#coughed on my soda while processing it

[crownconstellation]

There are ffuxknigi creatures in my house.

HWJFGDMFGMDFGJ3JJGMH!$iK??????????????????????????????

[rip-quizilla]

Impossible to Hate You ~ Part 5

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!Reader

Summary: Everything is falling- leaves from the trees, rain from the sky, you for Eddie, and Eddie for you.

Word Count: 10.1 K

A/N: Big thanks to @the-unforgivenn (happy birthday❤️) for all of the help you gave me on this chapter, and honestly this whole fic in general. You've been an invaluable part of the writing process of this story, and the fact that you care so much about Eddie & Ace just makes me feel so loved... you don't even know. Ily wifey✨

Thank you @vintagehellfire for your priceless tattoo knowledge- I hope I did you proud!!

Also thanks to @blueywrites for helping me decide on what Eddie would tattoo on reader back in our Tumblr DMs in June😂 y'all that's how long I've had this scene in my brain. This part of the story has been a long time coming.

Divider was created by the lovely and talented @hellfire--cult❤️

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Part 5

Fall, 1983

“Rick, are you serious, man?”

“Dead serious, I’ll sell it to you for twenty.”

You caught the tail end of their conversation as you approached the red plastic picnic table in Forest Hills trailer park. Today was the first day of fall, and while it may not have felt like biting cold and crunchy leaves yet, it did feel like flannels tied around waists and long-dead grass that broke beneath the soles of your shoes. You hopped up onto the surface of the table, swinging your feet around to rest beside Eddie where he sat on the bench. 

“Sell what?” you asked, producing three cans of Coke from your bag that you’d brought from home and handing one to each of the boys. Rick had grown accustomed to your presence since the spring, so he actually cracked a smile when he answered your question and nodded in thanks as he accepted the can.

“Munson wants to buy my old tattoo gun.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait, seriously?” you asked Eddie.

He didn’t take his eyes off Rick. “And I’m wondering what the catch is if you’re selling it to me for so cheap.” 

You cracked open your can of soda with a hiss, joining Eddie in his Rick stare-down. “Hmm,” you mused, “I bet he forgot to clean it and it’s staph-infested.”

“Nope,” Rick popped the ‘p’ after taking a swig from his shiny red can. “Never been used, so I can guarantee it’s staph-free. Always meant to use it, but after that brush with the cops I had last month, I don’t want to risk having it.”

You narrowed your eyes at Eddie, trying to discern whether or not he’d thought about the fact that if he bought it, then he would be in possession of paraphernalia for illegal Indiana activities. 

Then again, you knew he smoked weed and that was most definitely against the law as well, and he hadn’t been caught yet. You trusted him not to be stupid enough to get arrested.

You turned your line of questioning on Eddie. “Why on earth do you need a tattoo gun anyway?”

“Well you see, Ace-” Eddie lifted one of your feet up from the bench, straightening your leg and presenting your right shoe- your white converse, half covered in mythical creatures and random doodles that Eddie had slowly been adding to with his fine-tipped Sharpie ever since you’d bought them in early August. “-it seems that I need a canvas for my art, and it won’t be long before I run out of shoe.” 

You quirked an eyebrow. “So now people are the canvas?” 

Eddie held up his arms, bare skin nearly translucent in the afternoon sun. His nearly-too-small Iron Maiden tee showcased just how much bare skin he had to spare along the contours of his limbs. “If by people you mean me, then yeah.” 

“You’re going to tattoo yourself?”

“Yep!”

“Without practicing on someone else first?”

Eddie smirked, “You volunteering?”

You rolled your eyes, but for some odd reason the idea stuck. You decided to play along. 

“Let’s say I am, what would the tattoo be?” 

Eddie hadn’t anticipated this answer. He was so surprised, in fact, that he choked on the soda that he’d just sipped into his mouth before your question. In a cacophony of coughs and wheezes, Eddie managed to regain his composure as you smiled wryly, feeling as though you’d bested him somehow in some small way. To fluster him with something as small as this, something he hadn’t expected. 

“You’re serious? You want a tattoo?” Eddie responded skeptically, before turning away from you to fiddle with his soda can still held in his hands. 

You shrugged, as if he were asking if you wanted a pizza, not a permanent brand inked on your skin. “Why not? I think I’d look pretty badass with a tattoo.” 

You weren’t sure what was making you feel so bold today, but you had a feeling it might be related to the thought of Eddie covered in ink that wound up and down his skin that was making you ache to touch it when it was still naked and peach-pale. You scooched a couple inches down the tabletop to the left, placing your seat directly behind Eddie’s neck. 

Then, in a stroke of something between bravery, stupidity, and need, you carefully slung your legs over Eddie’s shoulders so that they sat in the bends of your knees.

It was a simple gesture- familiar, even. You made a point to lean back a little, bracing your hands behind you on the tabletop so that the apex of your thighs stayed a good distance from the back of Eddie’s neck. You felt Eddie’s shoulders stiffen, each muscle under your jeans tensing for a moment before relaxing into the closeness. 

Then Eddie brought his hands to your ankles, his fingertips brushing the spare skin between your high tops and the cuffs of your jeans. The pads of his thumbs barely caressed the skin but they felt like a kiss- a thing coveted and then forbidden, then coveted even more. 

His touch drifted over your legs, warm hands coming to rest over your shins and squeeze, heating the denim that separated his skin from yours. You were holding your breath. You’d been so confident a second ago yet here he was, knocking the very air from your lungs. 

You waited anxiously for him to say something; if he didn’t you were sure you were going to do something stupid. Something that would involve more of his skin on your skin.

“Would you want this tattoo of yours to show?” Eddie asked at last, breaking the silence between the two of you- well, the three of you. Rick was still there, taking in the sight before him with a smirk on his face. 

“Not easily, my parents would kill me.” you said, ensuring that your tone of voice was nonchalant, casual. “But I don’t see the harm in something small that I could hide.” 

Eddie tilted his head back and up, earthen eyes flicking up to yours. “What happened to ‘looking badass’?”

You pursed your lips as you leaned forward, bringing your faces to hover parallel over each other. “You’re saying that taking my pants off to reveal a surprise tatty isn’t badass?”

You watched as Eddie’s eyes flashed darker for a split second- nearly imperceptibly so- before his lips stretched sinfully into a mischievous grin. “Oh, under the pants then, huh?” 

His hands traced higher, ghosting on your knees and burning his fingerprints through your jeans. 

“Easy to hide,” you said, struggling to keep your voice even. “It’s a practical placement.”

Eddie’s thumbs stroked absentminded circles into the flesh of your lower thighs, tight denim puckering with the motion. “Practical placement…” he murmured, low enough that it sounded like he hadn’t even meant to say it out loud. 

“You could put it on your hip.”

Both of your heads whipped around to focus on Rick, who was grinning at both of you like he’d just discovered a fun new game to play. He shrugged, hopping up to sit beside you on the tabletop. “You want it to be hidden all of the time, right?” he leaned to shove you congenially with his shoulder. “When’s a good girl like you gonna be showing off some hip? I bet the only one who’ll see that will already be married to you when he lays eyes on-”

“Hey!” you interjected. “You act like I’m some prude, I’m not a nun.” Rolling your eyes, you looked back down at Eddie hoping to meet his gaze and laugh together over how ridiculous Rick was being. However, you looked down only to find Eddie’s chocolate browns trained on Rick with wide-eyed warning. A silent message was clearly being exchanged, but it wasn’t for you.

Rick was smiling smugly down at Eddie, unbeknownst to you, and Eddie was getting the message loud and clear:

It’s time to raise the stakes, kid. 

“Perfect!” Rick chirped, smug eyes still trained on Eddie’s. “So you wouldn’t mind letting Eddie use your hip as his, uh… canvas, then?”

If Eddie’s looks could kill, Rick would be a dead man. 

“Yeah.” you choked out, refusing to give yourself time to chicken out of what you’d gotten yourself into. “Yeah, why not?”

Rainy days in autumn just felt right.

Sure, you were in Latin class. Sure, you were supposed to be working on a packet the substitute teacher had just passed out. However, it was raining outside. The sub was easygoing enough that she hadn’t made a move to stop Eddie from doodling on your shoe that was perched comfortably on the crook of his hip. 

You sat behind him in every class you had together- there were four of them this year- and Eddie had gotten into the habit of reaching back to tap you on the leg whenever he knew he was losing focus. Every time he tapped, you would carefully stretch your leg forward until his hand caught on your ankle, lifting it up until it rested on his lap. His sharpie would go to work on whatever blank spots he could still find on your white converse, and the mindless activity of his drawing would keep his mind awake enough to listen as teachers droned on and on. 

The change in Eddie wasn’t lost on his teachers- they had all noticed the impact that your company seemed to have on him, and it was the only reason why they hadn’t had any issues with your constant companionship. When you were around, Eddie actually paid attention in his classes and turned in work- that was good enough for them.

The silence of the classroom and the soundtrack of rainfall beating against the roof and windows had created the perfect work zone for you, and your focus on your classwork was only interrupted when you noticed a folded piece of torn notebook paper on the edge of your desk. 

Smirking as you felt Eddie continue doodling on your shoe, you unfolded the paper and read the slanted scrawl that you’d come to recognize instantly as Eddie’s handwriting. 

Were you serious about the tattoo thing? It’s OK if you’re not.

Your cheeks heated, contemplating whether you were still serious about it or not. The only fears you had about it were completely logical- Eddie had literally no clue what he was doing. Yours would only be his second tattoo after his own. Worst case scenario, the tattoo would get infected and you go to the hospital. Eddie gets arrested for tattooing without a medical license. Best case scenario… you get to sit there while he grips your naked thigh for as long as it takes to leave a permanent reminder of him on your hip. 

You blinked a couple of times, letting that mental image wash over you, before confidently penning your answer beneath his message. 

I’m serious. 

Folding the scrap of paper and handing it back to him, you felt his Sharpie leave your shoe as he took the note and read it. You watched him register the two words, glance back at you through the loose strands of hair that hung over his shoulder, then smile softly into a shake of his head. A second later, he was handing the note back to you.

If you say so, Ace. What am I tattooing, and where?

You had to think about it for a moment before passing back your answer

Hip is fine. What are you gonna do? We could match.

Eddie’s reply came faster than you’d ever seen him write any of his notes in class, that’s for damn sure.

You want matching tattoos?? Are you sure?

Your heart began to race. Was that bad? Was he judging you for wanting to match him? Maybe you were being too clingy, trying too hard… you glanced down at his jacket, which was wrapped around you almost every day at this point- it was practically a second skin. His handwriting was all over your shoes. You stared at your fingers, scarlet polish chipping from the tips of your nails, and you remembered that you’d chosen red solely because he’d mentioned it was his favorite color. 

Were you coming across as desperate? Were you weirding him out? Maybe you needed to dial it back-

A new piece of paper slid across your desk, Eddie’s eyes glancing your way with nothing but warmth in his gaze before he returned his attention to your shoe on his lap. 

I’m fine with it if you are. 

Putting bats on my forearm. 

You released a breath that you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, giving ways for butterflies to take flight inside your chest. You grinned, jotting down your reply beneath his writing. 

I’m more than fine with it. 

Could you do just one little bat on my hip?

Eddie took a little longer this time with his response, and you understood why once you saw the adorably small silhouette of a bat penned in black on the paper he’d passed back to you. 

You leaned forward, letting your chin nearly brush the fabric of his denim jacket as you whispered low enough that the substitute teacher wouldn’t hear. 

“It’s perfect.”

A snicker from the other side of the classroom caught your ear. Eddie and you both turned to see a cluster of letter-jacketed assholes staring at the two of you, whispering and laughing with each other. 

You knew deep down that you didn’t care what they thought. You knew that you should just keep your head down. Ignore them. 

But then you caught the tail end of one of their sentences.

“...fucking freaks.”

Two things happened simultaneously: your eyebrows jumped, and Eddie’s stomach dropped.

The ringing of the bell was all you needed to angrily shove your belongings into your backpack and march over to the other side of the classroom, stopping the jocks in their tracks. Eddie was right behind you, tugging you back by the crook of your elbow as you steadily ignored his pleas to sit down and ignore them, they aren’t worth it.

“You want to repeat what you were saying over there, Alan?” You stared up at the freckled boy, his harsh features sneering down at you from where he stood nearly half a foot taller than you. His height did nothing to deter you, however. Neither did Eddie’s death grip on your arm.

Alan snorted, raising an eyebrow at the sight of the two of you before him. His eyes flicked over you, appraising for about two seconds before directing his attention to Eddie behind you. “You letting your girl pick your fights for you now, Munson?” 

Eddie didn’t have a chance to respond; you didn’t give him one. “Don’t look at him.” you stepped forward, bringing you mere inches from the freckled football star. “I asked you a question.”

Alan and his cronies laughed, apparently amused by the show of dominance you were trying to make. You opened your mouth to berate him further, but the sharp tug on your arm from Eddie was strong enough this time to jerk you away from them and toward the door of the classroom. 

“Wh- Eddie, quit it!” you tried to shake off his grip but it wasn’t going to budge; Eddie marched you out the door and down the hallway like a man on a mission. 

“Yeah, Eddie, quit it!” You both could hear Alan’s patronizing whine from the classroom, his voice thrown into a reedy falsetto that made your blood boil. His voice trailed off, melting into the nasal snickers of his friends.

Eddie didn’t let go of your arm until the two of you reached his locker, at which point he finally looked you in the eye- and his stare embodied an intensity that you hadn’t seen from him ever before. You’d seen him intense, of course… just not like this. 

This looked like fear. 

“What the fuck was that for?” Eddie bit out, his teeth clenched and eyes wide. 

You crossed your arms, suddenly defensive. Had you messed up, somehow? “I… I mean, they were calling us names, I wasn’t going to just sit there.”

“Alan’s an illiterate asshole, you don’t need to explain yourself to him.”

“I know I don’t need to, but…” You chuckled humorlessly, that familiar vengeful feeling from moments ago beginning to bubble back up. “You know what, no. I do need to. I’m not the kind of person who can just sit there while jerks like him run around slandering good people, it’s wrong!”

Eddie huffed, his hands on his hips as he glanced around and shook his head. “Slandering, huh? That’s a big word, Ace. What’s that, the college word of the day?” You raised an eyebrow, watching him closely and curiously. 

