Trickshot.

Barney Barton AKA Trickshot AKA the best Barton bro. 35 an' kickin'. Armour's current (an' best) weaponry instructor.

[adrnired]

example of a tall person being an asshole

[tristamateer]

I am going to hurt you.

You are going to hurt me.

But we will do it with practiced fingers and passionate mouths and I swear to god

it will be worth something.

[m0xt]

[mind-attractions]

[medeae]

i. he bites your lower lip hard enough to draw blood and it comes out, dark and primal. everything is agonisingly slow and still - sometimes you forget he’s a warrior and he can go like this all day long. ii. you’re in the cocoon of his wings and nowhere was it written that they were soft. they’re stiff and unyielding, they’re marble, and the edges of them are so sharp sometimes you get cut. you don’t tell him.  iii. is this what it’s like to fall? three fingers deep and you’re at the edge. you want to be pushed over, want to see the blinding light, want to walk towards it with him.  iv. you think of how, sometimes, he thrusts into you like feral, like animal, like redemption. you don’t have the heart to tell him he won’t find it here, don’t have the heart to tell him he’s damning you too.

FALLEN ANGEL, Venetta O. (via medeae)

[trickshootin]

FBI Files: C. Barton | Oneshot

"Hello, Mr. Barton. It's a pleasure to finally get to know you. Have a sit, please. My name's Dr. Rand and I'll be conducting your psychologic evaluation today."

So this is where ya decide if I'm crazy or not. It's where ya find out if one day Imma just lose my mind an' enter here with a fuckin' AK47 shootin' all y'all. Nice.

"Is that something you think about constantly, Mr. Barton?"

Aw, shit. Ya don't waste any time, huh, Doc. Do I ever think 'bout it? Yeah, like every motherfuckin' sane person in this Earth. Would I do it? Well, I'm not a fan of AK47s.

"I see. I heard you prefer... some non-traditional weapons. And that you have a spectacular aim."

You've heard right, an’ I hope the person you’ve heard this shit from is a hot blonde woman, otherwise it’ll just get weird.

"Ahem. Was that thanks to your military training with the army? You were deployed in Afghanistan in 2001, right?"

Yeah. Well, that certainly helped, but I grew up in the circus. Ya learn some crazy shit in the circus, Doc. Throwin' knives, swingin' swords, firin' an arrow, ridin' horses, playin' poker. How ta make 'em contortionists moan. Ever had one, huh? Lil' crazy bitches, more muscular than me, but damn, the things they do with those legs.

"...Fascinating. So back to your time in the army - tell me about the war."

What 'bout it? Ya get a brand new gun, some shiny new boots, an' they send ya somewhere sandy an' hot as motherfuckin' hell. Then ya shoot people an' whoever shoots more people wins. That's war.

"And did you shoot many people, Mr. Barton?"

No, I just threw my magic fuckin' shield 'round an' wore an american flag while other people did the dirty work. Course I did, it's fuckin' war. We don't sit 'round jerkin' off under the scaldin' hot sun all day.

"Do you have anything against Captain America?"

Yeah, his mere existence, his sense of fashion, you name it.

"I see. Tell me a little more about your particular experience, Mr. Barton. How would you describe war?"

Hell. War is Hell, Randy. But I'm pretty sure any hip rock song by people who were never there can tell you that.

"Rand. Dr. Rand. But what can you tell me about that, Mr. Barton? What can you tell me about Bagram?"

...Ya want me ta describe what happened in Bagram? That was all over the news, I'm pretty sure ya know what went down there. They were tortured, they were killed, we were not the good guys Fox News wanted y'all ta believe. Big fuckin' news.

"So you were present at the moment of... Habibullah’s and... Dilawar's deaths?"

Pretty damn sure that paper ya have there says I was.

"Tell me about it."

God, what is there to tell? They were chained ta the ceiling. Chained, like fuckin' meat in a refrigerator, like fuckin’ pigs. They were screaming the whole time. Fuckin' cryin', pleadin'. My fellow americans broke their legs so many times that by the end of it they were just like some boneless lumps of bloody meat, just, just hangin' there, covered in bruises an' shit, literal shit. People shit themselves when they die. An' it took hours. Fuckin' hours. But they kept on hittin' them. An' when they were both pretty fuckin' dead, fuckin' Sargeant Clines wanted to piss on the bodies, so he did. An' then others joined. He pissed right in their mouths, just hangin' there, open. Laughin’ like a horse. The smell of it-- that was Bagram. Like I said, Hell.

