Tag: hawkeye

hmmm weird crossover ship: nick miller/clint barton

😀

“You saved my life,” Nick says, solemnly, raising a six pack in the air when Clint opens his front door. “I bought you beer. This is how men do things.” 

“…okay,” Clint says.

“Men also invite each other in to share said beer because one of them is an Avenger and that’s very cool.” 

Clint maybe shouldn’t, but Nick looks really eager and also uncomfortable, which Clint’s really familiar with, and–free beer. It’s not like he’s got anything else going on today. 

After the beer is gone and also an entire pizza, Clint’s teaching Nick how to use a bow and they get an arrow lodged in the wall, but it’s just a normal arrow and not one that explodes or that one Kate designed that emits a cloud of craft glitter which is arguably just as dangerous.

He’s aware that he’s pressed up against Nick’s back while he’s teaching him and that it feels sort of–romantic–but he doesn’t say anything until Nick turns around and says, “I don’t have any money to fix that,” and suddenly their faces are very close. 

“My insurance covers arrows,” Clint says, trying not to look at his mouth and failing.

“…I’m gonna kiss you now,” Nick says, “so please don’t shoot me through the heart later.” 

“I wouldn’t–” Clint starts, but then he’s being kissed, really kissed, like he feels sort of faint and overwhelmed and–claimed. Which isn’t new, Clint’s dated a lot of assertive women, but–

Wow.

if i were to write marvel/queer eye fic, let’s consider: 

  • foggy gets glammed up for his fancy new lawyer job and jonathan helps him realize while he’s cutting his hair that he’s in love with matt and also that conditioner is important. they get him and matt together by the end and cry about it.
  • “okay, frank,” tan says, soothingly, while they all look around in horror. “let’s talk about, uh–let’s talk about all the guns.” 
  • kate nominates clint and he goes along with it in a well, i guess this is happening way but ends up hosting a surprisingly charming dinner party at the end. it’s pizza and lucky eats at the table, but he folded the napkins into swans, so it’s something.

iiiiii’m posting a lot tonight but i’m cleaning out my old google drive accounts and might post abandoned bits of things, such as this deadpool/hawkeye fic that died a very long time ago:

The thing about Clint Barton, despite sometimes being a living disaster, is that he’s got these cowboy good looks, muscles in appropriate places and always looking bruised and strung out even though all he’s done is wake up and drink two pots full of coffee and read. Who reads anymore. Books. He’s curled up on his shitty couch with his bare feet tucked under his leg, looking like a little kid in a too-tight t-shirt that Wade is 100% sure originally belonged to Bishop, because it’s got a weird v-neck that’s stretched over Clint’s clavicle and says: bitches get shit done in bright purple letters.   

Oh, and Wade knows all of this because he’s watching from the fire escape.

What? He’s got a crush. Shit happens. Fire escapes get climbed. It’s fucking Shakespearean.

He’s considering his plan here, because all he had up until the point where he was sitting and gazing into the window with his chin in his hands was A) stalking can be romantic in the right contexts, right? He’s trying to come up with a legitimate B) when he looks up to see an arrow pointing at his head because of course there’s an arrow pointing at his head. There’s a pretty high statistical likelihood that there will be an arrow pointing at his head at any point when he’s in Bed-Stuy, just based on experience.

“What the actual hell,” Clint deadpans, when Wade throws back his hoodie and smiles at him.

“Hey, peaches,” he says.

“What,” Clint repeats, “the actual hell.”

“I brought donuts,” Wade says, fishing around behind him to pull out a greasy bag.

Clint squints at him before opening the window completely and stepping up enough on the window frame so he can scout out the surrounding area. Making sure Wade’s not a double agent, here to attack him with backup. He’s so well-prepared.

“You’re alone?” Clint asks.

“Never, when you’re in my heart,” Wade replies.

“Alright,” Clint says. He reaches out to take the bag from him, steps back through the window, then locks it behind him. Wade watches, because Clint doesn’t own curtains or blinds or anything, like a particularly adorable clueless college freshman, as Clint drops back down on the sofa to eat the donuts with one hand and hold his book with the other. He ignores the fact that Wade’s now pressed up against the glass, gaping at him.

Playing hard to get.

Wade can work with that.

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