PROMPTATHON 2015
Welcome to one of the most eagerly-anticipated events on the be_compromised calendar! Are you excited yet???
Just before we get started we do have some info and rules we’d like you to read…
( Read more... )
Just before we get started we do have some info and rules we’d like you to read…
( Read more... )
Here's an exert to wet your appetite; the rest cans be found on
ff.net
Everywhere Natasha looked was pink. Pink seat cushions, pink pillows, pink curtains, pink floral wallpaper, pink frills, pink ribbons, and pink bows. Pink. She hated pink. She wondered if she was going to become one of those insufferable divas who threw a fit whenever they didn't get what they wanted.
She opened the pink door and a wave of dry New Mexico heat hit her solidly in the face. She immediately remembered to be grateful for the pink air-conditioner stuck in a back window of the trailer.
Her eyes fell on a man standing on the pavement, at the base of the metal staircase. He was tall, his head almost level with her shoulder despite her high perch. Natasha was small. She liked to wear heels.
The man had a rugged, suntanned face - which was not to say it wasn't good looking - and was carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers, chrysanthemums, lilacs, and roses. All pink.
"Package for a Ms. Romanoff?" The man said, an almost cheeky lilt to his voice. His grayish blue eyes were gleaming over the top of the flowers with mischievous good-intent.
Natasha groaned, "Oh no." They had followed her even here. Ever since her sudden rise to fame she had been assaulted by all manner of fan mail, gushing admirers, three stalkers that had had to be dealt with by the police, and marriage proposals so numerous she had lost count.
"Yeah, they are pretty horrible," said the man, grin partially obstructed by the mountain of green stems and pink petals. "Where did you want them?"
"Oh, I don't know," Natasha snapped unhappily, "Just put them on a chair or something." She gestured rather hopelessly into the interior of her trailer and stepped aside to let the man in.
He heaved the flowers up the stairs and deposited them on the pink settee. He straightened out and surveyed the rest of her trailer with a rather blank look on his face. He hooked his fingers in his belt. He was dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans scuffed with grass and dirt on the knees. Natasha assumed he was some kind of workman or delivery boy. Finally he whistled, long and low.
"So…is pink like a theme with you?"
Natasha did not deign to answer. She cocked an eyebrow, are you going to leave or shall I show you the way out?
Natasha's message seemed lost on the man. He looked her up and down, eyes lingering on the ample cleavage revealed by her historically inaccurate dress. She met his gaze stonily, refusing to adjust her bustier.
"There's a note. Want me to read it?"
Natasha raised her other eyebrow so it met her first. Fine.
"Flowers for Ms. Natasha Romanoff. May her performance bloom just as beautifully. A.E. Stark."
Oh.
"You can tell Mr. Stark they're lovely," she said, picking out a rose at random and twirling it in her fingers, putting it up to her nose to sniff. Disgusting. Smelled sprayed on. She'd never get the stench out of her trailer now.
The man was looking at her with a strange glint in his eye, as if he saw right through her act. It made her feel uncomfortable.
"Alright, well, thank you for dropping them off." She said, rather forcefully. She hoped he'd get the message.
"No problem. Want to start right up?"
Natasha blinked. "Excuse me?"
"No one told you I was coming over?"
Natasha wracked her brain for something to say. Nothing about this rough-looking, muscular man bearing flowers rang a bell.
Then she recalled, hazily from a phone call late last night, in-between I'll-be-down-tomorrow and don't-worry-about-the-pink-trailer-Nat-I'll-fix-it, that Coulson had mentioned something about a run through with the stunt coordinator.
Nonchalant. Natasha could do nonchalant. "Let me guess, you're the stuntman?"
The man smiled in a faintly self-depreciating but strangely endearing, long-suffering way, "Makeup, actually."
To be continued on ff.net
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