"...I see. Did you join them? Your fellow Americans."

It makes ya less human, yanno. The things ya see there. Ya fight so much ta survive that ya don't realize yer as dead as the bodies at the end of the day. We were all fuckin' dead.

“Like Sargeant Clines? He is very literally dead.”

Oh, what a loss. I might have ta cry myself ta sleep now.

"Do you still feel that way? Do you still feel like you're dead?"

What, is that some kind of diagnostic now? I know I'm alive, blood pumpin' an' all. But ya don't forget shit like that. Ya don't get ta forget Bagram, or Kabul, or Iraq. Ya don't get ta forget the shit we did.

"What were your thoughts when you first joined the army?"

What every stupid lil' white boy from the midwest thinks: that I wanted to serve my country, do some good, protect people. Be a motherfuckin' hero. How do they even let stupid lil' white boys from the midwest vote? We know shit.

"So you don't think you've became a hero? Some people would disagree and call all soldiers heroes of war."

Some people never actually been ta fuckin' war. They never had ta shoot no one in the face, never had ta go to sleep covered in brains 'cuz there ain't no fuckin' bathtub in the war. Plus I got no medals. No honors for me, Doc. But ya know that, I got a Less than Honorable Discharge an' Martial Court instead. Some big fuckin' hero I am.

"Well, it's the procedure when someone commits a war crime."

Like leavin' the army? I wasn't gonna be another dead boy all dried up under the desert sun. I wasn't gonna sit there an' fuckin' watch Bagram all over again, in every fuckin' city where we set our fuckin' dirty boots in.

"You know the consequences for killing your fellows americans should be a lot bigger."

An' yet, I'm not in jail. I'm sittin' here with an FBI goon tryin' ta find out if mom didn't hug me enough when I was a baby.

"This is not a joke, Mr. Barton."

Barney.

“Sorry?”

Call me Barney.

“Right. You do know the consequences of being left to the army’s devices now. You know what would happen if you were to go through Martial Court. What you did was pretty bad... Barney.”

An’ yet, here’s the american government, offerin’ to pardon it all just ta get a hold of my services. Y’all gotta choose, man. Are y’all morally horrified that I put a bullet between Cline’s eyes, or are y’all impressed? ‘Cuz this talk of consequences makes no sense when yer sittin’ there evaluatin’ me for a new job. Let’s cut the moral crap here.

“Right. The FBI would like to hire your services, Mr. Barton... Barney. And in exchange we would clear all charges against you.”

‘Course ya would. So what’s the catch? I get forgiven, I get a new job, what am I misssin’ here? Too good ta be true, Randy. What part of the fine print says I’m sellin’ my soul an’ agreein’ to be used as a test subject for death rays?

“It’s nothing of the sorts, Mr. Barton, though you are required to keep secrecy of everything you’ll see here. The kind of job we want to offer you is very specific and we need your special set of abilities. It involves government secrets, Mr. Barton, so you see why this is a very delicate matter.”

Riiiight. So y’all want me ta do the dirty work.

“Think of it as a way to actually protect your country, Mr. Barton, Barney.”

Yeah, ‘cuz I’ve never heard that one before. Sure, sign me in, Doc. But just answer me somethin’ real quick before we start: who’s gonna protect us from the country?

[trickshootin]

time to go home.

[trickshootin]

When the Wolf Comes Home | Oneshot

I'm going to get myself in fighting trim scope out every angle of unfair advantage I'm going to bribe the officials I'm going to kill all the judges it's going to take you people years to recover from all of the damage.

You breathe in--

and out. 

You’re afraid you’ll forget how to breathe again.

The Soulsword in your hands has power – it travels up your arms, infiltrates your muscles and spreads across your chest, up and down to each nervous ending, from the tip of your fingers to the back of your knees. It goes down your spine and it makes the hair on your body stand up. It’s like pure electricity sizzling around you, lighting your bones on fire. The sound of rushing blood in your ears makes you feel alive, and you don’t remember when was the last time you’ve felt like this: like you could take on the world.

Like you’re powerful.