He was fidgeting nonstop, repeatedly picking up his feet and replacing them on the floor only an inch or so away from where they’d been before. His eyes darted in every direction, as if scanning for potential threats so that he could run from them before they decided to pounce. 

“Eddie, why are you so afraid of those guys?” 

Big brown eyes widened to saucers, refocusing on you. “This isn’t fear, Ace, it’s just common sense.” Eddie checked over his shoulder to ensure the jocks were gone, then took a step closer. He leaned his shoulder against the locker, lifting his opposite arm to gently place his hand on your upper arm. You shivered, feeling his thumb trace small circles through his own black leather. Maybe that’s why he’s so scared all of a sudden, you pondered, leaning closer to Eddie. He’s given me his armor. 

You lowered your voice, sympathetic to Eddie’s plight. “You know I wouldn’t let them hurt you, Eds.” Looking up into his eyes, you expected to see them soften, gratitude coating his gaze. Instead, they widened and crinkled slightly at the edges. Eddie huffed out a gaudy laugh, incredulous at your admission.

“Hurt me?” he shook his head, stunned, and began to rifle through his locker for the books he needed for next class. “Ace, I just don’t want them to hurt you!”

You balked. “Me?” an eyebrow raised, you crossed your arms over your chest, defensive once again. “You really think they’d hit a girl? They’re jerks but I don’t think they’d go that far-”

“Nah, they’ll only sick their girlfriends on you.” Eddie punctuated his sentence with a slam of his locker door. “Purebred harpies with matching scrunchies who’ll make your life a living hell and then pretend that you’re the crazy one.”

It was a struggle to keep up with him at the rate he was walking, strides each a yard wide as he tugged you along by your hand. 

Your hand. Eddie Munson was holding your hand. 

“You, uh… you speaking from experience?” You stuttered over your words, cheeks heating at the sudden skin-to-skin contact. He had just admitted that he didn’t want to see you get hurt- his blatant protectiveness of you coupled with the way he was decisively dragging you by the hand to your locker right now was nearly too much for you to handle. 

“Trust me,” Eddie sighed, swinging you around as he reached your locker and (to your dismay) letting go of your hand. “You get asked out on a dare enough times, you figure out how their coven operates.” 

Eddie wasn’t meeting your eyes. You had to actually place your hand on his shoulder to capture his gaze. “Eddie,” you said, making a conscious effort to keep your voice steady and be something stable for him to feel at least a little grounded on. “Deep breath.”

Surprisingly, he did as you said. Eddie closed his eyes, inhaling deep and allowing his lungs to fill long enough that his chest expanded before his exhale blew softly on your cheeks. It smelled like the apple you’d brought for him at lunch.

 When you were once again treated to that warm hazelnut gaze, your hand acted without thinking and flew up to gently rest against his jawline. You were crossing some invisible line- you knew that- but the light in the hallway was causing shadows to take up residence in the dusting of whiskers that decorated the sharp incline that led to his chin. Your fingertips brushed his skin reverently, and he seemed frozen. Eddie didn’t dare move; you were like a butterfly that had deigned to land on him of all people, and damn it all if he was going to fuck it up and scare you off. 

“I’ve got you, you’ve got me… right?” Your voice was barely loud enough to be heard through the noise of bustling students. “We look out for each other, Eddie, we’re stronger together.” 

Eddie remained still under your caress, wishing he could focus on your touch. Wishing he could rip his eyes away from where they were trained behind you- held in terrified contact with a sadistic-looking Alan who stood with his cherry-lipsticked girlfriend across the hallway. Alan’s lips were curled into a sneer, watching as the thing that Eddie wanted most became his worst nightmare.

You were openly touching him, while wearing his clothes, standing in shoes covered with his drawings- and Eddie watched in horror as the harpy pushed up on her tiptoes to whisper something in Alan’s ear before both of them refocused not on Eddie, but on you. 

They laughed like fucking heyenas, eyeing their next meal. 

It took every ounce of self control Eddie had, but he gently took your hand in his and lowered it from his cheek. He ignored the way your eyes gazed up at him the same way a scorned puppy begged for some kind of affection, any confirmation that they are, indeed, loved. 

“It’s the together part I’m worried about, Ace.” Eddie whispered, keeping his voice low. 

You were quiet, which Eddie hated because it was his fault.

“Oh, and um-” Eddie raised his shoulders and shivered, rubbing his hands along his upper arms to warm himself with the friction. “-it’s a little chilly today… you mind if I wear the jacket?” His hand drifted down to the flannel that hung loosely tied around your waist, taking a corner of the material and feeling it between the pads of his thumb and forefinger.

“This’ll keep you warm, yeah?” 

You stared blankly for a moment, stunned. You had nearly forgotten that the jacket was his to take. You’d assumed he liked that you always wore his jacket, but… perhaps you’d made that up. You were eager for him to want things like that, after all… ‘more than friends’ kinds of things. However, asking for a borrowed item to be returned was completely normal for friends. You chided yourself for reading too much into it and smiled warmly up at him.

“Yeah! Of course!” you sprung into action, setting your backpack down on the floor as you began to shrug off the jacket. “You’re right it’s frigid in here today.” 

You handed the jacket to Eddie, who donned it with a thin-lipped smile. Parting ways for your next class, you departed in opposite directions down the hallway. 

Upon arriving in your calculus class, you glanced out the window eager to zone out as you watched the rain, only to be greeted by a gray sky drained of its water. The rain’s reprieve left nothing in its wake but a tired sun, soft mist that obscured all surety, and packed Indiana dirt softened to mud too loose for one to find their footing. 

The sort of mud that, should you try to walk through it, you’d be destined to slip and fall. 

When Eddie thought of Halloween, he thought of blood and sugar. 

It was a strange contradiction, the way that Halloween’s association with horror and gore had balanced itself out with candy corn and fun-sized Snickers bars, and yet the juxtaposition of the two brought a smile to his face. The combination of sweet and terrifying embodied the holiday perfectly. On Halloween, there was no need for any kind of steely exterior that might protect him from judgment. No need to hide the way he really feels behind the scary metalhead armor he’d so carefully curated as a defense mechanism. 

On Halloween, he wasn’t just allowed to be a freak. He was celebrated for it. 

On Halloween, he could just be. 

It was the reason why Halloween just so happened to be the day he’d had enough courage to look through your bedroom window exactly four years ago. It’s the day when Hell meets Heaven to make something sweet, and anything can happen.

Anything- including matching tattoos on the floor of his trailer. 

Everything was ready- Eddie had laid out sheets of newspaper to cover what he’d deemed the tattoo zone, and broken down a cardboard box to act as a stable surface on the soft carpet of his bedroom floor. Eddie had scrutinized every instruction he’d been able to wrench from Rick for how to work the tattoo machine. Grips, needles, fucking rubber bands that were apparently very necessary… he’d made sure he had it all. He’d even practiced on an orange that he’d swiped from the kitchen counter.

A thick black cable now snaked across his carpeted floor, connecting the machine to a pedal, the pedal to a power supply, and the power supply to the yellowed plastic outlet on his wall. Beside the machine sat a stack of paper towels and all sorts of other shit Rick had advised him to make sure he used. He was lucky that Rick had bought a bottle of black ink- Eddie wouldn’t have known where to seek out medical-grade ink in a state where it was illegal to ink your skin without a license. 

Your knock at his door made Eddie jump; he wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. It would be easy to write his nerves off as adrenaline before his first tattoo, but who was he kidding- it was you. You’d gone from someone who made him nervous to someone who made him nervous for different reasons, and all of this was very inconvenient for Eddie. 

“Trick or Treat,” You’d chirped when he opened the door, and it was at that moment Eddie realized that this night may very well be the death of him.

You wore your favorite baggy sweater over a tight black tank top, which you’d tucked into some high waisted acid washed jeans. Unsurprisingly, the chucks on which he’d scribbled his claim were fastened securely on your feet. In your hands was a variety pack of halloween candies and a shopping bag from the local drugstore. Everything about you radiated warmth, and Eddie had to fight the urge to change tonight’s itinerary to movies and a blanket fort and spend the whole evening on the couch with you, surrounded by candy wrappers and the light of his television set. 

“I brought antibacterial soap,” you said, bringing Eddie back to reality. You rifled through your shopping bag to show him your spoils as you stepped through the threshold and into his trailer. “-large bandages, and a little travel first aid kit just in case. Oh, and I did a little bit of reading at the library and I couldn’t find much on tattoos, but the one commonality between every book and article I could find said to make sure you wash the wound often and disinfect everything-”

“Ace,” Eddie interrupted, taking the bag from you and closing the front door. The corner of his mouth quirked up, keeping an amused chuckle at bay. “You went to the library to read about how to safely care for an illegal tattoo?” Your expression soured, shifting to a half-scowl, half-pout. 

“Well one of us has got to do it,” you huffed, grabbing the bag and marching towards Eddie’s room. “And I know you wouldn’t set foot in the library unless you were forced.” You continued to yell at him from his room, “You’ll thank me when your kitchen-scratched tattoo doesn’t get infected, and you get to grow old with all of your limbs intact!”

Eddie stayed glued to his spot as his smirk grew into a goofy grin. You were fucking adorable. 

You hadn’t argued when Eddie insisted that he start with his own tattoo- before he got started on permanently marking your skin, he wanted to be sure that he at least had gotten the hang of it first. He immediately started getting to work with his trusty fine-tipped Sharpie, sketching out a scattering of bats on his forearm and glancing every once in a while at his notebook for reference. You’d flipped through that notebook on several occasions when the two of you had sat idle during classes or study sessions. The drawings were always sprawling, sharp and gruesome in a way that wasn’t so much scary as it was fascinating to you. 

You laid stomach-down on his mattress, positioned behind where he sat on the floor, his back leaned up against the bed frame and close enough that you could probably reach down and play with his hair if you were bold enough. You didn’t- no matter how tempting it was, you didn’t want to risk anything that might mess up his focus. You settled for watching Eddie’s reflection in the mirror that sat leaned up against the wall in front of him. 

When the Sharpie stencil had dried and Eddie picked up the tattoo machine, you couldn’t deny the nervous uptake in your heart rate. You watched him gingerly begin the process of permanently inking his drawing into his skin, and before the needle touched skin, Eddie looked over his shoulder at you and winked, whispering a surprisingly shaky “Point of no return.” Before you could ask if he was having second thoughts, he was already outlining the first bat, his socked foot pressing decisively on the pedal that whirred his machine to life. 

Minutes ticked by before you uttered a soft “Does it hurt?” to break the awkward silence. Normally, Eddie had some sort of music playing, Metallica or WASP or something along those lines spinning on his cheap old turntable- but tonight there was nothing but the electric buzz that filled the small bedroom, and it was starting to make you antsy. 

Eddie huffed, and it was as much of a laugh as he could afford while holding still. “Well, Ace, it’s a needle sticking in and out of my arm repeatedly, so if I’m being honest it ain’t exactly sunshine and rainbows.” You watched him wince as he moved on from outlining the first bat and started on the second. 

“Does it at least make you feel a little badass?” You watched his reflection in the mirror glance up through the curtain of his hair and raise an eyebrow at you. 

“That depends,” He said, “do I look badass?” 

“A little.” You teased. “You’ll look more badass when the tattoo is finished.” 

That earned you a snort from him. “What, fifty percent of a tattoo doesn’t cut it?” His reflection flashed you a genuine smile, that lopsided grin affecting you the way it always does, spiking your body temp and rushing the thump of your heart. 

“Nope. Though, if your intention is to tell the world that you have commitment issues-”

“I do not have commitment issues-”

“Then what kind of issues do you have?” 

Eddie parted the needle from his skin, taking a moment to glance wryly over his shoulder in your direction. 

“You.” It was punctuated by a tongue that peeked out from between his lips. You followed suit, shoulders shaking as you chuckled.

Silence threatened to fall for a moment then, but Eddie put a stop to that. “Keep talking.”

“Huh?”

His voice was quiet, muttered like he was biting the inside of his cheek as he spoke. “Hurts less when we’re talking.”

You smiled, watching as he avoided your eye contact in the mirror, focusing on his arm as a subtle blush began to creep onto his cheeks. Tempting as it was to tease, you opted for a more neutral topic.

“Which is better, sour candy or chocolate?”

You could barely see his eyebrows furrow behind his curtain of curls as he considered your question. “Chocolate.”

“You’re crazy.”

He barked out a laugh. “After all the ridiculous shit I’ve said, that’s what crosses the line for you?”

You shook your head, amping up your reaction for his benefit; he was laughing, and it was music to your ears. You were greedy for more of it. 

“Sour candy is a whole experience, chocolate is just sweet! That’s all it has going for it!”

Eddie gawked but kept his eyes trained on his skin. “What do you have against sweets?”

You rolled your eyes, flopping from your stomach to your back and staring up at the water stain on Eddie’s ceiling. “I haven’t got anything against sweets… I just like a little tart to go with it. Oh hang on, that reminds me-”

You stuck your hand into the plastic bag you’d brought with you, producing a variety pack of cheap Halloween candies. “Do you normally get trick-or-treaters? I thought we could pour these into a bowl and set it out on the porch- you know, so we don’t have to keep answering the door.”

Eddie Shook his head. “Nah, not a lot of kids who live here. Those who do always high-tail it to the neighborhoods where the good shit is, like-”

“Loch Nora?” you finished, smirking. 

Nodding his approval, Eddie echoed, “Loch Nora.”

“Well in that case,” you yanked open the bag of candy so hard that a few individually wrapped pieces were flung onto the bedspread as well as the floor below. “I guess we’ll have to eat all of this ourselves.”

Eddie paused his tattooing to glance at a fun-sized packet of sour gummy worms that had landed on the carpet beside him. “Gummy worms?” he asked.

You flicked the back of his head while the needle was off his skin. “Uh, yeah, they’re delicious.”

“Did you at least get candy corn?”

You gagged. “Candy corn?!”

The two of you passed the next hour like that, debating about various arbitrary topics and inevitably disagreeing on almost all of them. There were only three things that you both agreed on without any debate whatsoever: Santa Claus was the superior holiday mascot, Joan Jett could easily beat Cyndi Lauper in a fight, and The Empire Strikes Back was way better than A New Hope.

When Eddie was finally finished with his tattoo, you were off the bed in an instant and already reaching for the antibacterial soap. 

