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ain't nothing wrong with that (a summer comment fic meme)
IT'S COMMENT!FIC MEME TIME!
This time, we're taking inspiration from a fabulous article titled 50 Mistakes Every Woman Should Make, and by fabulous I mean RICH WITH POSSIBILITIES.
As with all comment!fic memes, it goes a little something like this:
Any fandom. Any pairing. Any genre. Any rating. Crossovers. RPF. Have at it!
Prompts
Reply with a character/pairing and a prompt, using one of the items or part of an item from the 50 Things list (the list can apply to men, too!) (e.g. Avengers, Coulson/Darcy, "reply all accidentally" or Trek, Chapel, "scream at someone who does something really fucked up" or a million other possible things! BE CREATIVE. LET YOUR DESIRES BE KNOWN.) and hopefully a kind soul will write you a fic.
Length
Drabbles, comment!fic, whatever you like. If you want to write something longer, please do. Just link back to your journal.
Authors
Respond to a prompt or write something of your own and post it in the comments.
Readers
Say nice things about the fics that have been written.
Everyone is welcome, so don't be shy to prompt and/or write something. Most importantly: HAVE FUN! (And invite your friends!)
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It's not going to work out.
Natasha knows that before it even happens, before Steve manages to stammer out an invitation for dinner. She can't even say anything at first, because she's not sure she understands him--it's that unexpected. "I'm sorry; did you just ask me to dinner?" she says, and it sounds much harsher than she meant.
Steve flushes red, and she holds out her hands. "I'm not saying no," she says. "I just . . . didn't hear you." It sounds weird to her own ears, because although it's the truth, it's never something she thought she'd say out loud.
"Yes," he says quietly. "Dinner. Saturday?"
"Yes," she says, because how could she say no? It's not going to work out, but that's not a good reason not to go on a date in the first place.
The smile he gives her is blinding, but he high-tails it out of the kitchen before she can say anything else. It's a good opportunity to watch his ass, though, which is a thing of beauty. She smiles.
"It's not going to work out," she says to Pepper, who is standing outside of the dressing room, waiting for Natasha to finish putting on the dress and model it.
"The dress? I can get it in a different size," Pepper says.
"No, not the dress," Natasha says, tying the straps at the neck behind her head and smoothing the bodice before opening the door. "Actually, the dress is working just fine." It's a halter dress, in a very fifties style; she doesn't know where Steve is taking her for dinner, but this dress will be appropriate for just about anywhere.
"It looks great," Pepper says. "What's not going to work?"
"Steve and me," Natasha says. "I think I need new shoes."
"One always needs new shoes," Pepper says. "What makes you think it won't work?"
Natasha winces. "You've met Steve. You've met me." She inspects her backside in the mirror.
"Your butt is adorable," Pepper says. "For that matter, so is his. Clearly it'll work out just fine."
Natasha blinks, and then laughs.
"It's not going to work out," she says to Clint, in response to his opening sally of, "So, you've got a date tomorrow night." She is sure she doesn't want to talk about it, but it's Clint.
"You think?" Clint says, and fires off seven rounds from his gun in quick succession. "Why not?" He starts reloading the magazine.
Natasha raises an eyebrow at him.
"What, because you're Russian and he's the epitome of American? Cold War's over, Nat."
She rolls her eyes. "Yeah. Sure. That's the reason I meant."
Clint shrugs and fires off another seven rounds. "Seriously, Nat, I can't think of any reason why it shouldn't work out."
She actually throws the safety on her gun, points it at the floor, and turns to give him a look. "Seriously?"
"Don't sell yourself short," he says cryptically, and goes back to shooting.
"Don't say a word, Stark," she says. It's three AM Saturday morning, sixteen hours before her date with Steve, and she's sitting at the kitchen table when Tony walks in.
"I didn't say anything!" he says, holding his hands up. "I wasn't going to say anything."
"Yes, you were," she says, and sighs.
He opens the fridge and pulls out a container of some green sludge, drinking straight from the bottle. "Is everything okay?" he asks, after he wipes his mouth off.
"Not after watching you drink pond scum without pouring it into a glass," she says.
He laughs. "Hey, look--"
"I told you not to say anything," she says.
"Okay," he says, and drinks out of the bottle again.
"Oh, for--just go ahead and say it," she says, putting her head into her hands, because it's Tony and he'll say it anyway.
"Just--give it a chance?" he says, and it's so not what she expects to hear. "I mean, if you break him, we'll have issues, but don't fuck it up by not trying."
Cogent relationship advice from Tony Stark. At three in the morning. What is the world coming to? "If you promise to use a fucking glass," she says, and he laughs and salutes her with the bottle.
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Steve meets her in the foyer; he's wearing slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie, but no jacket. She's wearing the halter dress and four-inch heels. "You look nice," he says and smiles warmly.
"So do you," she says. Nice. It's the problem.
He opens doors for her and holds out her chair and shortens his stride so he walks at her pace. He doesn't try to order for her, he doesn't comment on her meal, and he offers his coat when it gets chilly.
She kills people.
Well, not tonight, but in general, she kills people. There's a knife in her garter; her bracelets aren't actually bracelets; her necklace is hollow and actually has poison in it; the stiletto heels of her shoes have steel cores. And the thing is, she doesn't even need any of them; she can kill people with her bare hands.
She looks down at her silverware (two forks, two spoons, two knives; no serrated edges but she could kill someone with any of them) and then back up at Steve.
He smiles at her and says, "Twenty-nine."
"Twenty-nine?"
"I'm guessing there are twenty-nine objects on this table, not counting your hands or bracelets, that you could use to kill someone."
Natasha stares at him for a moment, and then looks at the table again. "Thirty-one," she says.
"Darn," he says. "What did I miss?"
Maybe this will work out.
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