#moushidoodles

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moushidoodles replied to your post: [sorry I’ve been pretty quiet on here! just had my...

WOO! Congratulations!! ^^

thank you!! so ready for a break tbh :D

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@moushidoodles​ shot that ♥ button!

“Nat. Nat. Nat.” When Natasha doesn’t turn to face him straightaway, Clint resorts to stretching his leg from where he’s laying and pokes her in the foot. “If you and Steve ever got together, guess what I’d name you two. Just guess.” 

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“I said we could share a blanket, but if you put your cold feet on me *one more time*…”

This wasn’t the ideal way to spend a night on the job, but it wasn’t the worst. Sure, it sucked that they were sharing a mattress that was almost as rundown as their safe house. Sure, it sucked that the blanket they had was scratchy and filled with bed bugs – or did that itchiness come from the mattress itself? And sure, it sucked that the safe house was colder than Clint’s fridge on a good day, and that was saying something. 

                                            Still though. Could be worse. 

“Sorry.” He uncurled himself so his poor, cold feet wouldn’t be pressed up against Natasha’s calves anymore – and instead, he pressed his equally poor, cold hands against her bicep. So warm. How does she do it? She was a walking space heater without the fire hazards. “I guess I’ll just stay like this instead.” 

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moushidoodles replied to your post: “If you put that in the microwave uncovered I...

I’m trying to be angry at my kids here for their lunch detention and you go and make me laugh with this reply.

😈😈😈

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“If you put that in the microwave uncovered I swear I will beat you to death with a plastic spoon.”

“A plastic spoon? What, was the metal one too expensive?” Natasha’s shot at the world’s slowest murder might be a goner anyway when Clint was already starving to death. It’s been a whole eight hours since he got a bite to eat. Eight hours. Can she believe that? Clint sure as hell couldn’t.

“Aw, microwave, c’mon.” He scowled when the microwave door fought back and wouldn’t close. How could it be stuffed already? All he put in there was a plate of dried-up lasagna, a cup of soup, and two slices of pizza that was only slightly off. “You couldn’t afford a microwave bigger than a matchbox either?” 

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“If I die, you get my cat. So make sure I live through this.”

“I don’t want your cat. She screams. She’s so small - but she screams.” Don’t even get Clint started on Liho’s weird habit of clawing at his bandages. The worst thing? With her big owlish eyes and the little swishy tail, she’s too cute to say no to, so he always gives in and lets her scratch away at his arms until he needed a whole new packet of bandaids. He might as well be a living scratching post.

Speaking of bandaids, he was going to need one after this gunfight. He stole a tiny glance around the corner and ducked back rapidly, narrowly missing a bullet to the shoulder. One, two – he spun around the corner, fired three shots (bang bang bang!), watched three HYDRA goons fall, flipped the rest off, and threw himself behind their corner again. All in a moment. 

“Hold on—-” He lowered his gun and stared gleefully at Natasha. Bullets continued whistling past them, a fight was demanding to be fought, but screw that; something magical just happened. “Did you just call her your cat? Nat, are you finally admitting that she’s your cat?” 

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moushidoodles replied to your post “[omg… you guys?? i think hawkeye might be getting a Netflix show in...”

I discussed it with my fiance for fucks sake

😭😭😭 am DEAD

for real though, here’s Netflix hinting about the possibility of a spin-off

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💉

                         “—- Ow. Okay, ow, Nat.”

If Clint didn’t know any better, he would’ve been convinced that Natasha was digging that cotton pad into his bloodied knuckles on purpose. She always got a little miffed when he’d come back, beaten up harder than a punching bag with a few dozen cuts and grazes thrown into the mix. It wasn’t even that bad; he could still see out of his black eye. Why did he even come here? He didn’t need someone staying up at three in the goddamn morning to play his nurse, not when a simple burger and a power nap will do the trick instead. 

You should’ve seen the other guy, he always says. 

You’re dumb, they always say.

Maybe he was. He felt dumb, sitting on Natasha’s kitchen counter in his boxers and a Captain America t-shirt. ( Damn Tony with his dumb merch gifts… ) “Can you believe it?” he asked for the eleventh time that night. He wiped at the dried blood from his nose and glared at the floor, as if it was the one who punched him square in the face. “They stole my damn pants, Nat –- which, shit, had my wallet in it. But my pants.”