be_compromised | Promptathon 2013

Entry tags:

Promptathon 2013

Hello, lovely patrons of the bar! It is now the month of July. Do you know what that means? It’s time for:

The Good Ship C/N Promptathon
of Magic and Joy: Round 2

Are you excited? I know I am!

RULES ON POSTING SUBMISSIONS
(please read before you post! <3)

The Rules. Just follow these three easy steps!

1. Leave a Prompt.
Prompts can be anything--simple or elaborate, words or pictures, songs or poems, lyrics or phrases. Anything that, to you, inspires a C/N fanwork. Use your imagination. Go crazy. All we ask is that you place anything NSFW under a cut or link, use trigger warnings when appropriate, and place anything spoiler-y under a cut with a warning. If you’re posting large images, please be mindful of members with slower Internet connections and place the image under a cut or link. Also, try to be as specific as you can with your prompts--this is often very helpful to those creating the fanwork.

And leave as many prompts as you want. I’m serious. Keep coming back, y’all. We want all the prompts we can possibly get Also, be sure to leave each prompt as a separate comment.

2. Wait a week.
Keep leaving prompts and plan your fanworks! This is a time for celebration and creating all of the things.

3. Submit C/N fanwork like there is no tomorrow.
All submissions should either be posted here or linked to this post via a comment. We will make an official post about rules in the time leading up to submissions. Please read it before posting, as responsible partying is to be encouraged at all times.

Timeline

Prompting starts today, July 7^th (or 8^th if you’re in my part of the world ;) ), and will remain open until July 17^th. Submissions will start on July 17^th, and will remain open until August 1.

What we hope to accomplish with all this promptathon-iness:

A chance to get in the game. Been wanting to jump into the C/N fanwork scene but not sure where to start? Now’s the time. There’s no length requirement on the works submitted, you can focus on drabbles and vidlets and short and sweet projects (or do longer more epic stuff if that strikes your fancy as well). It’s really entirely up to you. We’re just hoping to provide a fun, no-pressure environment.

Meet new and awesome people. Newbie or lurker? Here is the perfect opportunity to say hello!

Ship like you’ve never shipped before.

If you have any questions, feel free to contact the mod team.

Have fun, everyone!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Ideas I can do, it's writing, or rather finishing writing that bites ;)

It's brilliant!!! Thank you, you made my evening! I'm struggling with my own fic as we speak and I'm grumpy as the grumpy cat and this cheered me up!

You cannot imaging how much I am squeaking at you two *laughing*. I was so convinced only Ashie and I would find it fun. \o/!! Thank you!

Are you serious???? This is so awesome, I can't even! I love the spelling mistakes in Clint's posts and tags and even his URL, so him :D And Nat with the food and the art and all... I love the tags! "evil sheep" *lol*

:DD I got to say, my favorite post right now (it sort of rotates) is the response to Nat asking what he has against the sheep.

Clint: They killed my parents.
#my cause is just

But '#your so vain you probably think this waffle si about you' also makes me glad

I kind of have a tag addiction. :DD <33

The moment Natasha realizes she loves Clint Barton is nothing special, nothing unique.

She’s sitting across from him in the greasy little Manhattan diner that’s rapidly becoming something like a tradition they share. He’s been her partner for three years, thirty-six months of fighting and killing and fucking away the pent-up adrenaline.

Later she won’t be able to say what it is that’s changed—something in his bizarre ritual of eating post-mission breakfast, like the key to the parts of her mind she still can’t understand might lie somewhere at the bottom of a plate. Natasha watches the deftness of his fingers as he cuts up a sausage and spears a piece onto a forkful of syrup-drenched french toast, and suddenly she can’t imagine her life without the easy comfort of his presence, without the good humor that takes her outside of herself, makes her feel whole in a way that she never has been.