“You should wash it under some warm water first before anything gross has a chance to get in there-”

“Hey hey hey, whoa hold on!” Eddie was laughing, eyes wide as he smiled at you. Your hand was already encircled around his wrist, tugging his arm (and the person attached to it) toward the bathroom. “Ace, you haven’t even looked at it yet, c’mon you’re bruising the artist’s ego here.” 

You sighed but couldn’t hide the rueful grin that danced on your pursed lips. Softening your vice like grip on his wrist, you shifted your hands to cradle his forearm and survey the last hour’s work.

“It looks good, Eddie… really good, actually.” You absently swiped a thumb over the soft skin of his wrist. “If you’d told me it was professionally done, I’d totally believe you.”

“Yeah?” He looked up from where your thumb stroked the base of his forearm, eyes shining.

“Yeah,” you smirked. “Of course, I’d tell you to try and get your money back, but-”

“Oh shove it up your ass, Sweet Tart.” The playful shoulder-check had you letting go of his arm, but both of your faces were painted with ear-to-ear smiles. 

Eddie washed his new tattoo in the bathroom sink, admiring the way the bats stretched and shifted with every flex of his forearm. Your mouth hurt, as did the muscles in your cheeks; you couldn’t stop smiling. He was so happy with his work, and you had to admit that he had actually done a really good job with that tattoo machine. 

“We’ve got to get you out of Indiana, Munson,” you murmured to the mirror where he continued to scrutinize his work from every angle. “I think you may have just found your calling.” 

His eyes were wide and shining with pride as they glanced your way. “You think?” 

You nodded, that saccharine smile stubbornly staying put on your lips. To be fair, you didn’t fight it.

“You’re coming with me, then.” Eddie replied, his own smile glowing in the dying light above the bathroom mirror.

There it was- that familiar fire beneath the skin of your cheeks.

“Oh I am, huh?” 

“Hell yeah.” Eddie braced his arm on the doorway, leaning over you until your faces were mere inches apart. “We’re stronger together, remember?”

Breathe. Breathe… Why can’t you breathe?

You’d barely managed a nod before Eddie was ducking around you through the doorway, grabbing your hand, and leading you back to his room. 

“Your turn, Ace.”

Oh yeah, you were also getting a tattoo today. You’d almost forgotten. Were you nervous? You weren’t sure. Actually, yes, you were very nervous- not so much about the tattoo as you were for where the tattoo would be. 

In minutes, you were both sitting on Eddie’s bedroom floor- Eddie readying everything he needed for your new ink, and you sitting eerily still as your soul started to feel like it might leave your body.

“Ace,”

Eyes refocusing, you blinked a few times. “Yeah?”

Eddie’s expression was calm, sympathetic to the inward freak-out he had a feeling you were on the verge of. “We don’t have to do this, you know. I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out sounding a little more strained than you had intended. “Hah…you saying I have commitment issues?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up, but Eddie’s eyebrows stayed knitted together above his big brown eyes. “No,” he murmured. His voice was soft, as if he were speaking to a stray animal and trying not to spook it. “I guess I’m just… trying to give you an out, so you don’t feel pressured or anything.”

You shook your head, “I don’t want an out.”

Eddie blinked, “No?”

“No.”

There was a second of silence between the two of you before you both took in a collective breath, exhaling simultaneously and giggling when you both realized that you were breathing in sync. Perfect harmony; sour and sweet, nervous but willing. 

“You, uh…” Eddie stammered, his eyes flicking down to your lap and back up to your face. “...you still want it on your hip?”

Your heart rate doubled. 

“Um, yeah.” you awkwardly shifted your weight onto your knees, grabbing hold of your waistband and unbuttoning your shorts. You shimmied them over your hips, revealing the rest of your leotard- leotard, Eddie realized. Not a tank top. You were wearing a black leotard. It was almost like the kind that he’d seen ballerinas wear, except it cut so high on your hips that he was sure it wouldn’t be allowed in any of the dance studios he could think of, and….yep. YEP, it was practically a thong. Your ass was out. You were sitting on the floor of his bedroom with your ass out. 

Chill out, Munson! He screamed inwardly at himself, Chill the fuck out!

Of course, you couldn’t tell that there was a war going on between Eddie’s ability to function and the short-circuiting that threatened to render him unable to do anything but stare at you. All you could see was the way his jaw had gone slack and his eyes bugged out of their sockets.

You smiled shyly, a twinge of something between satisfaction and guilt nudging at your heartstrings. “I figured this thing would be less awkward than if I was sitting here in my underwear,” you laughed nervously as you gestured to your leotard.

Eddie gulped. He couldn’t see much of a difference. “Yeah, totally.” 

A beat passed. You grabbed a bag of gummy worms from the floor, tearing it open with a crinkle of the plastic that would not have been so loud if the two of you weren’t dead silent. You bit into the candy where the color changed from pink to blue, then finally muttered through your chewing, “Ready when you are.” 

Eddie blinked rapidly, taking his Sharpie in his hands. “Uh, yeah… yeah, okay.” 

With your free hand, you pointed to the part of your hip where your flesh naturally creased as your thigh met your pelvis. 

“Is here good?”

Eddie gulped. 

“Yeah, that’s good.” But Eddie was very much not good. He was the opposite of good, he felt like he was malfunctioning. When he placed his free hand on your upper thigh, he almost apologized. Why the hell did he feel like he had to apologize? He had no clue. His palms were sweating- did you feel how sweaty his palms were? Oh god. He forgot what a bat looked like- you were trusting his artistic skills enough for him to permanently ink his drawing into your skin and he couldn’t even remember what a goddamn bat looked li- oh, wait, he had them on his own forearm now. Eddie glanced at his arm, reminding himself what a goddamn bat looked like. 

He’s never felt like more of a nervous idiot than right now. 

Meanwhile, you felt like you were about to explode.

His hand was warm. So warm as he grasped your thigh. Whenever he’d touched you before, there was always a barrier, some form of separation between his skin and yours- jeans, a sweater, a flannel. 

A leather jacket.

That’s right- he had taken his jacket back. Maybe you were reading too deep into things, but you had this unshakable feeling that taking back that jacket had been a message. 

We’re just friends. Nothing more.

But if that was true, then why was he looking at your thighs the way he was? Why had he looked at you the way he did when he said you should go with him when he leaves Hawkins? 

He wasn’t your boyfriend… you knew that.

So why couldn’t you shake this undeniably girlfriendish ache in your chest?

“Okay.” Eddie’s voice jolted you out of your downward spiral into your very inconvenient feelings. “Check that out in the mirror, make sure you like it.”

You straightened up, walking on your knees until you faced the mirror leaning against the wall and inspected the tiny, perfect little bat that he’d drawn on the fullest part of your hip.

It matched the bats that now decorated his arm, now surrounded by an angry red halo that bloomed across his skin. Once that bat was inked, it would be something connecting you and Eddie forever- a shared experience, a secret that the two of you would always be in on. 

Suddenly, you realized that in this moment there wasn’t a single thing you wanted more than a matching tattoo with Eddie Munson.

Well, there was one thing. But you had a feeling that wasn’t happening tonight. The tattoo, however…

“I love it.” You looked over your shoulder at Eddie, but his eyes were a little too busy staring at your practically naked behind to meet your gaze. 

“Ahem.”

Breaking free of his trance, Eddie shook his head a tad, which drew a small chuckle from your smirking lips. Eddie couldn’t help but smile too, albeit more shyly than you.

“Distracted?” You teased, unable to hold back your glee at this kind of attention- any kind of attention- from Eddie. 

He sighed, blinking rapidly while he finally met your eyes. There was something new in the way he was looking at you- if you didn’t know better you might call it frustration, but it was an amused sort of frustration. Almost like his eyes were saying “what am I going to do with you?” but through sunglasses tinted with desire. 

You wanted to bottle that, stow it away for emergencies. Wanted to preserve the way that gaze made you feel so that you could experience it over and over again. 

“No.” Eddie murmured through a rueful grin. “Lie down, it’ll be easier to ink the skin while it’s flat.” You did as he instructed, feeling the crinkle of newspaper underneath the skin of your rear. Once again, you found yourself staring up at the water stain on Eddie’s ceiling until his face came into view, looking down at you as he readied the tattoo machine. 

“Are you?” You heard him ask. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

The pads of Eddie’s fingers poked and prodded at the skin around where your tattoo would soon have an indefinite spot on your hip, and you wondered if he could tell that your temperature shot up ten degrees each time you felt his hands on you.

“Are you distracted?” he clarified. “Because it hurts less when you’ve got something else to focus on.” 

“Oh.” Suddenly, your mind went blank. Of course, the moment you wanted something to distract you, all ideas turned tail and ran. “Um…”

Snap!

Your jaw dropped as the elastic of your leotard snapped back to your skin from where Eddie had pulled it away with his pointer finger. “Where’d you even get this thing?” 

Now it was your turn to short-circuit.

“Uh-” You stammered, interrupted by the machine beginning to buzz. 

Eddie didn’t wait for you to finish your thought before reminding you what he’d asked. “C’mon, Sweet Tart, where’d you get the leotard?”

You knew he was trying to distract you so you didn’t feel the pain, but you couldn’t help the tensing of your muscles as the needle pierced your skin. You winced, staring at the water stain with a newfound intensity. “Dance store.” you gritted through lips that formed a tight line. 

“Dance store, huh?” You could hear the smile through Eddie’s words. “And why were you in a dance store?”

You huffed out a short, breathy laugh, careful to keep your hip still as Eddie’s needle continued to do its work. “I was making a Flashdance costume. Heard about this Halloween party a few weeks ago, but then we made the tattoo plans… and I had already bought the leotard, so…”

It was disconcerting to speak with Eddie without looking at him; he was a very expressive person, always talking with his hands, always making sure that he looked you in the eyes when you spoke to him. But now he was focused on his work on your hip, leaving your eyes to shift between staring at his ceiling and fluttering closed.

“You were going to wear this thing to a party?” he asked, incredulous. 

Your eyebrows wrinkled over your closed eyes. “I would’ve worn tights under it…” 

He snorted. “That wouldn’t have made a difference.”

You winced, groaning as the needle hit a nerve that particularly stung. “What- ah, shit- what are you trying to say?” 

The buzzing stopped for a moment. “Fuck, you okay?” Eddie’s face leaned into your field of vision, his frizzy brown hair backlit into a halo by the light from the lamp behind him. “You want to take a break?”

You shook your head, taking a mental snapshot of how ethereal he looked like this. “No, you can keep going, I’m fine.” 

Cautiously, Eddie got back to work. A few wordless seconds ticked by before you spoke. 

“What did you mean, ‘that wouldn’t have made a difference’?”

Eddie’s reply was matter-of-fact, but you could have sworn that you heard a hint of protectiveness in his voice when he said, “Tights or no tights, the whole party would have been staring at your ass, Sweet Tart.”

The “T” sound in “Tart” was soft this time. So soft, it was barely there at all, and it almost sounded like he’d just called you sweetheart. If only. You’d give anything to be Eddie’s sweetheart.

Whether he’d meant to blend that consonant or not, it made you brave. “Is that a bad thing?”

A pause. Then, “Is this a trap?”

“Answer the question, would a bunch of people staring at my ass be a bad thing?”

Eddie sighed. “This is definitely a trap,” he muttered, before replying “No, Ace, objectively it would not be a bad thing. But sometimes people view girls differently when they walk around with their asses out.”

“Do you look at me differently when my ass is out?” You were being cheeky, you knew it. 

“No, I don’t look at you differently.” came his instant response, muttered through nearly-closed lips. “I just look at you.”

Nothing could stand against your smile, not even you. “Yeah, that much I could see in the mirror.”

“You don’t sound too upset about that.”

This was different from the flirting you were used to with Eddie. Your regular flavor of flirtation had always been surface-level banter; nothing past a jab here and there, a joke at his expense or a nickname thrown your way. 

Now? You were talking about the way he looked at your body, and the fact that he could tell that you liked when he looked. The two of you were in uncharted territory, and you buzzed under his touch in time with the inky needle at the beautiful unknown of it all. 

“Okay, the outline is done but I’m about to start filling it in.” Eddie warned. “This part hurts a little more. You wanna take a break?”

You nodded. While Eddie jumped up to get you both a glass of water, you sat up on your elbows and peered over at your hip to get a look at your new ink. When you saw it, you gasped so fervently that you startled yourself.

It was perfect. The perfect little bat. 

It wasn’t completely symmetrical. The outline was a tad thicker in certain places than others. But those imperfections made it his. And the fact that it was on your skin made it yours. 

You couldn’t wait to wake up and stare at it like this every single day. 

Eddie returned a moment later with two mismatched cups of tap water. Once you’d both rehydrated, he got to work replacing the needle at the end of the machine with a new one, as well as changing out various attachments and fiddling with a knobby-looking piece until he seemed satisfied with what he’d changed.

 You were impressed with how intensely focused Eddie was on this sort of work; it didn’t seem to be taking him long to get the hang of this. It also didn’t take him long to come up with another topic of conversation that teetered on the line between friendly and flirty.

“Ever played Fuck, Marry, Kill?”

You had not, but the title of the game brought an unexpected chuckle out of you. “Edward Munson, I am a lady! At least take me out to dinner first-”

“I’m going to take that as a no.” Eddie chuckled, and you could hear his deadpan in the tone of his voice. “I say three people’s names and you have to tell me which you’d fuck, which you’d marry, and which you’d kill. Comprende?”

“Uhh-” whatever you’d been about to say was cut short by a harsher buzz than before, accompanied by the aggressive sting of needles on your skin. “Mmh, shit, okay yeah sure let’s play.”

Eddie smiled to himself. He wasn’t sure why he loved the little noises and whispered curses that spilled from your mouth while he tattooed you, but he honestly thought they might be the cutest sounds he’d ever heard. You were taking the pain like a champ- he was actually pretty proud of you in this moment as you remained still through the sting.

“Lars Ulrich, James Hetfield, and Kirk Hammett”

You rolled your eyes. Eddie had ensured over your many rides in his van this summer that every Metallica song he’d played had been an educational experience. Eddie had picked up a cassette of their debut album in July, and ever since he’d become obsessed. Already, he was trying to persuade the other members of his band to figure out how to play The Four Horsemen by ear. 

Needless to say, you knew enough about the band to at least answer the question. 

“Well I’m killing Lars for sure.”

“Poor Lars never stood a chance.”

