allisnow

So, even though I'm not yet done with the As of Yet Untitled Fic of Way Too Much Plot and Far Too Little Sexytimes, I've been cataloging be_compromised prompathon fic and drooling over the prompts. I was afraid of getting sucked into another story so I gave myself a very strict limit of one drabble per prompt... a real drabble, that is, 100 words exactly.

And I had forgotten how fun and frustrating drabble writing can be. And that I probably shouldn't do it after midnight (it's a little like feeding Mogwai that way). But I did it anyway. Bwahaha.

Prompt: cooking lesson by workerbee73
[Title: For the Soul (G)]Clint sets Natasha to chopping produce, since he knows she’s comfortable with a knife in her hand, and he watches in morbid fascination as she takes out her frustrations on the carrots, onions and celery.


He dices the still-steaming chicken and guides her through the spice cabinet. “Thyme.” “Basil.” “Bay leaves.” She does all the measuring, turning to him for confirmation before dumping it into the pot.

“This is stupid,” she says, and he says, “This is what people do, Tash,” and she says “People are stupid,” and he silently agrees.


They bring Tony chicken soup anyway. And more Kleenex.
* * *

Prompt: sharing a cigarette by workerbee73
[Title: Like Smoke (PG)]

The Black Widow is gone by the time he makes it to the appointed spot. No surprise. She’d given him a bare ten minutes to cover half the city, and he’s not Superman.

This is the third time she’s played this game, set him on a chase, led him on. She’s enjoying herself. But so is he.


He finds the cigarette balanced on the edge of a wrought-iron fence. It’s hers; by now he knows her shade of lipstick. He hasn’t smoked in years, but he takes a drag anyway, because it means putting his lips where hers have been.
* * *

Prompt: you're not a superhero / saving the world to the bitter end by ashen_key
[Title: Not a Soldier (G)]

He’s just gotten himself back, gotten her back, and now she wants to go play soldier.

“What’d Loki do to you?” he asks, but he doesn’t expect a straight answer. He knows she can’t explain it to him if she can’t even explain it to himself. She’s changed since he saw her last in ways that are more important than the length of her hair.

She’s always been angry, but now that anger has been distilled into something else, something strong, possibly toxic.


Her name has always been written in his ledger. First on one side, now on the other.