You’ve been beaten down and brought to your knees, you’ve been abused and tortured, and you’ve been hopeless and powerless for far too long. You’ve grown used to your puny human body. There’s only so much you can do with it before someone shoves a grenade in your mouth.

But this, this is nothing like you’ve ever felt before. This is what being a superhuman must feel like, all the time. And god, it’s good. You don’t know if you’d be able to give it all up now that you’ve tasted it. Power is a funny thing – it infiltrates your brain and makes a nest where your most prized memories should be. For you, it’s like alcohol. It’s like a dear old friend you just can’t let go, because it makes you feel lighter, like you could float if you closed your eyes and held your breath. It makes you feel as if the world wasn’t weighting down on you, crushing you to a bloody pulp. It makes you feel like the person you could be, if things hadn’t gone the way they did. Like the person you were supposed to be, even for a few moments – confident and brave and strong and able.

And you love it.

How could you not? You, the boy who once wanted to be a hero, the boy who lived to fight another day because living was the sole act of defiance left. You, whose weaknesses were like an inherited disease, eating your insides. You thrive on power, and it’s all you need - at least for a while.

So you scream as you slash and hack and saw, and you break skulls in half like it’s nothing. It feels good, it feels right, and it seduces you like one good whore. And lord knows you’re weak when it comes to whores. You could get used to this, and that’s the worst part, that’s the scary part – you could get used to this too easily, and you can’t. Because you’re not here to make war and you’re not here to rule. You’re here to save Illyana, and the worst part of having power is knowing you need to let go of it. It breaks your heart to think of it, and you’re not even halfway there yet. They say the swords corrupts people easily, but you’re already corrupted, right? 

You’ve been corrupted since birth, by the unwavering power of bad genes and bad decisions, and this kind of power feels like fire, when you’re a moth. It could burn you down to the bone, but you don’t care. You’ve always been a bold one anyway, always been a dumb one; playing with fire when you should have stayed quiet, when you should have stayed down.

Then you keep moving, you keep moving. You can hear voices all around you, and you know that’s the team, fighting their own battles. There’s Sabertooth, sinking his teeth on some demon’s neck, and there’s John setting the place on fire like you’re all not in hell already, and there’s Magneto too, somewhere, bending people and breaking spines. Pryde is somewhere to your right, phasing like a ghost – now you can see her, now you can’t. But you know when she’s around because there’s a spurt of blood and then someone falls to the ground. Strange is right ahead of you, and his magic lights up the room here and then, like a goddamn party. Emma glows, reflecting fire and light in her diamond form and if you weren’t so taken with the task in hand, you’d be mesmerized by the sight. But right now, you don’t have the time.

Or maybe you have too much time – time is a feeble human invention and it seems to stretch and disappear down here. You have no idea for how long you’ve all been fighting, and it doesn’t seem to make a difference. You don’t feel tired, even though the sword is heavy on your arms, and the muscles of your shoulders tremble when you lift it. You feel disconnected, in a way, and sometimes you think you’re almost forgetting why you’re here in the first place, as if the sword is slowly taking over your mind. But in the end, you can’t forget – you can’t, because you can feel her.  You feel Illyana somewhere close, and the blade vibrates as if it could sense her. Every one of your scars seem to burn the closer you get, as if they, too, earned for the one who inflicted them, because pain is as much a bond as love is, and what you have is equal parts of both, with an unhealthy dose of abandon thrown in the middle.

The throne room isn’t like you last remembered it, but nothing is anymore. Everything it’s in ruins, and so is Illyana – as if an earthquake had blown her away and only dust is left from her regal profile. It’s like her body is a battlefield and you lost the war, now she’s crumbling under your fingertips. You don’t quite remember how long it took to get there, but before you kicked the door to her room open – the room you shared on so many nights – you could feel her in every cut and mark, like poison in your veins.

And then, there she is.