You grinned, willing the distraction into something great enough to numb the pain. “And I think I’m gonna have to fuck Hetfield.”

“‘Have to fuck Hetfield,’ such a sacrifice.” 

You carefully stretched your arms up to rest above your shoulders, cradling your head on your hands like a pillow. “Hey, if someone’s got to do it, I’ll take one for the team.”

You heard him snort, then after a moment’s quiet he added, “So you’re marrying Kirk Hammett, then?”

“I guess so.”

“What makes Kirk marriage material? Over the other two, I mean.”

You thought about Kirk Hammett’s wild, dark curls. His build. His brown button eyes. The way he looked holding a guitar.

“I don’t know, there’s just something about him.”

Eddie thought about the way he’d been trying to make himself look more like a rockstar ever since he’d first seen the tiny, grainy picture of the Metallica members in the corner of a page of Rolling Stone; he’d been bumming copies off Jeff’s subscription since the seventh grade. How he’d started growing out his hair after seeing Kirk’s long, black mane. He smiled. 

He must be doing something right.

“Alright, Mrs. Hammett,” He quipped, “My turn, hit me with bachelorettes one through three, please.”

You thought over your options, trying to think of women you’d heard him mention before. Wondering if he thought any of them had something in common with you, and praying to God he didn’t kill them.

“Olivia Newton-John,”

Already, Eddie was descending into a fit of giggles. 

“Why are you laughing? She’s pretty!”

Eddie launched into a falsetto rendition of the chorus from Grease’s Hopelessly Devoted to You, and you were instantly fighting the giggles too. 

“Shut up! I’m not done yet. Olivia Newton-John… have you seen Fast Times?”

His response came in a tone of voice that was the vocal equivalent of a side-eye. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I don’t know if you know who Phoebe Cates is.”

“Oh,” Eddie sighed dreamily, “I know who Phoebe Cates is.” 

You rolled your eyes, but chuckled nonetheless. “Okay then- Olivia Newton-John, Phoebe Cates, and Carrie Fisher.”

Eddie barked out a joyous “Ah!” before answering, “Well this is easy, Ace, say goodbye to Newton-John!”

You mock-gasped. “You’re killing Sandy?”

“I’m killing Sandy.”

“That is brutal. She was so innocent, too.”

Eddie squinted at the half-filled tattoo, smirking into his explanation. “Okay, I see the appeal, Ace, I truly do. That outfit at the end is killer.” He paused. Should he say it? Would he be too obvious if he did? 

Ah, fuck it. 

“I’m a sucker for a woman in red shoes, let me tell ya. However-” Eddie quickly glazed over that last sentence, as well as any opening you might have gotten to think about how that might relate to you. “-I’ve gotta fuck Phoebe Cates. Because… y’know-”

“Boobies?” you beat him to the punch.

Eddie confirmed with a matter-of-fact “Boobies.” He glanced up at your face for a moment, curious to see if he could read what you thought of his answers, but you were staring pensively at his ceiling, expression unreadable. “And you have to have known I was marrying Leia the moment she was an option.” 

“You have a thing for Princess Leia?”

“Are you joking?” Eddie asked, incredulously. “How could I not? The woman’s the definition of a spitfire, she kicks ass and takes names. Not to mention, she’s got a thing for scoundrels.” 

You hummed. “Do you think you’re a scoundrel, Eddie?” 

“Well I’m certainly not a scruffy-looking nerf herder, I’ll tell you that much.”

You winced playfully, “A nerf herder you are not… but you are a bit scruffy.”

“You’ve got me there, princess.”

Eddie went silent. The nickname had just slipped out- all this talk of scoundrels and princesses and strong women who weren’t afraid of a fight and before he knew it, he was seeing more similarities between you and Leia than he’d realized were there before. 

Princess had just seemed right. It just slipped out. 

The line between friendship and dangerous territory had been so clearly drawn in Eddie’s mind before tonight. Where had he gone wrong? That once clear line was getting blurry.

Eddie was absolutely convinced that he would probably find a way to single handedly ruin your friendship before he was finished filling in your tattoo- which you would inevitably hate, because it would remind you of the asshole who you used to be friends with before he made things weird between you.

“My turn,” your voice cut through Eddie’s downward spiral, drawing a relieved sigh from him that tickled the skin of your thigh. “Let’s make this round more interesting. Only names of people from Hawkins.”

“Hm, that is interesting.” he mused, the needle inching its way toward the last remaining centimeter of bare skin left within the outline. “Let me think… Chief Hopper-”

You barked out a laugh, “Oh great start, Eds.”

“Chief’s a good looking guy! I don’t know why you’re laughing!” but Eddie was smiling ear to ear, delighted that his awkward apprehension had already begun to dissipate. “Principal Higgins-”

“Are you only going to give me old men as options?”

Eddie was going to do exactly that, because he didn’t want to picture you marrying or- God forbid- fucking any men in Hawkins that you might actually enjoy doing either of those things with. He wasn’t jealous, per se… but none of the shitheads in Hawkins were good enough for you. Eddie wasn’t even good enough for you; not yet, at least. He could picture a future version of himself one day taking his chances with you, once you’d both skipped town and found your way in some thriving city somewhere. 

You were both too good for this place- you were the first person to make him think that about himself.

“What was that security guard’s name at the mall? Average joe looking guy? Quentin? Quincey?”

“Oh, you mean Quinn?”

“Knew his name started with a Q.” Eddie softly bit his bottom lip as he finished the last bit of your bat’s wing. “Hopper, Higgins, and Quinn. Those are your options.”

You groaned. “These choices suck, can I just kill them all?”

“I kinda like it when you go all bloodthirsty, Ace.”

You rolled your eyes before letting them flutter closed. “Ugh, well I’m obviously killing Higgins… he’s never been nice to you and all he cares about are school sports. I guess… I mean if I have to, I’ll fuck Hopper.”

Eddie was beside himself with giggles, “I mean, that’s one way to get out of a speeding ticket.”

“You’re lucky I can’t smack you right now.” You ignored Eddie’s snickering and continued. “And I don’t think I’d mind being married to Quinn, he always smiles at me and asks how my day was. Plus he’s kind of cute, he’s got nice hair.”

Eddie wrinkled his nose. “I don’t see it.”

You laughed, and the jingling tone of your voice suddenly sounded too loud as the buzzing of Eddie’s machine stopped. 

“Alright, Ace,” Eddie announced, leaning back to survey his work. “Check out your new ink.”

You didn’t need to look at it again to know it would be perfect, but you looked anyway. You stood on your sleeping legs and gazed at the little black bat on your hip- it sat beautifully balanced on the skin framed by your high cut leotard, and you knew at once that you’d think of Eddie each time you saw it. This was exactly what you wanted- a daily reminder of exactly how he made you feel, of who he was to you. 

At this moment, it dawned on you exactly what it was that Eddie made you feel. The way you always wanted to be around him, and the way he had become a balloon that inflated your chest every time he made you laugh, and how you knew- just knew- that you’d follow him anywhere if he asked. 

You loved Eddie Munson. You were in love with him. 

And you couldn’t stop smiling like an idiot at that little asymmetrical bat.

Part 6

Taglist: @emma77645 , @rustboxstarr, @josephquinnsfreckles, @rozxartaki, @sheneedsrocknroll92

[cetaitlaverite]

Could we please see Freddie being jealous while they are in America? She is jealous but at the same time she can’t blame the woman who flirted with her husband because he is so gorgeous.

i kind of freestyled a bit with this one. hope you don't mind!! freddie and rosie are just so much fun to write when they're jealous!!

under the cut because it's long (2870 words, i went off). also a bit suggestive near the end but nothing crazy. what can i say? these two can't keep their hands off each other. this takes place about a month after freddie arrives in new york.

Minton’s Playhouse was Rosie’s favourite jazz club and Freddie could see why. With its moody red lighting and live jazz band full of passionate, talented performers, lively clientele and plush booths, wide array of cocktails and hotspot location, there really was nothing about it not to like. Rosie had spoken often of wanting to bring Freddie here during the war and she was glad to finally experience it - even more so to see how happy it made Rosie to bring her here. She knew he’d been looking forward to it for a while.

Jazz music was something Freddie was coming to love through Rosie. It reminded her of him. During the war he’d played it during quiet evenings in the officers’ club, when most everyone else was out on a weekend pass, and when they’d spent time at her parents’ house in Oxford. He still treasured the Artie Shaw record she got him for Christmas in 1944.

So she settled back into the velvet of the booth beneath her, sipping on her strawberry daiquiri and trying to decide whether she liked it; cocktails were new to her and Rosie was always buying her different ones as they searched for her drink of choice. Secretly, Freddie thought she would always prefer wine, but she was enjoying the selection process too much to say so.

Rosie was grinning in the seat beside her. It was still a little bit strange to see him drinking anything other than beer or coca cola. Tonight he was drinking a vodka soda - apparently he’d acquired a taste for the liquor during his time with the Russians, which Freddie still couldn’t really bear to hear him speak about - and tapping his hands on the table in time with the music as he watched the band play. Freddie smiled as she watched him; she loved how much he loved music in spite of his lack of musical talent - maybe even because of it.

Scooting closer to him on the booth, Freddie set down her cocktail and lifted Rosie’s arm so she could settle into his side.

Without a second thought, Rosie wrapped his arm around her and kissed her head, resting his cheek there as he turned his eyes back on the band and the many dancers occupying the floor in front of them.

“Drink up,” Freddie said after a beat, watching the dancers, too. “Then we can dance.”

Promptly, Rosie took a big gulp of his drink.

Freddie laughed and lifted her glass to follow suit.

“How do you like the strawberry daiquiri?” Rosie asked, smiling as he watched her sip from the straw.

Freddie hummed and shrugged. “It’s okay. Tastes a bit like cough medicine.”

Rosie pulled a face.

Freddie laughed. “It’s close to the top of my list, maybe second place behind the French 75, but I’m still searching.”

“What’s next?” Rosie asked, pulling the drinks menu towards him on the table. He scanned it quickly before his eyes caught on an option. “How ‘bout a sidecar?”

“What’s that?”

“Cognac, triple sec, and lemon juice,” Rosie explained.

Freddie perked up. “Yes. That’s next.” She leaned back into his side again, sipping from her daiquiri. “After we dance,” she added.

“After we dance,” Rosie agreed.

They spoke idly about this and that as they polished off their drinks, revelling in the simplicity of being but one couple in a sea of many in a jazz club on a Saturday night. During the war they’d so rarely had this anonymity - they had been a major and a wing officer for so long that there had always been an expectation that they would act a certain way, would keep an eye on the people who worked under them, would still be somewhat on duty even after they’d clocked out for the day. Here, there was no duty to attend to, no one watching to see if they would put a foot wrong, no gaggle of German-speaking wireless operators or freshly deployed airmen to keep in line. Here, they were just Freddie and Rosie, still on their newlywed high even though it had been almost five months since their marriage, absolutely smitten with each other and soaking up the joy of their new life.

Freddie finished her drink first and shot Rosie a satisfied smile. They hadn’t formally been racing but Freddie liked to make competitions out of small things sometimes without telling Rosie, just so she could feel a sense of triumph when she won. It was a habit she’d adopted when she’d first moved into Rosie’s apartment and which he often complained about, because he was by nature also incredibly competitive, perhaps even more so than she was, but which he always laughed along with nonetheless.

Tonight, when Freddie declared, “I win!” and held up her empty glass as evidence, Rosie rolled his eyes jovially and took her face into one hand, squishing her cheeks together.

“You can’t win competitions I don’t know I’m competing in!” he told her, amusing himself by trying to see how pouty he could make her lips.

Freddie batted his hand away and insisted, “I told you to drink up!”

“You didn’t tell me we were racing!”

“Sounds like someone’s a sore loser to me,” Freddie drawled in reply.

Rosie stared at her for a moment before a slow smile started to spread across his lips. He shook his head at her. “You’re unbelievable. There’s no reason for you to withhold that information unless you thought you were gonna lose.”

“I don’t lose, Rosie,” Freddie informed him matter-of-factly. “I’m your princess so you’re not allowed to let me lose.”

Playfully, Rosie groaned. “Oh, right,” he conceded, tipping the rest of his drink down his throat and setting his glass down on the table with eyes dancing, “I forgot that’s what I signed up for when I married you.”

Freddie giggled. “No backing out now! Your mum likes me too much.”

Rosie grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Neither of them knew who started the kiss they got lost in, but they were lost in it for a while. By the time they pulled apart, flushed and breathless, grinning wildly at each other, Freddie could no longer postpone the inevitable. “I have to go to the bathroom but when I come back we’ll dance, yes?”

“Yes,” Rosie agreed, chuckling to himself. “You want me to wait outside?”

“No, I’ll be okay,” Freddie assured him. “Just wait for me here, please, darling.”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Rosie watched Freddie with a wide smile as she crossed the club towards the door with the bright red, lit up sign above it reading Ladies. She turned back once on her way over and caught his eye, and he laughed as she blew him a kiss, pretending to catch it and press it to his cheek. And he continued to stare at the door she’d disappeared behind for a few moments after she was out of his sight, until he realised that that was strange and may be misconstrued and turned firmly back around in his seat.

There wasn’t much for him to do now that he had no drink to sip on, so Rosie picked the drinks menu back up and scanned the rest of the cocktails list for other options Freddie might like. By now they had discovered she generally liked the sweeter options instead of the refreshing ones - something fruity instead of minty tended to get a higher ranking on her list - so he made a mental note of the ones which contained the most fruit juices.

He was so deep in contemplation over the list he didn’t notice the woman making her way across the front of the booth towards another. She glanced his way idly as she went, then paused, stopped walking, leaned closer to try to get a better look at his face where it was ducked towards the menu, then stood up straighter to take advantage of his lack of attention. She fluffed her hair and adjusted her dress and swiped her thumb nail across the corners of her lips to ensure her lipstick wasn’t smudged. “Robbie?” she asked once she was ready to be looked at.

Rosie’s head shot up, his eyebrows furrowed. When he saw who had spoken, however, he broke out into a surprised smile. “Sammy?”

“Yes!” the woman exclaimed, skirting around the side of the booth to sit down beside him in Freddie’s vacated space. “Long time no see!”

“Yeah, it - it really has been,” Rosie agreed.

“Ain’t seen you here in a long time!” Samantha told him. “Ain’t seen you ‘round anywhere in a long time, come to think of it!”

