Well hello there! I've been lurking around here and in AO3 for quite some time, and I've discovered some really high quality fics. I'm still trying to put together something longer than two paragraphs myself, but it's a bit hard because English is not my mother tongue.

Anyway prompts: Natasha discovers she's pregnant in Valentine's Day (because I'm a sucker for babyfics and in my headcanon AoU never happened). She is not amused.

Welcome! Glad you found us. :D If you ever do write a fic, feel free to post it here! We have several members who speak English as a second language.

(speaking as a teacher: appropriate icon is very appropriate)

High school teacher!AU

Or alternatively, Natasha and Clint have to go undercover as high school staff.

lease note that this is the mish-moshiest of all Marvel universes. And silliness. Also, there's only a little bit of Clint/Nat. Consider yourself warned.

----

Phil came striding out of his office and almost ran directly into one of his best teachers.

"Melinda, I'm glad you're here. I have a thing I need to talk to you about."

"If it's about the cheerleaders newest fundraising scheme, I've already talked to Cassie and Kamala about it. They're willing to tone down the politicizing a little bit."

Phil shot her a confused look. What was going on with the cheerleaders? On the other hand, the less he knew about whatever was going on, the better. Plausible deniability and all that.

He shook his head.

"No. I wanted to talk to you about Barton."

"Oh?"

"Listen, I know he's been having a hard time of it lately, what with breaking up with Bobbi, but we can't have him fighting with our new languages teacher. We need a languages expert too much. Can you talk to him?"

"I can try, but you should probably know that Barton's recent irritability isn't because of Bobbi," Melinda said.

"It's not?"

She shook her head.

"He got a dog."

"A dog?" Coulson repeated. "I don't understand. Did the dog somehow steal all his coffee?"

The smallest of smiles appeared on Melinda's face.

"Apparently the mutt is as poorly trained as Barton himself. He said he's been keeping him up all night. Hence, not a lot of sleep, not enough coffee, yada yada...."

Coulson sighed. "Ok. Got it. Get to class. I'll talk to Barton myself this afternoon about our languages teacher. But Melinda?"

"Yes?"

"If there's anything -- and I do mean anything -- you can do to put in a good word about Ms. Romanoff with him? I'd really appreciate it."

Melinda nodded.

(This turned out much longer - for me! - than anticipated at about 2500 words, so the rest is over on Ao3 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/9795446))

Wishing well.

Obviously a major miscalculation.

The Bowling Green Massacre.

Edited 2017-02-07 09:15 pm (UTC)

If i'd been drinking anything right now I would have just choked. Just so you know ;)

Clint is backpacking on a shoestring budget. (He may or may not have dragged his rich friend Kate along, or she may have instigated this. Could be post-circus or post-army or a complete AU.)

Natasha is on an organised trip or package holiday (or on a job or just finished a job, depends how AU yoh want this) and she's bored.

Travelling happens.  And other things.

(YAY it's prompting time! I've been saving some for just this occasion *grins*)

This speaks to me on many levels.

Clint works for a National Park. Natasha works for the Mirriam Webster Dictionary or Teen Vogue. They meet. In person or online.

Teen Vogue reporter Natasha was hell-bent on finding out who was behind that Rogue National Parks twitter account, and whether their spelling was deliberately atrocious just to throw people off his scent.

They meet on a train. Everyone's travelling somewhere.

Every kind of sex act you can think of, the Black Widow has been there, done that. But this is new. (It's not what you do, it's how you do it. And who you do it with.)



Edited 2017-02-07 10:23 pm (UTC)

Kinda along these same lines I was going to prompt that when she's having sex for her own pleasure (and it's pretty much my headcanon that Clint's the first/only one she's had sex with for herself) Natasha finds she's really quite vanilla and likes missionary -- she likes feeling surrounded by Clint.

Natasha designs/creates clothing for a certain kind of woman. One who wants to be able to carry multiple weapons unseen whilst showing off a hell of a lot of skin. Computer power hidden in jewellery. Boots with secret compartments. Garrotte wires in belts. Diguised tasers. Stylish, practical clothing and accessories with...an edge.

Clint is looking for a present for Kate/Bobbi/lady of your choice. (Possible extra: the ex-carnie wouldn't mind a few things himself.)

No capes!

Could this be a side job/hidden talent of Natasha's -- one that no one at SHIELD knows about? It started small, but gradually got more and more popular.

Gender fluid Natasha. Bisexual Clint. Asexual character. Anything you like. Infinite varieties in infinite possibilities :)

GAAAAAAAH GAAAAAAH. I've been wanting to do something with gender fluid Nat or asexual Nat for awhile...but I've had a hard time finding the right idea...

Moving up levels in SHIELD comes with new requirements and responsibilities, as promotion does. Natasha reaches the level where she has to teach/train others. (She can't wait to be classed as a Specialist so she doesn't have to deal with this shit. Not that Specialists don't teach/train at all, but it's rare and on request and refuseable, not part of the job description with topics chosen by senior officers.)

