Clint/Natasha AU - [Barton family is compromised]

“On the day my son Josh was born, (Joshua; Natasha insists), she grabbed me (nearly by the throat, but she’d tell anyone otherwise) and made me swear on my bows, on my life, and on my manhood that her son would stay safe. As I watched the redheaded assassin hold him, I allowed myself that minute of peace. I told myself that nothing could be as forgiving as this moment; every terrible thing we had done would be cleaned then, for Joshua was brand new and it was our job to keep him that way. Sure enough, a few years later we welcomed the arrival of a daughter who brought her mom’s cleverness and strength with her. I don’t cry often, but I’ll tell you what, when Mya wrapped her tiny, wrinkled fingers around mine, (as she chewed on them, too), I was a goner. Natasha was never too fond of pink, but because the baby who called her ‘mama’ loved it, Nat figured it must not be so bad. Later, when I listened to Nat sing a Russian lullaby to her fussy daughter, I knew the promise that I made Natasha years ago was something I could never guarantee. Our children were in danger from the moment they were conceived and I tried to convince their protective mother otherwise. I was wrong. So damned wrong. I guess it came with the family name.”

so y’know that soulmate au where their first words are tattooed onto your skin? have you ever wondered how the handwriting style is determined? because it seems like it’s always ‘perfect cursive’ or ‘neat print’ or ‘stilted script.’ it’s automatically a matured style of writing.

but think about it; as you grow, even year by year, your handwriting changes so much.

so how about a soulmate au where their first words are tattooed in the handwriting style they have when they die?

like imagine getting your words and having them appear in a messy little second grader’s script with wobbly letters and uneven words, and just realizing that your soulmate is going to die a child.

imagine what that would be like.


Clintasha & Time Travel:

Clint and Natasha are given a mission that takes them further than they’ve ever been before: back in time. SHIELD needs to send the assassins back to the nineteenth century, where some time jumping mutants are making trouble.


Clintasha 5/10 AUs | AU "Reincarnation"
↳Based on the book "The Eternal Ones" by Kirsten Miller
"Do you... Did you ever love him?"
"Loki? NO! not once. Love is for children."
"In that case, I am a child."
"Clint, you know why I can't say those three little words to you, right? This life, Loki, the Red Room, everything I've seen and done..."
"It's okay Nat, I know you love me."
"Perhaps in our next life things will be different for us."
"I wish it were that easy. I look for you in every life, but I don’t always find you. And sometimes I find you too late."

If I have any Supernatural fans on here….

An Avengers Supernatural AU where Clint (a hunter) is called Hawkeye and Natasha (an angel) is confused as to why someone would claim to be a bird if they have no wings and cannot fly.

I mean, I’m not writing it but it’s a nice thought to let float around in your mind.


Clintasha + Grey’s Anatomy AU

-We should pretend it never happened.
-What never happened? You sleeping with me last night? Or you throwing me out this morning. Because both are fond memories I’d like to hold onto.
-No. There will be no memories. I’m not the girl in the bar anymore and you’re not the guy. This can’t exist. You get that, right?

'i met you last night when you were drunkenly patting my dog in my backyard at 3 in the morning' au

           Clint groaned androlled over, throwing his arm over his eyes to shield them from the midday sun. The sunlight persisted, and eventually he propped himself up on his elbows, surveying his surroundings. The couch he was on was clean and new, in a tidily and elegantly decorated living room. Please tell me I didn’t sleep with someone, he thought.

          He glanced down. He was still wearing his boxers, so that was a good sign, though the shirt he was wearing wasn’t his, and was about three sizes too small. Clint brought the hem up to his nose and sniffed it. Smelled like girl soap.

           “Ah, sleeping beauty awakes.”

           “Huh? Whoa!” Clint shot up, tangled himself in his blanket, and fell on the floor. “Who are you?”

           “You know, I was going to ask you the same thing.” Clint struggled to right himself and looked at the woman making coffee in the kitchen, shirt all rucked up. “Nice abs,” she said.

           “Thanks. Um, where am I?” he asked, pulling his shirt down. Well, the shirt. It definitely wasn’t his. “And why am I wearing this shirt?”

           She sipped her coffee. “You really don’t remember?” He shook his head. “You were in my garden and vomited all over your shirt, and my shoes, at about three in the morning last night.”

           Clint rubbed his scruff, still on the floor. “Right. Sorry. Was I petting your dog? I remember petting a dog,” he said.

           “That was a cat.”

           “I was really drunk, wasn’t I?”

           “Yes, you were.”

           “How did I end up on your couch?”

           “Well, after slurring something about dogs being great, I figured you weren’t much of a threat with vomit dribbling down your shirt and problems with animal anatomy,” the woman said. “I helped you inside and you ended up passed out on my couch after saying something about how you ‘had to take off these goddamn pants’.” She pointed at his jeans that were draped over the back of a chair.

           Clint grimaced. “I’m Clint. And I’m sorry,” he said with a self-deprecating little grin, tugging at the t-shirt.

           The woman tilted her head as if to say, ‘Yeah, you should be.’ She took another sip of coffee before asking, “Why were you in my yard to begin with?”

           “I have dog radar when I’m drunk.”

           “You might want to get that radar checked out,” she said. “Or change your drinking habits.”

Clint nodded and rolled his shoulders, trying to stop the shirt from digging into his arms.

           “Busting out of that shirt?” the woman asked, hiding a grin behind her mug.

           “It’s a little tight for my taste,” he admitted.

           “It looks good on you,” she said, putting her mug down and heading down the hallway off the kitchen. “C’mon, the wash is probably done. Your shirt might be a little damp, but at least it’ll fit.”

           “What’d you say your name was?” Clint asked, pulling himself off the floor and out of the blanket spider web.

           “I didn’t,” she called over her shoulder. “But it’s Natasha.”

           “It’s nice to meet you, Natasha.”

A Pleasure to Kill

Natasha had a type, a type of person she liked to kill. Clint Barton, the sideshow attraction at the local circus, fit just that type. Natasha liked the way those eyes lit up when the crowd’s cheers reached his ears, liked the way he ran a hand through sandy blonde hair just before he stepped out of the shadows and into the spotlight. He was an ace with a bow and arrow, the thunk of the arrow sinking into the bull’s eye of the target time and time again bringing the audience to its feet.

She sat in the highest level of the bleachers, looking down at the show and smiling. It was all too easy to imagine sinking a blade into the thick muscles of his arms, of shooting him in the chest and watching as he gasped and writhed on the ground for air. She was certain that despite her smaller stature she would have no problem holding him down and wrapping her thin, slender fingers around his neck and choking the life out of him.

“And now, an audience favorite, the Amazing Hawkeye!” The ringleader called. “Capable of shooting a bull’s-eye from a thousand feet with nothing but a bow and an arrow.”

Natasha wondered if that were true.

The thunk of the arrow was a familiar sound and one that sent chills through Natasha’s body.

Oh yes, Clint Barton would be a pleasure to kill.