Rosie shrugged, giving a short shake of his head. “Yeah, well, I - I actually just got back from Europe a couple weeks ago.”

Samantha’s eyes widened. “Europe!” she echoed with a gasp. “Where?”

“England,” Rosie replied. He laughed a little bit self-consciously. “My base was in East Anglia, so not the most exciting of places, but it was great. Great people.”

“Well, the great people over here have missed you,” Samantha replied easily. “How have you been? I hope the war wasn’t too hard on you.”

Rosie shrugged. “War was hard on everyone, wasn’t it? You’d be hard pressed to find someone left unscathed. But me, all of us over here, we’re the lucky ones, right? Some of the stories the people over in Europe tell -” He faltered, thinking back to the old man he met in Poland on the way back to England. He quickly pushed that thought away. “I’m good, anyway. I’ve been good. Glad to be home.”

“Glad to have you home,” Samantha replied.

“How have you been, anyway?” Rosie went on. He tried to be subtle as he shot a glance over his shoulder at the door to the ladies’ room but no one was emerging from it.

Samantha launched into a long story of her experiences during the war: how she’d had a marine boyfriend at one point but he’d run off with a nurse he met while on leave in Australia, how she’d considered trying to become a nurse at one point herself but wasn’t sure she wanted to do two years’ worth of training, how she’d thought about going to see Rosie’s mother to find out whether he might want a sweetheart back home to write to - she’d figured he was away for the war, she just had no idea where.

“I just kept thinking while the war was on and no one had seen you for a while -” she was saying, “- I kept thinking about our time together. Y’know, back in the good old days, when we used to go to the movies and spend hours in diners talking about what we saw. When we’d sneak off to my dad’s car to fool around and then go back in to sit at the dinner table like nothing happened. Wasn’t it great?”

Rosie’s polite smile was strained. “Yeah,” he hedged. “Yeah, but hey, listen, that was a long time ago. A lot’s changed since then and -”

“I’m back!” Freddie declared as she rounded the corner of the booth. “Rosie, are you ready to - oh.” 

Rosie’s back was ramrod straight. He wasn’t sure why he felt like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Fred,” he greeted. “Hi, honey.”

“Hi, darling,” Freddie replied. Her smile was confused as she turned to the woman in her seat. “Hello. I’m not sure we’ve met.”

“Samantha,” the woman introduced herself. There was an expression of mild distaste on her face. “Who’re you?”

“This is Freddie,” Rosie said. “My wife.”

Freddie watched with raised eyebrows as Samantha turned to Rosie and frowned. “Your wife?”

“What’s going on here?”

“Nothing’s going on here,” Rosie assured her. “Sammy’s an old friend and we were just catching up.”

“Old friend,” Samantha echoed with a scoff. “Yeah, sure, Robbie, we were friends.”

“What does that mean?” Freddie asked. Her eyes flicked between the two of them, her arms folded across her chest. 

“It means I was his girlfriend, sweetie,” Samantha replied sharply. “And we were just reminiscing on all the good times we shared together. Y’know, in the backs of movie theatres, in my dad’s old car, in -”

“That’s enough,” Rosie cut across her. “Fred, it wasn’t like that, honey.”

Freddie’s eyes were wide as she stared back at him from across the table, lost as she wondered what she was supposed to do with herself. “Rosie, I’m not sure I know what’s going on.”

“Why’s she calling you Rosie?” Samantha demanded from beside him, though her eyes were on Freddie.

“That’s what everyone called me during the war - just - it doesn’t matter,” Rosie stumbled to reply. “Fred, honey, nothing’s going on.”

Samantha’s eyes were narrowed on Freddie, her lips curled in a smirk as she laid a hand on Rosie’s bicep and added, “Not yet.”

Freddie stared back at her blankly for a moment, hardly able to believe what she was seeing, before she tilted her chin up and pushed her shoulders back, mustering up the authority she’d had during the war when an entire wing of wireless ops had followed her every order. “Can you get your hands off my husband, please?” Her voice was level - sweet, even, and casual - but there was an undercurrent of steel Freddie knew the other woman had heard because her eyes hardened.

Samantha’s hand curled around Rosie’s arm. Surely, her nails must have been digging in. “Your husband was my boyfriend first,” she said, lifting one perfectly plucked eyebrow in challenge.

“Was your boyfriend,” Freddie repeated, her gaze hard. “Is my husband. It really doesn’t matter to me when you were together or for how long because it ended, it’s over, he came to England and met me, we fell in love, he proposed, we got married, now we live in his apartment together with our dog. So whatever competition you’ve decided is going on here, I hate to be the one to tell you but you’ve lost. Quite severely.” She planted her hands on the table and leaned forward over it to be at eye level with the other woman. Her voice dropped an octave. “So hands off my husband, don’t make me tell you again.”

Samantha stared back at her, her mouth falling open, an incredulous smile tugging at its edges. Finally, she turned to Rosie with raised eyebrows. “Robbie,” she complained.

Rosie was looking at Freddie, grinning. “What?” It took him a moment, but eventually he tore his eyes away to meet Samantha’s. “You heard her, didn’t you?”

“You aren’t gonna do anything?”

“I’m gonna dance with my wife,” Rosie replied. “Have a nice night, Sam.” With that, Rosie wrenched his arm out of her grip and rose to his feet, wrapping a protective arm around Freddie’s waist as they turned and headed to the dance floor.

“What a cow,” Freddie said when they were pressed together, swaying to the music. “She really thought she was going to steal you from me.”

Rosie only laughed. “Nothing and no one is ever gonna steal me from you, Fred, I promise, sweetheart.”

Freddie shot a glance over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed, her lips twisted in a residual frown. “Thinking we’re in competition,” she mumbled to herself as she turned back around. Wherever Samantha now was, it wasn’t anywhere near where they’d left her. “You’re mine, Robert Rosenthal,” Freddie declared, locking her arms around Rosie’s neck and pushing up on her toes to kiss him soundly on the lips. “Only mine. I don’t care how many rabid ex-girlfriends you have crawling around the city, you’re mine, you hear me?”

“I hear you, baby,” Rosie assured her, smiling wide. He shook his head once, as though to clear a fog. “You’re so beautiful, Fred. I love you so bad. Can we go home?”

Freddie quirked an eyebrow. “Why would we go home? We’ve only had two drinks.”

Rosie ducked his head until his lips were brushing her ear. His hands on the small of her back slid down dangerously low. “I think you know why,” he whispered.

Freddie smirked, turning her head until their lips brushed when she next spoke. “Seeing me jealous get you hot under the collar, Major?”

“You have no idea.”

Freddie grinned. “One more dance and you can have your way with me, honey.” She spotted Samantha watching them from over Rosie’s shoulder, attempting to be surreptitious as she lingered in the crowd by the bar. Freddie smiled sweetly at her as they locked eyes, then brushed a soft kiss against Rosie’s lips and whispered, “First, why don’t you be a good boy and make sure your bitch of an ex-girlfriend knows whose name you’ll be calling tonight?”

The kiss he gave her in reply was deep and long and messy, not entirely appropriate for a public setting and yet they were far from the only couple forgetting themselves in the club tonight. By the time they stumbled out of the door together, hand in hand and giggly, Samantha had no more ideas about any sort of competition for Rosie’s heart. It was clear to her now that that was a feud she’d long since lost.

[shion-yu]

Day 12: "You're not fine, you're throwing up."

Cliff and Elliot @sicktember fic. 1,707 words, CW vomit with some minor detail.

Elliot had been planning this day for weeks now. It was Cliff’s nineteenth birthday and he had one surprise after another prepared. First lunch at a new Asian fusion place he knew Cliff had had his eye on. Then they had tickets to see a show on Broadway, something Cliff had treated Elliot to before courtesy of his father’s unused tickets, but Elliot had never gotten to invite Cliff. Elliot had been saving his money with this in mind all summer, working long, hot days in his father’s mechanic shop. Of course, Cliff showing up during the last few weeks of break hadn’t been the plan, but it had worked out in the end and they'd made it to school without any issues.

Cliff was doing a lot better, all things considered, after his pneumonia. He still had an occasional cough, but he’d recovered most of his energy back. Elliot had made sure he’d stayed in bed almost up until they moved into the dorms, and then didn't let him move any of the heavy stuff. Cliff insisted he was fine, but he was helpless against Elliot’s protests, backed by Elliot’s father who helped them bring up their furniture. 

Classes started, and Elliot told himself it was going to be a great year. Cliff, of course, threw himself into his studies right away even though the first week was always light. Elliot was glad he’d get to take Cliff out that weekend before there were any huge tests to study for yet though. 

Elliot was so excited for their date that he didn’t notice Cliff seemed pale and quiet as they went to lunch that day. He didn't notice that Cliff picked at his food, or that he spent a good ten minutes in the bathroom while Elliot paid for their meal. They took the subway to Times Square and walked to the theater where Elliot had gotten them tickets to see Wicked in Broadway - something that even though he'd gotten on sale, was still not pocket change for him. 

“Do you want something to drink?” Elliot offered him as they made it through the line, vibrating in anticipation. They couldn't legally drink still, but the concessions had soda. Cliff shook his head. 

“No, I’m okay,” he said. “Thank you. I’m going to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.” This time, Elliot did notice how long it took Cliff. Specifically because time was ticking for curtains, and Elliot grew worried. He told himself he'd give Cliff two more minutes before he went in looking for his boyfriend. Thankfully, Cliff re-emerged then, albeit pale and a little sweaty.

“What's wrong? Are you okay?” Elliot asked in concern. “I was getting worried.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Cliff said, “My stomach is a little off. Let’s get to our seats.” 

Now Elliot was on high alert. He was going to say something else, but then the lights blinked to say the performance would be starting momentarily and Cliff took his hand, pulling with uncharacteristic confidence. He smiled, and Elliot told himself Cliff had to be okay. They took their seats and the show began quickly. 

Elliot was enthralled by the performance. He'd wanted to see this show for a long time, and Cliff showing interest in musicals too made him really excited. Somewhere between ‘One Short Day’ and ‘A Sentimental Man’, though, Cliff whispered to Elliot, “Bathroom,” and left. Later he'd feel awfully guilty about it, but Elliot was so wrapped up in the show that he didn't process that Cliff hadn't come back until intermission began. As the lights went up and people started moving, Elliot sent a confused text to Cliff: ‘Are you alright?’ He hoped Cliff had just chosen to watch from the back, maybe not wanting to interrupt other patrons by scooting back to his seat. But he didn't get an answer. 

Elliot felt his stomach clench with guilt and worry, going to the bathrooms to look for Cliff. It was noisy there given all the intermission pit stoppers, but Elliot called Cliff’s name anyways - once quieter, and then louder with a touch of hysteria in his voice. 

He was about to start looking under stalls at people’s shoes when he heard a quiet call back. “El, I’m fine.” Elliot felt a rush of relief and located where Cliff had called from.

“Cliff?” 

“Just wait outside, I’m sorry,” Cliff said from behind the door. His voice sounded shaky. 

“Let me in,” Elliot said. Some people were staring and he blushed, embarrassed but not enough to let it drop. “Cliff, if you're not feeling well we can go home.”

“Just give me a few more minutes,” came the response, a harsh whisper. Elliot glanced under the stall door, but all he could tell was Cliff was sitting on the floor rather than sitting on the toilet or standing. Elliot wanted to push harder, but he knew Cliff was probably mortified that this conversation was happening in front of so many people as it was. And at least he knew Cliff was okay enough to answer back.

He did not want to lose sight of Cliff again though, and leaned against the opposite wall in the bathroom waiting for Cliff to come out. It was too loud to hear much, until the lights blinked to signal the end of admission and the bathroom had mostly cleared out. Then it became very obvious - the sound of violent retching from exactly where Cliff was. Elliot sighed and knocked on the stall door.

“Cliff, people are mostly gone,” he said. “Please let me in.”

A long pause. Elliot could hear Cliff's labored breathing even from here. “I’m really gross,” Cliff said finally. “Just go finish the show.”

“There's a whole act left,” Elliot said. “And I won't enjoy it without you. C’mon Cliff. Are you really going to make me crawl under the door?” 

Another awkward stretch of silence, broken when Elliot heard the lock click and the door swung open. Cliff was sitting in the floor hugging the toilet bowl, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and one hand clearly soiled with vomit. “Oh, Cliff,” Elliot said pitifully, kneeling over and closing the door again for some privacy even if it was a tight space. 

“I’m fine,” Cliff panted. “I don't want you to miss the show.”

“You’re not fine, you're throwing up. The show is whatever, baby. How long have you been feeling sick?” He rested a hand on Cliff’s back and could feel that Cliff was feverish even through his clothes.

“I woke up last night to puke,” Cliff mumbled. “I think it's just a stomach bug or something. But you've been planning this day forever and I didn't want to ruin it.” He let out a little sob, but before he could actually begin crying in earnest he was thrown over the toilet bowl again for another wave of vomit. After so much, it was impressive he had anything left. 

Elliot hummed in pity and rubbed Cliff’s back as he gagged over and over, the spasms bringing up mostly stomach acid. “I’m so sorry, Cliff. I should have noticed.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Cliff groaned. “I’m the one ruining the day you planned.” 

“There’s other days. We can see this show again. Right now you need to be in bed.”

Cliff whimpered and sat back on his heels, this particularly round of vomiting apparently over. He looked positively awful, Elliot thought guiltily. How has he not noticed? “Can you stand?” Elliot asked. “Let’s grab a taxi home.” He tried to help Cliff stand up, but it proved a more difficult task than expected. Cliff was not only weak, but dizzy. Elliot ended up half dragging him to the lobby. He heard one of the concession workers say something about people getting sloppy drunk and hoped Cliff hadn’t heard it, too. 

Once they were finally in the car, Elliot held Cliff tightly. It would take a while to get back to their dorms with traffic, but not too long. Long enough for Cliff to only open the door during a red light to vomit onto the road once, at least, before Elliot yanked him back inside before the taxi driver got moving again. “Almost there baby... Almost there,” he tried to soothe Cliff. “I’m so sorry, Cliffy, only four more blocks...”

After what felt like forty more blocks, they finally arrived in front of their NYU dorms. Elliot tipped the driver very well, mostly because he felt bad for exposing him to a possibly contagious stomach bug, and then dragged Cliff up to their dorm. Cliff was barely conscious now and let out a small sob as Elliot got him onto the bed to begin stripping his very dirty clothes off him.

