I have no idea what I’m doing, so reblog if you’re an independent Marvel rper

Or you can like it. Really, I’m basically terrified of following blogs right now for some reason. So I’m gonna get over this temporary fear by doing this. 

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paleolithicarcher:

Hawkeye wasn’t fully paying attention. Of course, when you run out of coffee and still had the whole ‘end of vacation jetlag’ you never fully paid attention to your surroundings for at least a day or two. Something he should know better about, being a master assassin. A hand went to his neck as he tried to crack the joints, the stress already coming back to him slightly. Yep, Good old S.H.I.E.L.D. Everyone get’s a nice slice of stress at the door. 

The one thing he didn’t expect when he came back though, was a certain scientist. Walking past one of the labs, the archer had to do a double-take, popping his head through the door to voice his ‘concerns’ if one wanted to call them that.  ”Shouldn’t…shouldn’t you be hiding?” The last he saw of Bruce was at the big Manhattan incident. Then he went off again, just like all the  other Avengers. Splitting up till they were called on once more. 

Good old S.H.I.E.L.D. indeed.

The last thing Doctor R. Bruce Banner wanted was to be found. Something about the whole Manhattan scenario kept him at bay from humanity. People cheering the name of a monster, wearing costumes and face paint, praising the other side of him for the one time he happened to save lives, and not the countless times he had destroyed. He was a monster, to tell the truth, and time wouldn’t heal all wounds. A month after, he asked for security. He asked for a hidden name and a place to sleep at peace, somewhere that hell wouldn’t unleash upon him. Somewhere he could manage and control this anger, somewhere hidden. The agreement was made, naturally, unless  S.H.I.E.L.D. needed him.

S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t need him.

In fact, he was doing quite well on his own for nearly a year. That perfect peace, that happiness, that hidden identity. Just as the words cleared and the damage was fixed, their he was off again. Dragged back into hell. Dragged back into destiny.

“And if I overheard correctly, shouldn’t you be in Barbados with Agent Romanoff?”

Destiny.

He didn’t look up, only smiled as he observed his work. 

“Good to see you too, Agent Barton.”

Liquidators cleaning off debris from the roof of the Chernobyl Nuclear power station. The white streaks at the bottom of the photo are from high levels of radiation emitted. 

April, 1986.