Your body goes hot and cold in turns as if you were ill, and in a way, maybe you are. You’re homesick for her, and the enochian scream that erupts from your throat is a war cry. The beast hovering over Illyana howls, and you sink the sword in his swollen chest. The demon falls from the bed, and you cut, cut, cut, cut, cut, cut, and in your head you’re screaming

WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER YOU BEAST WHAT DID YOU DO 

But all you can do is growl, teeth bared like an animal’s, bloody slippery fingers sinking in the holes the blade opened of the demon’s chest and pulling it apart like you could strip it out of its skin and find a man underneath. But there is no man behind the beast, there’s just a monster, and you pant, breathless and angry. You pant, and that’s the proof you’re alive this time, because last time you were here, all you could do was watch as her chest would rise and fall, with an honest sense of wonder. So you look up, frantically searching for her glowing eyes, and she’s not human, but you don’t see a damn difference. She’s got red scaly skin, those goat legs you used to make fun of, and a big pair of horns, but all you see is Illya, your friend and your Queen, and you reach for her like she’s the air escaping from your lungs and you need her back inside you.

“What, ya mean that tan ain’t natural?” You playfully joke back when she says she can’t change back to normal, but your voice is heavy with exhaustion, and your teeth feel sharp with anger you can’t swallow, like there’s daggers in your throat. Her cheek is warm against your palm though, and that’s your own reminder that this is real, and you’ve wasted too much time. You cut her free, breaking her chains, and then it’s time to say goodbye to power, to accept you’re only human again, and that the only thing really exceptional about you it’s her. 

So you give her the sword and you feel terribly old, as if your bones weighted half a ton each, and you’re walking around like a ghost, carrying too heavy a carcass. “Ready?” You say, and the sword disappears in her chest. The howling in the back of your head disappears, and you take the amulet from your neck and offer it to her. Now you’re feeling the nagging pain on your shoulder again, irradiating heat like a furnace under shredded polyester. You feel all of your thirty-seven years in places you’re not even used to hurt, and all you can think of saying is

“Time to go home.”

So you carry her. You carry her tired and beaten body back, like she carried you back to this same bedroom so many times before, to lick your wounds and nurse you back to health. You carry her, and she’s panting against your neck – you’re both breathless, chests rising and falling in unison. You’re alive, and it’s like a middle finger to the universe and its petty laws, its senseles rules, its tragic goodbyes. 

“Fuck the Elder Gods,” you say.

It’s either both of us, or none of us, you don’t say.

[hawkeyesmajesticdick]

       Domingo en fuego, I think I lost my halo,               I don’t know where you are,        You’ll have to come and find me, find me.

[nirvanaquotes]

Even though we never said it to each other, we knew.

R.R (via nirvanaquotes)

[trickshootin]

(via https://vine.co/v/eKXzZe502nF)

[trickshootin]

cap taught me fighting barney taught me hurting uh-oh, barney’s gonna-- barney’s gonna hurt.

[trickshootin]

Text | Barton Bros

Clint [unsent]: You can't do this to me you fucking

Clint [unsent]: Don't bother coming back you dick

Clint: Take care.

Clint: Stupid's the middle name.

Clint: Literally.

Clint: Bring me Satan's horn.

Barney: Will do.

Barney: Look at me, bein a hero

Barney: Who've thought, right?

Barney: How bad is it that Hell ain't the worst place I've ever been?

[trickshootin]

Text | Barton Bros

Barney: I know we're tecnically still fighting or somethin

Barney: yanno, the usual

Barney: But ya must have heard where I'm goin by now

Barney: An' if ya haven't, let's just say it will be a hell of a week

Barney: I'll be back soon

Barney: For real

Barney: Don't do anything specially stupid while I'm gone, baby brother

[trickshootin]

[heat-storm]

                          “I can’t do a round two either of waitin’ ‘round in ̲̅H̲̅є̲̅ℓ̲̅ℓ for a                                                                          girl that’s never gonna be mine, Kebira.”

                             “Okay.. okay, first off, you’re not pinnin’ anymore, okay?                                                                                            I’m ̲у̲σ̲υ̲я̲ѕ, okay? “

                                                         “Ha. Ha, ok.”                                                                                    “Oк.“

[iamnotmidas-blog]

¡Hello!

[realboss-hill-blog]

[deleted] No you… Are you Barney Barto– No, if he is I can’t let him know I know him. I need to– That’s not possible? Barney’s dead, Hydra told me Barney’s dead. It’s only his brother here? [/deleted]

Yeah, you seem so nice. If you’re not Barney the Dinosaur then, who are you?

[deleted] That was good, that wasn’t obvious. Could it be him? [/deleted]

[trickshootin]

I’m even nicer in person, doll. Former weaponry teacher, just back from one long vacation. Yourself?