“I’m sorry,” he cried. “I ruined this day so bad.”

“Shh, it’s okay Cliff. Please, you’re making yourself sicker. It’s really okay,” Elliot said, eyes watering himself. It was hard to see Cliff so upset, and he felt like he should have noticed earlier. “Just rest. Please? You’re going to be okay.”

He managed to get Cliff into comfortable pajamas and tucked into bed, the trash can close. He had Cliff sip on a bottle of Gatorade he luckily had on hand, and then stroked Cliff’s overly hot, tear covered face. “It’s okay,” he kept saying. “It’s going to be okay. Just rest, Cliffy. Rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.” He just hoped he wasn’t lying about that.

It was a rough night, but thankfully it turned out to be a severe but short lived case of food poisoning that Elliot did not get. Cliff was out for most of the weekend and apologized at a rate of no less than once per hour. Elliot just told him it was really okay every time. He didn’t know what else to comfort Cliff with. And it was truly okay - he was just glad something worse hadn’t happened to Cliff. He didn’t think either of them could handle another trip to the hospital so soon. Cliff didn’t stop apologizing though until Monday, when he handed Elliot another two tickets to Wicked and the promise that this time, he’d actually make it through to the end.

[messinwitheddie]

How tall is a tallest compared to a tall human? Like are they around 6 to 7 feet? Or a bit taller? (Without the hovering gadget. 😅) Are they all stretched to be the same size or were there ever a tallest who was Stretched a bit too far?

Ancient Irken tallests ranged from over 6 ft to over 17 ft tall [The Colossus, Behemmotta Tallest of tallests, died measuring about 18 feet]. (The measuring process had not yet developed in Irken culture).

Late first era to the third era tallests ranged from over 7 to 9 ft tall (after the measuring process, without hovor belts, to specify) Soxx, Hitz and Kii all stood just over 9 feet tall in their original flesh vessels.

Modern tallests range from 6 1/2 to 8 1/2 ft tall (After the measuring process. The control brains put a cap on the species so to speak...) Red and Purple stood about 7 1/2 ft tall after the measuring process.

So, most modern Irken tallest would only stand a few feet taller than the average American male, BUT, their proportions would look so incredibly off to us, an Irken tallest might appear taller at a glance (Imperial robes are designed to give this visual effect. The hovor belts exaggerate the visual even more.)

No two modern tallests, with the exception of Red and Purple, are the exact same height.

I had a list of the top 5 tallest modern tallests, but I can't find the post, so maybe I'll make a new one.

Sadly, some drones who are encoded as tallests do not survive the early steps to the measuring process. It's a brutal ordeal.

[Adult Dib (well over 6ft in my head canon) standing beside disgraced Purple (so no hovor belts).]

Purple "You were that big headed kid? That's why your head looks so familiar?"

Dib "Yes, I promise you, that's accurate."

Purple "Good Glord, what did they feed you?"

Dib "A lot of beef, pizza and soda and...garbage. My drone, I know it's been a while, but we've spoken on multiple occasions. I met you in person once. How do you n-?"

Purple "Where? When?"

Dib "Remember a few decades back when you and Red shunned Zim imperially?"

Purple *nodding* "Imm hmm??"

Dib "About six hours prior you snuck off to smoke in the civilian halls and you ran into this awkward weapons engineer intern-cadet also sneaking a smoke...?"

Purple "..."

Dib "You asked him what he was smoking and he told you, tobacco; they're imported. Then you asked him did he bring enough for the armada? And he told you "I brought enough for you, my tallest" and he handed you a little box filled with "imported" cigarettes?"

Purple *chuckles* "That was a good answer."

Dib "That intern drone was ME. I was infiltrating the massive to sabotage whatever Zim was planning."

Purple *exhales, coughing as he laughs* "That's hilarious!... and wonderful a earth monkey managing to infiltrate the Armada isn't my problem anymore... It's a shame you weren't born an Irken drone; the empire could have benefited from you."

Dib "Sorry, but that sentiment doesn't exactly come across as a compliment."

[Because I'm too lazy to draw a height chart. And because I will probably never have an excuse to write out this dialogue...]

[originemesis]

@brokendreamscreation xxx

The wheels in Lucid’s head visibly turn as Adam lets all his talk and suggestions sink into his mind, eyes never leaving the portal view. He’s snapped out of his hyper focus as a large wing envelops him, finding his small body pressed to the larger angels side. Blue hues flick upward momentarily, wrinkling where his would be nose as that kernels and crumbs falling on his head. But the seraphim admits that the warmth radiating from the First Man’s body and wing around him was nice. “Well, I don’t think the high council ever expected me to visually witness the act of copulation and breeding, let alone myself participate. At worst I feel certain they thought I may only hear it described or spoken in vulgarity. They know I can read about the process, it was part of my studies in understanding humans a few hundred years ago. It was however the textbook description. I do not believe they have updated the filter either or seen a reason to.” If the council knew now however what the naughty seraphim has been getting himself into, they’d more than update his halo. They’d surely restrain him to his workshop under guard, lock and key. Giving an awkward cough into a closed fist, Lucid feels the blooming warmth of a blush bloom on his already apple red marked cheeks. While it was not a regular thought for him to have, whenever the memory does strike he recalls the rush of the experience. Heat, skin on skin, the mix of whimpers and moans, the unexpected pleasure that burned in him with such intensity that his very mind went blank. A time he for once did not think and only acted, reacted, and let an unknown instinct guide him. Lucid fidgets, feeling his own body suddenly growing warmer at the memories.

His chatter with this so-called memory remade in the image of his ire may seem self indulgent, especially with how often he dips his talons into Lucid's popcorn bowl to retrieve more food for fueling his supposed 'commander's concerns', but even so- it is not without intent. That is, his intent to confirm a certain suspicion he'd been sold on the more he continued these interactions with yet another piece of heaven's dirty laundry. And oh ~ was it dirty if he was right. And when is he ever wrong?

With a few last crunches, he swallows what hasn't managed to drop onto the seraphim copy's face, his gaze sliding down to subtly check for more, though it locks smugly with the pair of blue peepers below. "Suspecting isn't exactly their strong suit, bruh." That much was evident given all the bathwater of a certain hell queen he brought into the office daily, smuggled in via soda cup and straw. So no, it's not impossible for him to believe this old 'friend' of his had been tampering with time space. "And if they suddenly should get a reason to? Well, I'm guessing that would suck for you~" With a twitch of a smirk sensing the other's blooming cognizance that the commander may know more than he's been letting on their past few run-ins around the embassy, he pins the smaller seraphim tighter with a tucking of his wing and boxes him in with the other, forming a sort of tent around their conversation...or rather- a confessional.

"Wouldn't it?"

Voice dripping with more amused menace than just scattered crumbs, he gives the flushed clone the briefest opportunity to sputter before he reaches down to snake a talon beneath Lucid's chin, a firm thump aiding him in tipping his face back at a strained angle and holding it in place. Despite the concealment of feathers, the various sounds of debauchery continued to serve as the background noise to their conversation- every slap and subsequent moan- unfilterable by heaven's past interests in multiplying humanity with a single pair that could hardly get along, let alone mass produce their kind.

"Because you're the one I [REDACTED], right? Well, I guess your filter would prefer we'd classify it as breeding, riiiiiiight~?" Nevermind what all of that entailed as far as how the past had played out between he and the other garden residents. All that mattered to him at the moment was securing yet another edge for his own under the rug activities.

"Y'know...I don't have to tell them. But you'd have to make it worth my silence." With a curl of claws, he'd wrapped the great expanse of his hand around the underside of the seraphim's jaw, holding his head with the promise of a grape's fate with his easy it might be to squash him if he wanted.

"What'dya say? I mean, I could use an errand-bitch, and that popcorn wasn't half bad."

[amnotaqueen]

Feeding Our Son Hot Pepper

We went to eat at a buffet for dinner. My husband is very accustomed to eating extremely spicy food. It would take a lot for him to make a verbal exclamation about how hot a food item is that he's eating. Well, he took a bite of what looked like a big, baked jalapeño pepper and loudly commented about how hot it was. For some reason, it immediately comes to his mind to feed our 7 year old some of that hot pepper. Is he sadistic?

I said, "No, don't give him any of it." My son himself said that he did not want any of it. We may as well had been talking to ourselves. He cut off a small piece of the hot pepper and fed it to our son, saying that he could handle it. He seems to want our 7 year old son to be able to go long periods of time enduring hunger without complaining, to have well defined muscle tone and definition with no fat, and to be able to endure eating hot peppers that are a lot even for his palate.

After eating the pepper, our son immediately was coughing and reaching for something to drink. He drank the rest of his soda. His mouth was still burning. He drank some of his father's water. His mouth was still on fire. He ate some other types of food, we hoped would calm the burning sensation. In the process of giving him other things to eat that might help, my husband puts what looked like it was also jalapeño pepper from the salad bar (not whole and baked like the first one, but already sliced and from a jar) onto his fork to feed our son. I stopped him, asking him why he would give him more pepper when clearly his mouth was still burning from the first pepper. My husband acted like he didnt know he was giving him more pepper. At least he listened and didn't give it to him that time. Our son drank and drank for a while. He laughed at our son who was trying to cool his mouth off. He thought it was funny. I did not, and didn't laugh at all.

Later, we spoke to grandma on the phone. The call was on speaker phone. She commented on how 'big' my son was getting. Yes, he is getting bigger, especially taller. It would be something wrong if he weren't getting bigger and taller. She said he must be eating a lot to be getting so big. Of course, as children get older they eat more. My husband was quick to use her comments in support of his delusional viewpoint about our son's weight. He said, "Yes! He's eating a lot!" He said it like he was annoyed at how much he eats, as if he over eats. He also added, "He eats every morning!"... Yes. It's called breakfast. People eat breakfast every morning. I'm baffled.

Before we left to eat dinner, my husband spanked our son. Why? Because of his vocal stimming. He makes repetitious noises, says phrases or sounds over and over at random times. The vocal stims are our son's way of regulating himself, and is largely involuntary, something he does unconsciously. We can ask him to stop, be quiet and he may be able to reduce it for a while, but it's still there. Apparently, my husband thinks he should be punished, spanked for his vocal stims. He is going to spank the vocal stims out of our autistic child.

[pastriibunz]

I get a little silly and explain the lore for

THE HATCHETFIELD KAIS!

TKWDLM Kai: You know her, you love her, she’s The Kai Who Didn’t Like Musicals! Well, kind of a lie. Girl really likes musicals. She just doesn’t like this one. Her script/fanfic is finished and can be read here, and she’s the only Hatchetfield Kai whose I story plan on writing out, but who knows! If you folks liked TKWDLM enough, maybe I’ll write the other ones out! Also, a thing to note: Every Hatchetfield (minus the Kais in the Trip series, they got their own thing going on) Kai is a variant of TKWDLM Kai. She’s escaped the infection somehow, and she’s been searching the timelines, trying to find one where the world is okay and she’s safe with Paul and Emma. The search has taken at least 2 years and she hasn’t found one yet, but she’ll search for as long as she has to. They’re worth it.

Forever And Always Kai: Someone get a bell cart, because this girl’s got some major baggage! Inserted into the plot line of Forever And Always, Kai watches her mom and dad (Emma and Paul, obv) get married, which sucks for her because of some past trauma involving marriage- *cough* Hiro Mira *cough* -but then her entire world flips upside down when she learns the Emma she’s learned to love like her own mother isn’t the real Emma. Kai, filled with heartbreak from being lied to, and the disgust of the idea of stealing someones life for themselves (she’s got some issues surrounding her own identity) tries to help the real Emma in whatever way she can. When that inevitably doesn’t work out, and after learning that Paul lied about his identity too, Kai tries to make a break (pun intended, you’ll see why in a minute) for Unington. While trying to escape the apartment she breaks either her entire lower leg or her ankle (depending on the ending), slowing her down. No matter what ending, Kai doesn’t make it to Unington, with Paul and Emma finding her. They take her to the hospital and then back home, where Kai begs for them to kill her too. They, much to Kai’s dismay, assure her they won’t and that they’ll love her like their own, Forever And Always.

Hey, Melissa! Kai: Oh, boy. This one’s a doozy. And it’s pretty silly. Me and my friend (@local-soda-can) turned the weird, kinky and fetishy story of Hey, Melissa! from flat out gross/weird to kinda sweet in a really messed up sort of way? I feel like I should say this now: ‼️IT'S NOT SEXUAL ANYMORE BECAUSE KAIS A MINOR (17) AT THE TIME OF THE STORY‼️ so, now that that’s out of the way, let’s get on with the show!! The entire thing is so long and goofy, that I’m making it its own little summary on @beaniibunzz, where I’ll link here when it’s up! But, essentially, Melissa catgirls Kai and Kai just accepts it because she craves praise, validation, and affection that Melissa provides and Kai’s like “oh shit sure I’ll be a cat yeah why not!!” It was really funny to write. Very silly 5/5 stars!!!

ATDTU Kai: Ah, A Trip Down To Unington! Again, my friend local-soda-can made an 8 part live reaction to this, linked here! To summarize, Set 3 years after TKWDLM (where somehow everyone is uninfected), The Hatchetfield Gang™️ (Consisting of Paul, Emma, Ted, Bill, and Charlotte, with guest appearances from Mr. Davidson, Sam, and Melissa) take, as the title states, a trip down to Kai’s hometown of Unington! During their stay, they learn about Kai and her past, as well as how the town isn’t exactly the nicest people towards her. It’s very silly and it makes me giggle. Go read my friends live reaction for more info!!!

Hallow’s Eve Kai: This one I’ve actually never posted about, nor does it have any actual writing behind it. But, it’s still silly! Essentially, During a Halloween party at CCRP, someone *cough* Ted- *cough* has the bright idea to summon a demon!!!! Yay!!! Emma (who has most definitely tried to summon a demon, you cannot convince me otherwise) walks the gang through the process, and at first nothing happens. Then, Kai (dressed as her dad, Bendy!!!! :D) appears. Now, they’ve gotta give her a deal/task she can fulfill or else she’ll be stuck bonded to the gang for the rest of eternity. Maybe one day I’ll probably post something revolving around this thing.