In other words: as part of the undercover training course Natasha has to teach seduction and Clint signs up. (Being ine if the good guys means she's not allowed to kill him, right?)

(A SHEILD early-ish days fic)

"Contrary to popular belief, I don't actually know everything, Clint."

SHEILD is a sort of dating agency. In which Natasha helps people with body language, clothing, getting their confidence back (*cough*Steve*cough*) and Clint's speciality (a la that flying monkeys fic) is coming up with senarios/suggestions/date planning, but his ideas are ridiculous. Yet always successful! From bad cinema choices and the arm stretch (but then neither of that couple pay attention to the film and they bond over it and get married that year or something) to the hugely over the top (oh god, what if he gave Tony advice?). And Natasha just does. not. understand. how. they. ever. work.



Edited 2017-02-08 08:47 am (UTC)

Insomniacs (or just nightmare laden souls) unite.

Here it is then:

Natasha doesn't believe in heaven, but looking back, she can only describe this as the closest she'll ever get. Bright days and warm nights, under a golden light that seemed to shift in and out of her body, slowly but steadily lifting her spirit and buoying her up.

It was nothing special – a small house on a beach, somewhere on a small Mediterranean island. The bed was cramped and the water heater was broken, there was no air conditioning and the mosquitoes were everywhere. As far as accommodations went, they could have done a lot better. But it was August and the sea was splendid –cool and velvety and so calm under the blazing sun that it was like crystal– and the place was secluded so they could shed their clothes on the sand and get into the water naked, and Clint's body moving against hers at nights was enough to chase the mosquitoes away. And who needed hot water anyway, when the time spent in the shower meant less time spent sprawled in a lounger in the yard, looking at a sky full of stars with a glass of wine?

I got a bit away with it, so the rest is in here in AO3 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/9843893). :)

I am a sucker for one trusting the other to take of them when they're vulnerable *happy sigh*

(I should note that this a continuation of a silly little club AU I posted EXACTLY one year ago, but you don't have to read that to know what's going on!)

It was easy to ignore the mess the night before, because there had been only a sliver of moonlight sliding between the curtains, and even less than that between their bodies as Natasha pressed Clint towards his bed. Darkness had disguised the laundry piles and overflowing trash can in shadows, and besides, he liked to think that--though he was out of practice--he was still doing an okay job of holding her attention.
Steve had sworn up and down that rebounding was horrible, but Clint, so far, had no complaints whatsoever. Of course, this might have been because he hadn’t realized this was a date until Natasha had tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, twisted her lipsticked smile into a flirtatious smirk, and murmured, “I’ve got to get out of these heels.”
And whether it was the way the OPEN sign had sizzled neon highlights into her red hair, or the tilted curve of her hip as she stood, or just the fact that it’d been a long time since he’d lingered with someone beautiful far past midnight, Clint had found it too easy to suggest that she stay with him instead of schlepping all the way back up to Little Ukraine. “Bed-Stuy is closer,” he’d reasoned, though it wasn’t, really, and she’d curled such thrilling frisson around her agreement that he shouldn’t have been surprised by the way she’d kissed him against the door and out of his clothes.
But now, now, golden light was seeping like honey into his loft, and everything that light touched was a cluttered jumble of chaos. There were cheese balls spilled across the couch next to a pile of underwear whose last date of wash was indiscernible, especially since his building’s washing machine was broken and so he’d recently been washing his clothes in the sink--except, well, he hadn’t had much motivation to do the dishes lately and so the sink was piled too high with greasy plates to do much laundry, anyway.
Normally, Clint enjoyed waking up early, especially when there was someone gorgeous curled against his chest, but he couldn’t just lie there and let himself get turned into a one night stand horror story, especially since he would prefer for whatever this was to last longer than one night. Natasha slept like ivy, her limbs twined around his like they belonged there, and it was the hardest thing in recent memory to trade her sleepy embrace for rubber gloves. He knew, in his heart of hearts, that having a clean apartment wasn’t going to change whether not not she’d see him again, but it created enough false hope to motivate him through taming the monster pile of plates, dusting all the orange residue off the couch, and, for lack of better solutions, hiding all the laundry in the bottom of his coat closet.
He was drying dishes and brewing coffee when Natasha appeared in the kitchen, sheets tied up under her arms like some kind of goddess. “I like your apartment,” she said, her fiery hair tumbling across her shoulders as she looked around. With a smile that he could only describe as wicked, she added, “It was a lot, mm, scarier last night, though. Nothing that bad,” she assured him with a glint in her eye, “Just stepped on an unexpected cheese ball or five in the bathroom.”
Clint slumped against the counter. It was one thing to be a general slob, but a disgusting bathroom, he knew, was the kiss of death. “I guess that means you don’t want to go for brunch,” he said, trying not to let defeat creep into his tone; this was, after all, his own damn fault.
For a moment, the only sound was the percolation of the coffee, and then Natasha laughed. “You idiot,” she said, pulling his face down to hers. “It means that tonight, we stay at my place.”

I like it!

With Bobbi and Hunter. It turns into a gunfire.

Meep. I'll be singing that all afternoon now.