Read on AO3 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/886362)

Yaaayyy cheering up! Good luck with your fic, and there's no harm in taking a night off to watch fluff. Posting is open until August! :) <3

Oh man, those were the ones that had me laughing out loud as well :D

I just love the tags :D

It’s not human, what Tony builds for her, what his fingers piece together and meld into a functioning machine. Small and silver and nestled in the cavity of her ribs, tucked under the ivory curve of re-healed bone and red flesh, it beats and beats and keeps her alive, keeps her breathing. He lies with his head on her breast, listening to the rhythm of her inhalations, the rise and fall of her chest. She is sleeping, or near as, her head tipped towards his shoulder and her limbs loose on the sheets, easy and graceful despite the change. Under his ear it beats and beats and repeats, and he wonders what else the explosion has taken from him.

A hand slides gently through his hair, and it seems Natasha isn’t as unaware as he assumed.

“What are you thinking?” She asks, voice traveling through her bones, sounding as amused as if she follows his thoughts. He knows how she feels, knows she accepts the mechanical heart as easily as her own one, her broken one, her bone-studded and shrapnel-laced one. [The cracks of Bruce opening her rib cage, the slick feel of her heart as he pressed it into Clint’s hands (“Massage it, keep it going, it’s the only chance we have-”), in the background above a dull roar Rogers yelling for someone, for anyone, for Stark…]

Her fingertips brush against his scalp, light and taking nothing in return, and he tips his head back to meet her knowing gaze. There’s the smallest smile on her lips, curving ever so slightly upwards under her lidded eyes.

They don’t say the words, have never asked the question, but with the gears and electricity flickering away underneath their touching skin, he finds it is closer now more than ever.

She looks at him as though she can hear it, as though she’s been waiting, and the glow in her smile settles something in his chest.

Her hand shifts, gliding down his bare skin to rest over his heart, and in the syncopation of their pulses Clint finds he has come home.

Edited 2013-07-18 02:49 (UTC)

BRILLIANT!

The "Lost in Translation" bricks on Natasha's -- LOL!

"I will adopt him and give him thrusters."

I'm still giggling. =D

:D :D ! Thank you so much! I love the weird stuff tumblr has /fond

So my little wordplay turned into an 8 page bit of writing. A quick excerpt;

“It’s a cue.”

“A cue stick,” he clarified. “Care to name the parts?”

With one almost bored finger she tapped the top skinny portion, “This is the pointy end that hits the ball.”

“It’s the tip,” he defined with a straight face. Placing his hand over hers, he directed Natasha to move down the smooth wood, making her rub on an area while he explained. “Here we have the shaft where the tip is attached. And down here is the butt; the larger and opposite end of the tip.”

It was clear to him Natasha had to struggle to contain her amusement upon suddenly understanding his purpose. “Is there a preferred way to handle the cue stick?”

What could his answer be...? (http://oddbunny-dreams.livejournal.com/12267.html)

The rain had been falling steadily for three days, but it didn’t feel oppressive. Clint had grown up loathing the rain. Rain kept people in their homes, which meant the tickets stayed in the little box that Carson’s daughter kept in her truck. Rain soaked the equipment, the animals, the people. It made everything damp, and miserable, and it sounded like gunshots on the tarp over the bed of the 1957 Chevrolet truck that Clint and Barney used to curl up in at night and pretend their bones weren’t shaking loose from their skin with the cold. The crop farmers in the Midwest where Carson’s traveling circus might have cheered for the rain, but the circus performers regarded it as the greatest enemy.

A lifetime removed from that little boy, Clint Barton sat at the window and watched sheets of water drip to the streets of Seattle. Outside, locals in GoreTex wandered through, unperturbed by the wet. To them, it was simply another day. They had no reason to dislike the rain.

The assignment had been a gimme, in and out in thirty minutes to steal some information from a defense contractor that Nick Fury felt had been getting a little too nosy about SHIELD. A rookie could have done it, but Fury had sent Natasha. And she hadn’t needed backup, but Clint had tagged along anyway. SHIELD’s idea of a vacation, he knew.

They’d gone to the Pike Market place, the Space Needle, Gasworks Park, all of it. Just a couple of tourists in rain gear that was so new, it shone like a copper penny. Because they weren’t supposed to report back for days, their pace had been unhurried. Clint had dragged Natasha to a couple of local breweries; she’d returned the favor by tugging him into one art gallery after the next. They’d taken a naps and lazed the day away, piled on each other like contented puppies.

It was nice. Except for the rain.

