone off, disconnect from the world. But she knew as well as anyone that such an act would be rather trivial. If Fury wanted her, he’d find her. Or send someone to do it for him.
Feeling a sudden and rather rare rush of inspiration, she sat up, slowly minding her battle scars, and pulled her sketchpad and pencil out of the drawer in her nightstand. A small lamp sat on top of it that Natasha turned on to illuminate the small space well enough to begin her sketch. A redesign of the bedroom decor. Or really, that’s what it started out as. Soon, it just trickled into other things that came to mind. Coulson’s eyes, Clint’s strong hands. Until the page was covered and she was forced to turn a new one.
Natasha did her best to keep Loki off her mind and off the pages. But sometimes, parts of him would leak into her art. Namely his profile. Which she had found rather fascinating to look at the day that she’d delivered food to his hotel room. He had a strong jaw, each of his features fitting into the next with no surface flaw to be seen.
As she practically glared down at what she’d drawn, palm and fingertips stained with a tint of black from the charcoal, she let out a deep sigh and wiped her forehead free of ginger curls with the back of her hand.
The knock on her window had startled her, shaken her even to the point where she had reached for the handgun that was always kept beside her. But hearing Clint’s voice calmed her pounding heart and she took a moment to catch her breath before setting the sketchpad down and sliding out of bed. Making her way to the french doors and pulling back the veil-like drapes that hung over the glass, she peeked out and then sighed.
Sure enough, it was Barton. Unlocking the door, she pulled it open and let him inside, suddenly remembering that the sole article of clothing she wore was his and internally rolling her eyes at herself. “Is… everything okay? I mean, I’m guessing by the stealthy… or not so stealthy approach, that you’re not here on behalf of Fury.” Natasha gave him a quick look over and pressed her back against the balcony doors for a moment to collect herself.
When Natasha answered the door, Clint was only too eager to duck inside, and when she began talking to him, he instantly turned his grey-blue eyes to her, giving her his full attention. She was the reason he was here in the first place, and if she had something to say, he wanted to hear her say it. “Fury?” he asked, once she had finished asking her questions. He paused, a bit taken aback by the inquiry, and then shook his head, dropping his gaze tiredly. “No,” he answered. “I’m not here because of Fury. I just wanted to come by to check on you. Make sure you were okay. If Fury knew I was here…”
The archer hesitated another moment, and then, lifting his gaze to hers, he offered her a soft, tired, crooked smile. “He’d probably be royally pissed,” he told her. “He told me to leave well enough alone when I worried about you. He’d probably consider this a direct violation of his orders.” Giving a hushed exhale, indicative of a weary chuckle, he reached up a hand to her face, cupping her cheek in his hand, and moved to tuck a lock of her hair behind one of her delicate ears, but his smile suddenly faded as a raw, angry marking on her neck caught his attention.
“What…?” he breathed. Brushing a curled lock of her carrot-red hair away from her neck, his brow furrowed even further in concern as his fingers trailed gingerly over the sickly beginnings of an angry bruise. “Nat, what happened?” he breathed, shaking his head as he traced the line of the bruise with a tender, disbelieving finger. Stretching the neck of the shirt she wore downward, he checked her collar-bone for bruising, trying to determine the extent of her injuries, before letting go of her nightwear and returning his gaze to hers, his expression concerned and sincere. “Who did this to you?” he asked.
Clint stared at the bruises on Natasha’s neck for another moment, uncertain of what there was to say or do. She was a proud spy, but even a proud spy could be knocked down every once in a while. Letting out a soft, drained sigh, Barton wrapped his arms around the redhead, pulling her tenderly close to his chest, and for a moment he stood in silence, feeling the warmth of her body against his. The fact that she still wore his shirt had not escaped him, but he figured now was not the time to mention such trivial things, when there seemed to be so many more important things going on. “I was worried about you,” he said, holding her close to his chest. “I knew Fury shouldn’t have sent you after that rat bastard. You weren’t prepared to take him on.”
Nestling his nose and mouth into the soft, gentle curls on top of her head, he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, breathing in her scent as he held her against him, his rough hands lightly gripping the material of her shirt, not wanting to smother her but not wanting to let her go. “There’s no shame in being unprepared,” he told her, combing his fingers fondly through the gentle tangles of her corkscrew curls. “Everyone is unprepared sometimes. It just means you’re human, like the rest of us.”
Pressing another gentle kiss to her forehead, he rested his cheek against her head, letting out a soft, tired sigh as he held her close to his chest. She was a strong woman, and was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but for some reason, that never stopped him from wanting to take care of her, to protect her, to shield her from a cruel and callous world that took young, impressionable girls and turned them into cold, hard spies. “You’re only human, Nat,” he told her, his voice barely above a whisper.
I don’t care what you wear, just wear more of it.*shrugs* I’m off duty.
I don’t like it.
I like it
respectfully
Sir
Look at you, Miss Tokyo! You don’t wear enough.
I have to respectfully disagree, Sir.
I think Sitwell was looking for you, Agent Barton. Something about shitty commodes.
…Fuck.
(Source: black-widow)
thefuryisin replied to your post: They’re both creepy.
You keep out of this.You’re both old, grumpy and wear too much leather. How many cows do you think you’ve slaughtered between you?
Look at you, Miss Tokyo! You don’t wear enough.
I have to respectfully disagree, Sir.