ATUTH Kai: The newest Kai of the bunch! A Trip Up To Hatchetfield is essentially the reverse of A Trip Down To Unington. It, like ATDTU, is set 3 years after the events of TKWDLM. Instead of the gang going down to Unington, however, it revolves around Kai going up to visit Hatchetfield. Kai was supposed to go on tour around the US in TKWDLM, with her starting city being Hatchetfield. There were some complications with that *cough* apocalypse- *cough*, but that’s water under the bridge now. She heads down to Hatchetfield for what was supposed to be a week, and does the show she was supposed to do! But, when she tries to leave??? THE ENTIRETY OF HATCHETFIELD (minus the gang™️ the gang™️ is cool) SCOOPS HER ASS UP AND IS LIKE “nah ah ahhhh no leaving for you ☝️☝️☝️” and now she’s like everyone’s collective child and she just wants to leave- it’s silly :]

and that’s that! if your wondering about Black Friday Kai or Nerdy Prudes Must Die Kai, they’re not on here bc I haven’t started outlining Black Kai-day and Nerdy Prudes Must Kai is still at the beginning and I wanna give it some room to grow before I summarize it

okai byeee :D

[clyde-wy]

Made a wrong move and hurt my spinal chord. It's a chance for me to test my body. If i sit it pushes against the spine and hinders the breathing, i would say, by 15%. So instead of complaining i realize it is an opportunity to learn how my body works. I test multiple positions to see how my organism reacts. As if what mattered was not the healing but what I get from it. The more I discover about my anatomy through pain, the better for me. It's torture but it's necessary. Suddenly coughed to the point where I almost threw up, as it happens a lot in this specific context I do believe it is absolutely both necessary and interesting. As such, by design my body does not "belong" to me but rather it was given to me to analyze and understand it through tough conditions. Fybromalgia, possibly GERD, shortness of breath, side abdominal pain and reccuring cardiac issues. Again, I do not try to reach the goal of healing, but the process is of the utmost importance. Ofc i wish to heal, but I do not believe this is the fate I deserve. My own hell. Pain levels after drinking a lot of sugary sodas is at a regular 4/10. The acid reflux is at a reasonnable 2/10. Overrall discomfort, 7/10. I had worse, in conclusion. The only issue here is that the condition, while temporary, seems to persist in the left side of the neck. What's not helping is the multiple mosquito bites that might end uo in an infection, even tho it is highly unlikely considering shortly after the incident, the skin showed a white mark, meaning the immune system was doing its' job correctlty.

I will update.

[meow-town]

Dee x Fem! Very Girly! Reader

Requested by @grape-flavored-lipgloss !! Took me a while because I wanted to mass-post a bunch of requests, but I really hope you enjoy this! (Pretty long because I adore this idea and went a little bit off of the rails)

Summary : Dee with very girly s/o who wears a lot of pink. The Shvagenbagens don’t necessarily like her at first but she gets them to warm up to her.

-You definitely weren’t the person he expected to fall for. He expected to start liking someone with his style, his taste in music, similar interests. Someone like Lif, to be honest.

-Obviously, you weren’t the person he’d want to date the least. Diana easily takes that spot.

-He recognized your sweetness, and how kind you were. You knew how to dress, and you obvious took care of yourself.

-The science fair was coming up, and teams were assigned for projects. His teacher forgot to sort him into a team, and when they found out, they were both pissed.

-The teacher, cause Dee hadn’t told him anything. And Dee, because now he couldn’t work alone like he wanted to. (Not me basing this off of my dee x reader story)

-Anyways, he got paired up with you and some other kid who didn’t do jack shit to contribute to the project.

-You we’re constantly nice and kind, and never got very aggressive with the other student, despite his laziness. You would give great ideas, constantly be giving words of encouragement to Dee when going through experiments, offer to hold equipment, etc, etc…

-You were a team, which means you all shared a group chat, which means he had your number. (Thankfully he already had it before he started crushing, otherwise he never would’ve worked up the courage to ask you for it).

-Because Dee’s petty as hell, he put credits in the science project so the teacher would know that you and him were the only ones who did work. He deleted the group chat, as well.

-After that, you spent the rest of the science fair with each other. People would crowd around your project stand, amazed. Because, lets be real, it’s Dee. He would explain how it worked, and you shared the thought process behind it.  -After that, he invited you to a drink at the vending machines, his treat. What a gentleman.

-You two had a conversation over fizzy sodas (or something else, if you don’t like those) and mostly complained about peers or teachers you hated. It brought you together, to say the least.

-He began to text you more, talk to you more and even choose to spend time with you over Lif! Lif!

-mf didn’t even notice he was crushing on you. He was just looking at you during lunch and it clicked.

-Dee’s internal monologue:

‘Are those new earrings? They look great. I should buy some jewelry for her, I know she likes that one brand. They match perfectly with her makeup. … She looks pretty in that makeup. …Prettier than… anyone else.  …

I don’t like her, thought. That’d be weird. She’s just my friend…. A very good friend….A very sweet friend who I can rely on… A very kind friend who just so happens to be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, sweet little thing. I don’t like  her though, soft as her hair might look and as badly I might want to run my hands through it. Caring as she may be. I don’t like (f/n).

….

HOLY FUCK I LIKE (F/N)’

-The man was too stunned to speak 😦

-When I tell you he turned his head away SO FAST

-His face and neck were as red as a fire truck, and he was starting to sweat bullets.

-He choked on his food.

“Dee? Are you ok?”

-Can’t even face you. His coughing fit was interrupted by small, broken syllables.

“YE *COUGH* YEAH, IM *COUGH* FINE. DONT *COUGH,COUGH* WORRY”

-He went a whole other level of flustered when you started to pat his back. Heart beating at a thousand miles per hour. Palms growing sweatier.

-He couldn’t look at you for a straight WEEK. He avoided you everywhere he went, otherwise the whole blushy routine would start all over again. A part of him wanted to be by your side at all times though, so it was hard for him.

-When he started to hang out with you again, he had to mentally prepare himself for it. Just imagine Dee shouting to himself while he did his makeup every morning.

“Okay, Dee! You will go out there and you will be charming! And handsome! And she will fall for you!”

 -Heavy doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he can hear him from his room.

-Heavy already knew you from around school, and wasn’t judgmental of your style or friendship with Dee whatsoever! He though you looked very pretty, too!

-And back onto that, he gave away his brother.

-You were chatting, waiting for Dee to leave his final period. And out of the blue, Heavy went :

“Yeah, he was planning how to ask you out for months now! Never gets it right either.”

“He what?”

“Wait, he hasn’t told you yet?”

“Noooooo..?”

…

-Of course, you kind of figured and told him you also liked him. He’s really obvious. But the second Dee heard his brother had told you he liked you, he was seconds away from choking Heavy the way he did in the 2nd episode.

-He was really grateful once you reciprocated though.

-He asked for a kiss so shyly, too.

-His hands trembled as they cupped your cheeks 💓💥

-Meeting the folks was… interesting -Glam was very polite, he just didn’t expect a person so different from his son would win over his heart. -And I love Victoria, but she was straight up judgemental 😭

-She’s had a bad experience with girly girls, so she’s initially quite defensive. Thankfully, once you’re gone, the kids confront her about it.

“Ma, what is your problem with (f/n)?”

“Yeah! You keep giving her the stink-eye! She’s nice!”

-She gets super nervous and over sensitive. Glam knows about her past problems with girly girls and talks her through it. She’s on much better terms the next time you meet :)

-It gets awkward with the parents, but once you’ve proven to them you won’t hurt their son and that you’re very sweet, they treat you as a child of their own.

-Ches just full-on didn’t believe you were dating. You passed by his shop with Dee and Heavy and he cackled when Heavy told him you were dating. Once things got cleared up, he was very supportive although surprised.”

“Wow, you actually got a girlfriend. And here I thought you were going to be one of those guys who stays a virgin until 40…”

“UNCLE CHES-”

-Lif through your dynamic was super cute and she drew you two together! (Also she’s very glad Dee likes you because she was scared of rejecting the guy)

[tulsa-trash]

We Look Out For Each Other

WARNING(S): Alcohol Abuse

You never thought you'd ever step foot into Buck's in your life, yet there you were sat at the bar with your brother, Sodapop, right beside you. He was drinking from a dark brown beer bottle, which is something you never thought you'd see him do. He took a big gulp before letting out an obnoxious burp, which caused him to burst out into a fit of giggles. You couldn't help the huge wave of sadness that washed over you seeing him in this state. Sandy had just broken up with him, leaving him a complete and utter mess. You knew Dallas inviting him to this party was a bad idea, so you decided to tag along to make sure he didn't get hurt.

The place was absolutely packed, Buck always threw parties but you never understood why when the bar was so tiny. Everyone had to squeeze their way through a crowd wherever they went, it was madness. The air was hot and you felt like you were being suffocated the longer you stood in there.

You looked back over to your brother to find that a girl had caught his attention. She was all over him and he was too drunk to even return her touch. You internally gagged, you couldn't take it anymore. Deciding some fresh air would do you good, you got up from the bar stool and untied your sweater from around your waist.

"Soda! I'm gonna head outside real quick!" You yelled to the sandy-haired boy over the loud country music that was playing.

You got no response, him being too occupied with his new friend. You hopped off your seat and quickly squeezed your way out the front door. The cool, summer night wind immediately cooled off your overheated body. A sigh of relief escaped your lips as you took a seat on the cement steps. You sat in silence for a while as you watched various cars fly by on the road in front if the bar, you wished you could just go home but you couldn't bring yourself to leave Soda behind by himself.

The door swung open behind you, making you unintentionally jump. You turned expecting to see a drunken idiot, but you were glad to meet the wary gaze of Johnny Cade.

"Hey, J." You greeted him with a smile.

"Y/N." He nodded. "Mind if I sit?"

You shook your head, "Don't mind at all."

He left enough space between the both of you in case someone else decided to walk out. You watched as he pulled out a pack of cools from his jacket pocket along with a red lighter.

"Want one?" He offered.

You sighed, "Boy, I sure as hell do."

He handed a cancer stick to you before lighting the one that was already dangling from his lips. He gestured for you to come closer so he could light yours, as you scooted over you couldn't help but feel heat rise to your cheeks when his face was only a few inches from yours. The familiar "flick" of the lighter sounded out and you took a long drag whilst looking deep into his dark eyes. He was so mesmerizing you had almost forgotten about your drunk brother that was inside.

"Thanks." You mumbled as the smoke exited your lungs and out of your mouth.

"You alright?"

"Hm?"

"You don't look too good, your face is really red." He stated.

You began to cough wildly, you kept your head facing down so your hair would cover your now even redder complexion and embarrassed expression.

"Y-Yeah! It was just really hot in there is all." You lied.

Johnny chuckled, "Yeah... it sure was."

Silence filled the air, you thought it was an awkward pause but Johnny seemed to be comfortable. While he seemed to be deep in his thoughts, you couldn't help but stare at his side profile. His caramel skin, the growing stubble that adorned his jawline down to his chin, the scar on his right cheekbone...

"Why ya starin' at me?"

You whirled your head forward, trying your best to play it off only to fail miserably. Johnny laughed quietly and, to your surprise, he shuffled a bit closer to you and playfully tugged on the sleeve of your jacket.

"Sorry." You muttered quietly, only to begin laughing at yourself as well.

"Not that I want you to leave or anythin', but why are you here? This isn't the type of place I thought I'd ever see you hangin' 'round."

He was looking at you with his brows furrowed, both concern and confusion painted his features. Somehow your heart managed to sink yet leap at the same time. Johnny said he didn't want you to leave, but the reason why you were at Buck's in the first place wasn't to get drunk and have a good time.

"Oh yeah... Well Soda is in there."

His eyes widened, "Really?"

You could only give him a glum nod.

"Is this because of Sandy?" He asked.

"Mhm... I couldn't just sit at home while my brother left to drink his sorrows away. That's not who he is, Johnny. You know that."

He shook his head, "Man... that's tough."

You rested your chin on your hand, your elbow propped up on your lap. You had know idea what time it was or how you were going to get both you and your brother home safely. Not to mention that Darry had probably noticed you were gone by now.

"I don't know what to do." You huffed. "I just wanna get me and Sodapop back home in one piece but at the moment I feel hopeless"

You held back the tears that were welling up in your eyes, the last thing you needed after tonight was for Johnny to see you cry.

You felt his arm drape over your shoulders, he pulled you closer to him so that your side pressed against his own. He was warm and smelled like smoke. 

"I'll get the both of you home, Y/N. Don't worry about it." He told you.

"No, Johnny. It's fine you don't ha--" You began to protest but he cut you off.

"Nah, I'm goin' to. Think I'd sit here while you try to take your drunk brother home at this time of night?"

"But--"

He held up his hand, silencing you. He got up and went back inside without saying another word, he returned shortly with your incoherent brother clinging to him.

-

Somehow the three of you made it back to the Curtis house in one piece, Johnny led Soda up the front steps and to the door while you watched from the sidewalk.

"Try to be quiet in there, man." Johnny told your brother.

Soda gave him a slow nod, his eyelids drooping down in the process. Johnny opened the door for him, and with that he stumbled into the small home.

Johnny snickered, "Well that was a mission."

You made your way to him on the porch and agreed, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.

"I really can't thank you enough." You told him sincerely.

The young boy merely shrugged, "No problem at all, doll."

"Yeah but... I just feel bad. You didn't have to help us out. We pulled you away from the party."

He placed both of his hands on your shoulders and looked you in the eyes dramatically, making you giggle and look down.

"Look at me." He deepened his voice playfully.

You covered your mouth to hold in the big guffaws that were building up in your throat. But you obeyed and looked back up to make eye contact with him.

"Don't feel bad, I didn't even wanna be at that party anyway." He turned back into his serious self. "We look out for each other, so don't lose sleep over me helpin' ya."

You leaned up and placed a soft kiss on his lips. Before he could even react you open your front door and began to close it behind you.

"W-What was that for?" He stuttered.

"Consider it a thank you."

[dorminchu]

Insult to Injury: The Director’s Cut — Chapter 03 [Revised]

This chapter contains commissioned artwork by the one and only @cavalieredispade. Thanks a million!

III: I WOULD NOT COMPLAIN OF MY WOUNDED HEART

Each December, on their wedding anniversary, Madeleine’s parents flew out to Tangier and booked the same honeymoon suite in L’Americain. Madeleine’s earliest memory of her mother was in that room; sitting by the open window to read, or have a cigarette, while Madeleine wandered around the room finding ways to entertain herself.