He heard her footsteps behind him—Nat’s way of being lazy—but didn’t turn. “Next time we need to get Fury to send us somewhere sunny,” he said.

Natasha leaned over his shoulder to hand him a mug of coffee: half the reason to love Seattle. “Mm,” she said. “Though I like it here.”

“You do?” He twisted to look at her.

“Indeed.” She nudged him a little to get him to scoot forward on the window seat—SHIELD had paid a little garret-style apartment—and slid in behind him, her hands wrapped around a coffee mug. He leaned back against her warmth. “I like the rain.”

“I don’t.”

She rested her forehead against the back of his neck, and he felt her lips curve against the material of his shirt. “I know.”

“It gets everywhere,” Clint said. Outside, a woman in a bright pink rain slicker waved at an old man with a dog. “Then you have mold, and rot, and it’s always either cold or too hot. You ever been on a thirty-six hour sniper post in the rain, Tash?”

“Tell you what, I shall wait in the rain next time, and you can fight off three Hydra agents while wearing five-inch heels and a cocktail dress.”

As always, her dry-as-the-Sahara tone made him laugh. He took a sip of the coffee. “I don’t have the hips for it.”

“We’ll have to see.” Natasha hooked an arm around his chest so that she was basically hugging him from behind. “But you forget something about the rain, Barton.”

“It’s inconvenient?”

“We met in the rain.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “I guess it can’t be all that bad, then.”

“Guess not,” Natasha said, and they fell quiet. Dry and warm, they watched through the window as the rain continued to fall.

Tasha hugging Clint from behind is one of my favorite things ever! Their easy banter was wonderful, I laughed out loud out the cocktail dress mentioned and her closing argument was just adorbs. All the love for this fic, thanks for bringing the fluff <3

Title: AfterMath
Author: alphaflyer
Rating: Teen
Characters/Pairings: Clint/Natasha
Disclaimer: All I own is a stack of unreimbursed travel receipts (not to mention the bill for the antibiotics)
Warnings: None, except for a bit of swearing and assassin-level violence
Summary: Paperwork sucks, especially when you're having to calculate the cost of things you'd rather not tally.

____________

“I fucking hate paperwork.”

“It gets done more quickly if you don’t waste energy whining about it, Clint.”

He glares at her across their respective desks, which are pushed together in true S.H.I.E.L.D. space-saving fashion. It’s only Strike Team Delta’s “seniority” -- and perhaps Barton’s way with impromptu projectiles when forced to sit at a desk -- that has resulted in them having an actual, if tiny, office, rather than being stuck in Dilbert World on the lower decks.

His side of the double desk is currently covered in paper. Meal receipts, boarding passes, those CCTV tapes he removed from the hotel in Berlin. Plus several blank claims forms, because he always messes something up and has to start over again.

Horizontal filing, he calls his approach. Everything within easy reach. Of course, the way he tends to go about things, the system morphs into geological stratification pretty quickly. (Until Natasha started riding herd on her partner – and Accounting insisted they file their expenses together -- he used to pile up receipts until they required carbon dating, not to mention give Finance conniptions when they eventually had to issue five-figure reimbursement cheques.)

“Whining helps me focus,” he says, and runs his hand through his spiky hair, causing it to stand up even more than usual. Natasha suppresses the urge to lean across and smooth it down. (It actually looks quite soft, despite those spikes.)

“Then focus. Are you claiming for dinner for that evening we had hors d’oeuvres at the reception?”

Accounting values consistency, and has been known to check up on them. They still don’t trust her. Or him. Them.>/i>

“You mean that thing at the Japanese ambassador’s? All they had was raw fucking fish, in fancy little shapes. Had to order room service pizza afterwards so I wouldn’t starve. I’m sure as hell claiming that.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. Clint will happily eat Chinese takeout three times a day and won’t blink at a paint-stripper caliber Vindaloo, but nice, healthy sushi? Philistine.

“I’m resubmitting the claim for my t-shirt, by the way,” he says, à propos of nothing. Her pen pauses in midair as she ponders the implications.

“That was three missions ago, Clint. Odessa. Plus, they’ve rejected it three times already.”

