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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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Note: Karl just turned 40! Eee!
*
A week after he turns 40, Karl is in a bar—the farthest one away from the hotel he could go without ending up in the next city. Turns out the other side of town is like another city, if the peeling paint, scraped up chairs, and smell of desperation permeating the place is any indicator. It’s quite a contrast to his five-star hotel and 200 thread Egyptian cotton sheets.
He fucking loves it.
After ordering and downing a shot of mediocre tequila, then another, Karl settles for a draft of shitty beer. He’s calling for his second draft when the guy next to him stops his arm from rising and says softly, “It’s on me.”
Karl tenses under the hand, but doesn’t shrug out of it, oddly. The tequila must have affected him more than he thought because he just looks down at the fingers curled around his forearm and lets it be.
“Thanks,” he says. The man’s hand finally drops and Karl kind of misses it, actually. People don’t touch him much beyond the requirements of acting and make-up and wardrobe people and the odd brush of fingers when returning his credit card after a purchase.
They sit in a comfortable silence drinking their beers. Karl surreptitiously checks out his neighbor and sees muscled forearms to accompany the strong hands, with well-fitting jeans and a flannel shirt, worn unironically.
“Like what you see?” the man asks. They haven’t given out names and Karl has a feeling they won’t tonight.
“You’ll do,” Karl says.
The man finishes his beer and orders another. This time Karl buys the round.
*
Two hours later they are in the alley behind the bar and Karl is about to drop to his knees when he finds himself flipped around with his back against the wall.
Karl doesn’t attempt to argue, not with one callused hand around his dick and the other groping his ass. He uses his free hands to unbutton his jeans and draw the stranger in closer. The man takes his hand away for a moment to lick it, then brings it down to grasp him more firmly, stroking with purpose while Karl takes the opportunity to bite down on the man’s neck.
It feels one-sided to Karl, this encounter. The man is all about touching him, but not letting Karl even undo his pants or pull up his shirt. He gasps when fingers reach behind him, slick from Karl’s own mouth. He’s pinned to the wall, one leg over the man’s hip, his cock aching. Just then, the man thrusts a finger inside him, then another.
“Okay?” he murmurs, thrusting gently.
“Yeah.” He turns off his thoughts and just feels.
He comes quickly, biting down again on his neck, then licking over the spot, as if to apologize for being rough.
“That was first for me,” Karl says, when he has breath again. He buttons up and pushes away from him to kneel. The man doesn’t stop him. “This though? This, I’m familiar with.”
The man drags his hands through Karl’s hair and sighs while Karl finally gets to touch.
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Neglect servicing your car when it needs servicing.
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Crossover of Trek and SGA, Jim Kirk/John Sheppard, Drunkenly confess your love for a friend with benefits.
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Avengers/Any Jeremy Renner crossover: "The Wrong Twin"
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(Last one I swear... prolly lol)
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(1/2) (Darcy, six-inch-heels sort of at work)
"But I don't need a new suit," Jane said. "My old suit is good enough, isn't it?"
"It's really not," Darcy said, dragging Jane down the hall by the arm. "I'm not even your assistant any more and I got five phone calls about how your old suit isn't good enough."
"Who on earth . . .?"
"Well," Darcy said, "okay, so four of them were from your new assistant, who was panicking because she couldn't think of a good way to convince you that you need a new suit." She stopped in front of the elevator, but kept a hold of Jane's arm. "The fifth one was Pepper Potts, who very politely offered me the use of a Stark Industries credit card if money was an issue."
"Oh," Jane said, and she was very quiet for a long moment after that. "I really need a new suit that badly?" she asked. The elevator dinged, and they stepped into it.
"If you're going to present at the conference this weekend, yes," Darcy said. "Stark Industries doesn't want one of its employees out in public in a suit that looks that crappy."
"I'm not an employee of Stark Industries," Jane said, protesting.
"Yeah, yeah, consultant. Well, they can't exactly say you're a consultant for S.H.I.E.L.D., so for all intents and purposes, Stark Industries is the relevant company here." The elevator opened, and Darcy grabbed Jane again. "Come on. There's a car waiting."
"Where are we going?" Jane asked.
"Rockefeller Center. Don't worry; I took the credit card anyway."
"Oh."
About seven minutes later they were in the building, staring at the list of stores on the kiosk, and Darcy turned to frown at Jane. "Have you ever shopped at any of these stores?"
"I have no idea," Jane said, eyes wide.
Darcy rolled her eyes. "I shouldn't have bothered asking. Okay. There are about ten stores in this mall that carry suits--and I spent all morning Googling exactly what we're supposed to be looking for in a suit, because hell if I knew before that. But now I know, and you are going to be the hottest professionally-dressed astrophysicist on the planet."
Jane snorted. "Well, that's not all that difficult."
"It doesn't mean I'm not going to try my hardest."
Jane looked at her, tilting her head to one side. "Pepper bribed you."
"I am un-bribable!" Darcy said, hand over her heart. "I am doing this out of the goodness of my heart, and under the knowledge that you will throw your old suit out."
Jane narrowed her eyes. "What did she bribe you with? Tell me."
Darcy heaved a sigh. "Shoes."
"Shoes?"
"Shoes," Darcy said. "I wear them. She said I could buy shoes for myself if I made you buy a suit and got it tailored."
Jane nodded. "Okay."
"Okay? So you're going to go along with this?"
"Who am I to stand between you and a new pair of shoes?"
"You're the best," Darcy said feelingly.
Less than an hour later (personal shoppers were amazing), Jane had a new navy-pinstripe suit and three shirts to wear under it. Darcy took a picture of the whole lot and emailed it to Pepper, who sent back, Good. Jane has an appointment with my tailor at 4.
"At four, and it's ten minutes from here," Darcy said. "It's only 2:30."
"I think this means we have time to look for shoes," Jane said.
"And this is why you're still my best friend." Darcy grinned.
Half an hour later, Darcy was wobbling out of Rockefeller Center wearing a pair of shoes with--"Really, Darcy? Six-inch heels?" Jane said. "And you're going to wear them for the rest of the afternoon?"
"They're surprisingly comfortable," Darcy said.
"Any level of comfort better than 'banned by the Geneva convention' would be surprising about six-inch heels," Jane said.
Darcy pursed her lips. "No, I've definitely worn more uncomfortable shoes before."
"It's your funeral," Jane said. "Do you like being that much taller than I am?"
Darcy looked down at Jane--way down--and said, "Yes."
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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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40. Get fingered by a hot stranger in a bar.
How they really met ;)
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50. Let someone take naked pictures of you.
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Honestly I don't want to be mean to her, but she's so damned competent that this image is just getting to me somehow!
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Get your first tattoo at 60
Because they're both definitely older than 60 & it'd be hilarious. (Plus, think of the tattoo artist & his bragging rights at inking both the God of Thunder AND Captain America. And the look on Stark's face if he ever found out about it. *g*)
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