➸ They Will Rock You by SneakyHufflepuff

Warnings: none 
Characters: Clint, Natasha, Mcu!Avengers, Darcy Lewis, Kate Bishop, Loki, Fury
Genres: alternate universe, romance| Smut: none (brief mention) 
Word count: 27081 | Status: complete

My comment: It’s a finished Clintasha medieval AU! How rare!

Sir Nicholas Fury, Slayer of Evil and Defender of the Realm, lay collapsed against a squat tree. Steve knelt in front of the wounded knight, squeezing water from a cloth into Fury’s mouth, but it was of no use. He was fading, and fading fast. A spear wound to his side had become infected. There was nothing either of his squires could do.
“Barton and Rogers. Listen up.” Fury’s voice was gruff and authoritative, even as he approached death. “This land is a shithole, and if you stay here much longer you’ll be the ones at the receiving end of a spear.” He coughed, flecks of blood landing on his armor.
“Tell me something I don’t already know, sir,” Clint said, hiding his grief at his master’s illness behind snark. Fury wouldn’t want tears.
“Shut it, Barton. I don’t have much time left.” Fury took a steadying breath, then winced at the pain. “When I came here I had hope of lands and a wife if I served long enough. You two don’t have that. You do have my armor and my horses. Take them, and go on the tourney. Make your money from the noble bastards and get out.”
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➸ We Were Emergencies by gyzym

Warnings: none 
Characters: Clint, Natasha, Loki 
Genres: angst, hurt/comfort, romance | Smut: yes 
Word count: 37154 | Status: complete

My comment: Aside from some names wrongly spelt, you’re going to love the plot, the idea, the story and the everything.

Clint leaves it for two days, three days, a week, drowns himself in good vodka and bad calls, does his best not to think about it. He’s watched Natasha play this game before, post-apocalypse patch jobs—because that’s what this is, really, whether he’ll say it out loud or not. The end of the world can land hard even if the world’s still spinning; nothing quite like a good bout of mind control to remind you that you’re not in control at all.
He leaves it for a week, seven aching days where he doesn’t speak to anyone, doesn’t read the news, hides his phone underneath the hotel mattress and doesn’t go outside. He leaves it for a week, because it’s supposed to be his turn, damn it; he leaves it for a week because he knows the truth, if he’s honest, suspected it the moment he woke up and knew it for certain when she let him walk away. A week is as long as he can let himself live in limbo, can play at excuses and drown it in drink. On the eighth day, he picks up his phone.

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