“Point of principle,” he shrugs. “Bullet hole in the line of duty. And the blood didn’t come out, either. My favourite Springsteen shirt, from the Born In The USA tour, 1985. A fucking antique, up there with Coulson’s trading cards. D’you know how much I paid for that thing on e-Bay…?”

He’s on a rant now; there’s no way to stop him, and so she doesn’t even bother to try.

“… and all they want to give me is the standard $14.99 for, Quote, personal t-shirt lost on mission, End Quote. I figure I’ll wear them down eventually, if they have to recalculate my claims every time they insist on taking it out.”

Really, what is there to say? He has a point, even if his stubbornness will probably hold up settlement of both their claims until beyond the due date for the S.H.I.E.L.D. AmEx bill; they’ll both get snippy e-mails from Accounting if they don’t pay it off.

Clint scrunches up his nose and studies a red-stained piece of paper.

“What’d we take a taxi from or to on the thirteenth? Involving blood?”

.............................

Rea the full story here:

AO3 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/888359)

or here:

FFN (http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9503894/1/)

Edited for two small fixes in the quoted text.

Edited 2013-07-18 15:30 (UTC)

She sees him drinking coffee straight out of the pot and just like that, she knows.

Natasha sets her go-bag on the counter and lets out a sigh. The kitchen doesn’t look damaged, but that doesn’t mean a thing. “Skrulls?”

“Mm—nope.” Clint wipes at some coffee spillage on his chin. “Bugs this time. Huge ones. Ugly as sin. They came, they saw, they broke. We are now the proud owners of one chafing dish—why do we have that?—that I think was probably Hulkproof anyway, two I Love Iron Man mugs, and a single dessert plate. And this coffeemaker that Kate just dropped off. I’ve named her Patti, as in LuPone, because damn, she sings.”

Natasha makes a face. “Patti aside, that’s not promising.”

“Hey, there are positives.” Clint offers her the coffee pot; she declines. It’s a more palatable choice than using the coffee mugs Tony gave them as a housewarming present when she officially made the move into Clint’s apartment (after they took down the Tracksuit Draculas, which was a saga in its own right), but she’s been on her feet for thirty-six hours and if she drinks coffee, she’s pretty sure her system is going to jump straight out of her body and do the can-can on the counter. “The bugs got stuff everywhere, so I had to clean it up real nice. For once, you come home to a clean place.”

“I’d rather come home to dishes.” But Natasha notices another positive, one she won’t share: Clint’s only got a couple of bandages on, and one of them is probably from shaving. He has a bad habit of throwing himself into a battle, injuries be damned, so it’s a relief to see him whole. She leans her forehead against his shoulder. “Please tell me the bed is still intact.”

“And made. Look who’s a good boyfriend.”

She gives him a long kiss. “Eh, you’re all right,” she says, and he grins, shifting so that she’s stuck between the countertop and him. She gives him a gentle push. “I’m going to go get a few hours horizontal. Don’t buy any dishes until I can come with you.”

He squints at her. “Aw, why not?”

“Because the last set you picked was, to use your words, ugly as sin, Clint.”

“They had clowns. Clowns are funny.”

“And that is exactly what I’m talking about. Wait for me before you buy dishes.”

“Glad you’re back,” Clint says, and Natasha smiles a little before she stumbles in the direction of the bedroom. She pauses in the doorway and stares at the a giant four-foot hole in the wall between the bedroom and the bathroom. There are arrows embedded into the walls on either side. Magazines and spare clothes litter the floor, so that it looks like some kind of tornado has ripped through the room. In the middle of it, an island of sanity, the bed with its purple sheets and bullseye throw on top of her expensive (thankfully undamaged) duvet is neatly made.

She decides that she’ll care about the hole later, and flops onto the bed. The room might look like the ground zero for the apocalypse, but the pillows smell like him. She drifts off to sleep thinking about dishes.

Edited 2013-07-18 17:17 (UTC)

That is beautiful! What a disturbing image for Clint to carry around but he has a whole Natasha to touch and feel until those images and memories fade! Wonderful story!

The pillows smell of him... there was absolutely nothing about this fic I didn't like :D Perfect to come home to after a long day at work, this made me smile for the first time in hours :D

LOVELOVELOVE!!!

"I’ve named her Patti, as in LuPone, because damn, she sings.” And this: "But Natasha notices another positive, one she won’t share: Clint’s only got a couple of bandages on, and one of them is probably from shaving. He has a bad habit of throwing himself into a battle, injuries be damned, so it’s a relief to see him whole." SO PERFECTLY HAWKGUY.

You made my morning (alright, early afternoon ...) :-) Thank you!! *hugs*

Yay! Mission accomplished, then. :) This is a fic that was written entirely to bring smiles. I'll go make one of them cry and depress everybody later. Muhahaha.

It was originally Bebe Neuwirth because I thought it'd be hilarious for Clint and Natasha to own a coffeemaker named Bebe, but then I changed it to Patti, and my friend pointed it out that Clint is getting more and more fabulous with every edit of this story. And yeah, Hawkguy and his bandages. It's actually really funny to see all of them. As a joke, Natasha starts buying him Black Widow bandaids, but the rest of the team gets him ones with little bullseyes.

Very welcome! This prompt made me laugh when I read it, and this idea hit me on the drive this morning, and I couldn't resist.

Aww yiss :D I shall be looking forward to that too ;)

She's actually kind of a cuddlemonster, given her druthers. This is something that none of the other Avengers know, and Clint is perfectly happy to keep that secret. Muhaha.

And, awww, thanks! I'm glad you liked it and that you commented even though you've already read it before. You're aces. :)

Great fluff is one of the awesomest things there are. And it stands up to the rain. Loved the "cocktail dress and heels" remark -- so very Ginger Rogers. Awesome!

OMGGGG this is way better than I had even hoped. Fantastic stuff. :D

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 21 of 30

Promptathon 2013

no subject

Re: TUMBLRS: That Time Nat Got A Tumblr, with guests Clint and Tony (and JARVIS), rated: G/T

Re: TUMBLRS: That Time Nat Got A Tumblr, with guests Clint and Tony (and JARVIS), rated: G/T

Re: TUMBLRS: That Time Nat Got A Tumblr, with guests Clint and Tony (and JARVIS), rated: G/T

Re: TUMBLRS: That Time Nat Got A Tumblr, with guests Clint and Tony (and JARVIS), rated: G/T

FIC: Pulse, rated M, graphic depictions of violence

Re: TUMBLRS: That Time Nat Got A Tumblr, with guests Clint and Tony (and JARVIS), rated: G/T

Re: TUMBLRS: That Time Nat Got A Tumblr, with guests Clint and Tony (and JARVIS), rated: G/T

fic: describe the sky to me, rated: PG-13, warnings: bare skin and medical gore

Re: TUMBLRS: That Time Nat Got A Tumblr, with guests Clint and Tony (and JARVIS), rated: G/T

Re: TUMBLRS: That Time Nat Got A Tumblr, with guests Clint and Tony (and JARVIS), rated: G/T

Fic; Scratching the (Cue) Ball, M, warnings; NSFW sexy time, language, blatantly ridiculous innuendo

FIC: The Memory of Rain, Rated G, no warnings

Re: FIC: The Memory of Rain, Rated G, no warnings

FIC: AfterMath

FIC: Domestic...Bliss? Rated G, no warnings; characters: Hawkguy!Clint, Natasha

Re: fic: describe the sky to me, rated: PG-13, warnings: bare skin and medical gore

Re: FIC: Domestic...Bliss? Rated G, no warnings; characters: Hawkguy!Clint, Natasha

Re: FIC: Domestic...Bliss? Rated G, no warnings; characters: Hawkguy!Clint, Natasha

Re: FIC: Domestic...Bliss? Rated G, no warnings; characters: Hawkguy!Clint, Natasha

Re: FIC: Domestic...Bliss? Rated G, no warnings; characters: Hawkguy!Clint, Natasha

Re: FIC: Domestic...Bliss? Rated G, no warnings; characters: Hawkguy!Clint, Natasha

Re: FIC: The Memory of Rain, Rated G, no warnings

Re: FIC: The Memory of Rain, Rated G, no warnings

Re: fic: describe the sky to me, rated: PG-13, warnings: bare skin and medical gore