The rest of the year, she spent growing up in a two-storey cabin on the shore of Lake Altaussee, enshrouded by trees and limestone mountains. Her father’s occupation kept him abroad for lengthy stretches of time. Her mother stayed home a lot. She had blonde hair that was brittle to touch. Get too close and she smelled like smoke beneath her favourite perfume. Her arms and legs were always bruised because she had trouble getting out of bed, out of chairs, without falling or bumping into furniture. Madeleine could not remember seeing her eat much. Just taking naps throughout the day to stave off headaches. The only thing that ever seemed to put her at ease was her medicine, which Madeleine couldn’t administer in front of the maid, or her father.

Madeleine tried it only once. She spat it back into the glass with a poorly-disguised grimace. While her mother chuckled, Madeleine had to get up and fill a new glass for her mother. She heard her coughing on the way back, wet, congealed with mucous. Madeleine set the fresh glass down and waited for her to stop.

It tastes gross.

Her mother smiled. “It tastes bad because it’s medicine. You shouldn’t be drinking it, since you are healthy. Once you get to be my age, you will understand why.”

Her mother coughed a lot because she didn’t like to open the windows. She said it was just to prevent the cold air from getting in in, or hot air getting out. Besides, if Madeleine were uncomfortable she could always go outside.

Madeleine said, why do you drink it?

“Because I’m sick right now. Why don’t you go upstairs and play?”

By then, Madeleine was old enough to decipher the surgeon’s warning on the back of the bottle. Just like the gun under the cabinet, the magazine with five rounds past the legal capcity, her father’s choice in colleagues, her mother’s sickness, there were things you did and didn’t talk about.

As her mother began drinking more heavily, Madeleine would go to school or into the village with the bodyguard of the week. It must be lonely for her, sitting at home all day. Madeleine would spend some time with her mother if she was awake, just talking about the day, and her mother would sit and nod along as if she were still dreaming.

Sometimes she would drink too much and make herself sick. The maid showed Madeleine how to get stains out of the upholstery by diluting white vinegar or hydrogen peroxide with equal parts tap water. Not to combine vinegar and peroxide, creating peracetic acid which was an irritant. Cornstarch or baking soda to deodorize.

“If you want to do it properly, she said, mix ten ounces of three percent hydrogen peroxide, three tablespoons of baking soda, and two drops of dish-washing detergent. Mix until the baking soda is dissolved.

“Pre-test the upholstery by applying the cleaner in an inconspicuous place. Allow it to dry. If the fabric does not change color, spray the stain and allow the cleaner to work for an hour. If the stain is not gone, repeat the process.

“Rinse the cleaning solution from the area by dabbing with a damp cloth and blotting with a dry towel. Over time, detergent residue will attract dirt. The hydrogen peroxide could bleach the upholstery and weaken the fibers of the fabric. Then, you have to call a professional cleaner.”

Then, one day, the maid’s services were no longer required. There was no warning. Her mother said something about some of her jewelery missing, how you couldn't trust a lot of people. Madeleine nodded along. She was a very good listener.

The year Madeleine turned ten, a week away from her parent’s anniversary, she was home for Christmas break. She woke up a little earlier than usual because she was still accustomed to her regular schedule. She had a couple hours before she walked into town. She got dressed and came downstairs to fix herself breakfast. Her mother was sitting upright on the couch, in the same position as last night. Sometimes she fell asleep like that. Passing by, the acridly sweet smell of vomit permeated the air. She’d have to clean that up first.

In between the living room and kitchen Madeleine stepped on something small and crunchy. Her mother’s painkillers were scattered across the wood floor. She walked over to check on her mother, who was staring out the window without seeing. She didn’t respond when Madeleine touched her shoulder. Then shook her lightly. Called her name twice.

She noticed the half-empty glass, the upturned bottle of medication on the table. Her mother’s breathing, laboured. The bodyguard came in the house which her parents would never permit. He told Madeleine to get her things.

Madeleine’s father came home early in the morning. He explained that her mother took enough sedatives to make herself very sick, but nothing more. One of his most trusted associates, Dr. Vogel, would come here to make sure she was stabilised. In the meantime, he invited Madeleine alone to Morocco. To see more of the world, as he put it. Her mother needed time to recover.

Two days later in the lobby of L’Americain her father was chatting with the attendant behind the desk. He mentioned his wife (sick, again, poor thing) and daughter (just turned ten last year), a bit more delicate in their sensibilities. Her father led her upstairs to their room.

Madeleine set her own luggage down in a shady corner. The fine-cut curtains didn’t do much to stop the sunlight beaming in, the dry air. Madeleine went to the bathroom and checked her face. The white sleeveless cardigan looked elegant, but come evening she would have pink patches on the crown of her head, bare arms, tip of her nose. In a few days they’d start peeling. Madeleine made sure her hands were clean before tending to her face, which was still smarting. She took her time patting dry with the towel. She came back and her father was looking at the empty wall opposite the master bed.

“She never really liked coming here,” he said. “She just wanted an excuse to drink.”

Why did she make herself sick?

“She’s angry with me. Well, I haven’t been home as often as I should. There’s only so much I can do, now that she has gotten so ill.”

Does she hate me?

Her father stopped. The lines in his face accentuated by his frown. “She’s in a lot of pain. When people get very upset, they tend to say things they don’t mean. However she chooses to deal with that pain is her decision, but it is not your fault. Don’t let her convince you otherwise.”

Madeleine nodded. Her father’s hand smoothed her hair back; she stepped away, resisting the temptation to massage her sunburnt scalp.

He said, “You’ll have to change before dinner.”

Madeleine, biting the inside of her cheek, said, I know, dad. Frowning, she said, I don’t have to talk to Mr. Le Chiffre at dinner, do I?

“He is my business partner. You keep your opinions to yourself.”

Yes, dad.

Her father looked at her a long moment, then shook his head. “Here, you can’t go anywhere with a burnt face.” He motioned her over to the bathroom and started opening drawers, retrieving a tube of antimicrobial ointment next to the shaving cream. “There’s a hand-mirror as well, if you miss a spot. Just put it back when you’re finished.”

Okay. Thank you.

He smiled. Madeleine smiled back, even though her face hurt. 

⁂

On the drive to the Paris-Est, Madeleine’s feelings dissipated into grudging acceptance of her situation. An independent contractor looking for ransom would not understand the significance of the name SPECTRE, nor refer to her father by his title of The Pale King. Neither Safin nor his associate bore the metal ring she associated with the black emblem on her father’s letters—from work, he would always preface to her mother’s scowl—or the scant, unnamed ones that began showing up at Aunt Droit’s house the summer she turned eighteen.

She looked at the back of Safin’s head and said, “You work for my father?”

“I was contracted.”

Madeleine scowled at nothing in particular. “I didn’t know he still hired men like you.”

“He does not usually employ those outside of his circle.”

Exiting the car, boarding the train, she already had her tickets in first-class. Safin took a seat adjacent to her, with the end of the car in his line of sight. His associate was out of sight, on the other end.

En-route, they’d go from Paris-Est to Strasbourg, then Basel, then arrive in Zürich; a four-hour commute, assuming no complications. She could sit and refuse to talk like an insolent child, or she could take a moment to dissect her only source of information.

Objectively, she placed him somewhere in his early-to-mid-thirties. Average height. Not as physically imposing as his colleague, but still in excellent shape. He had a soft face which made him look younger, despite the scarring. The backs of his hands were damaged to a lesser extent than his face and throat. A subtle tension persisted around the shoulders—back in her residency years, she’d observed the same tendency in men who came from prisons.

The attendant walked over smelling like artificial vanilla, and enquired if they would need anything. A rush of saliva flooded Madeleine’s mouth as before vomiting. She shook her head.

“Everything’s fine, thank you,” said Safin.

The attendant continued down the aisle. Madeleine exhaled. Sunlight beamed on the side of her head, warming her past the point of languid ease. All she had was the handbag at her feet; burner phone, wallet, spare cosmetics, and a custom holster for a gun she hadn’t touched since purchasing, years ago. Still in the safe, if it hadn’t been confiscated by forensics or whomever broke into her apartment.

Madeleine relaxed her shoulders. Itching to get out of her head and into someone else’s for a change, she said, “I never collected my luggage from the airport, you know. I don’t have much on me.”

“Your personal affairs have been accounted for.”

A well-dressed thug was still a thug. Now she was stuck with him for the rest of the commute. Madeleine couldn’t stand to sit.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Safin without looking up.

“Dining car. I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

Safin made eye-contact with the associate by the door and gave a slight nod; Primo got up and followed her down two car lengths. Madeleine took a seat at one of the tables. Primo was by the door again. He didn't order anything. The other passengers, the server, became non-entities. Ordinary civilians. Two strangers on a commute. She shouldn't stare diffidently around as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. Focus on having a quiet meal. She paid in cash. Tipped ten percent.

When she returned to her seat, Safin said, “Trouble?”

“Of course not.”

Safin glanced down the end of the train. “Very good.”

From Basel to Zürich, they were on the upper level of the SBB train, seated at a booth. Safin was closest to the aisle and by extension, the exit. Madeleine, in a spot by the booth corner, was getting a little sick of this charade. He wasn't much for conversation, and the confines of her own head were starting to wear on her. He was allotting her space but less visibility, like putting blinders on a horse. If this situation were truly dangerous, they wouldn’t be travelling by train in the first place. Too many possibilities for interception.

The passing attendant didn’t address her beyond a glance and a small, terse smile. Probably just wanted to get to the end of the shift. Or maybe it was just her resting bitch face. She was simply run-down by the events of this morning. Operating on fumes. A dangerous way to live, even with someone else looking over your shoulder. Just like her father, sending a bodyguard-slash-operative in lieu of explanation.

“Dr. Swann,” said Safin, “is there a reason you keep looking over at the door?”

It was the first thing he’d said to her in a while. “I was just thinking. My father never mentioned any property in Zürich.”

“Not property. It’s a penthouse. You have a room set up already. I’ll stay out of your way.”

Madeleine nodded. Parsing over his sentence in her head a few more times. She looked up. “You have a reservation?”

“Only in the interest of your protection.”

Madeleine stared at him. Scoffed. “This is ridiculous. I haven't had a problem in years. He still treats me as if I am indebted.”

“You took his money.”

Madeleine stared at him in disbelief. “I took it to get through university, which I could never have afforded on my own. I never asked for anything beyond what he deigned to offer.”

Safin’s mouth thinned.

“Now you don’t want to talk? Fine. Since you obviously have nothing better to do than humour me, there is something I’ve been meaning to ask. What, exactly, were you planning to do if I walked away? I understand you have your method of operations, but really. The middle of a police station?” Safin said nothing. “I guess even men like you have to get your kicks. It's not every day you get to lead someone at gunpoint—”

“Are you finished?”

His indifferent tone didn't match the look on his face. Before she went to Oxford, she would have never talked to a close-protection officer this way. Madeleine averted her eyes. She could feel him studying her over the edge of the sunglasses. He turned his head in her direction, said, “You dislike guns.”

“I hate them.”

“May I ask why?”

“When I was a little girl, a man came to the house looking for my father. He found me instead. He got very angry when I wouldn’t tell him where my father had gone, so, I defended myself.” She shrugged her shoulders. “That’s why.”

⁂

After getting off at the station it was only a short drive into the Wollishofen district. The hotel entrance flanked by a pair of men in suits. One of them nodded to Safin before bidding them entry.

The penthouse was a step above the apartment in France. Hardwood floors. Everything polished. Individual climate control, central heating and IDD telephone. The kitchenware looked new. Her room was already set-up for her. A gilded dresser by the bed. Pillow-top mattress. The marble bathroom adjacent, complete with a hairdryer, dressing gowns and towels. Twin lamps flanked the bed. Engraved into the ivory base of each lamp was the shape of a dragon, twisted in upon itself.

Hardly her father’s style, or to her own tastes, for that matter. He probably picked this establishment because it was close to where he worked. Running business meetings over in Schwyz. He'd always been pragmatic when it came to his family and occupation.

The suitcase at the foot of the bed called her attention. Opening it, she found the clothes she’d left in Arnaud’s apartment. She parsed through the fabric. Some of these, she hadn’t worn in a season or two. Going out more often. Getting compliments at work, out-and-about, trying to smile.

At the bottom of the suitcase, she felt something heavy and cold underneath her folded dress shirt. The Glock 43 in her hands, complete with a spare box of ammunition. Manilla envelope containing old birth certificates and copies of all her current information, plus forged papers. Everything from the safe. A level of attentiveness hovering between convenience and invasion.

She went over to the set of glass doors leading out to the balcony, and drew the curtains shut. Unpacking the rest of her belongings, she couldn’t hope to blend in wearing anything she’d taken to Conakry. She was not strapped for cash, and still had plenty of money set aside in a Swiss account—for a day just like this one. The type of life insurance most people her age could never afford, and the ones below her tax bracket would kill for.

Despite occupying an apartment together, the death of Arnaud had the same emotional weight as a newspaper obituary. An hour at most for sympathetic grief, then annoyance for the persistence of that grief. All this time, carving out an altruistic identity through deeds. Spending the rest of her life making up for inherited sins. Living with people for the sake of social convenience.

Taking comfort every month her father failed to acknowledge her, in this façade of a charmed life. Holding onto that impossible dream until karma caught up. Leaving behind nothing of herself, beyond the lives she might touch along the way. Taking perverse pride in the impossibility of knowing an enigma. Each time, the quiet of each new office, the empty apartment, became a little more encompassing.

She was going to be here a week. She would have plenty of time to recuperate. And heaven forbid, enjoy herself for once. She was not going to sit here and cower like she was under house arrest.

Coming into the living area, she caught sight of Safin and his associate.

“The room is fine,” she began, “but, if I’m going to be here a week I’ll need some things in the morning.” Safin held her gaze in lieu of speech. “Just clothes. I don't want to walk around in things I wore a week ago.”

Surely, he would rebuke her. Call her out as a trust-fund. She had given him every right. He levelled with her and said,

“Once we work out an itinerary, that shouldn’t be an issue.”

⁂

That night she buried herself under the soft blankets. Dreamless sleep the most precious amenity of all. If she started taking pills she’d draw attention to herself. She dreamed she was back in her childhood bedroom when her mother called from downstairs. Madeleine checked the rooms and couldn’t find her mother anywhere. Someone she didn’t know, standing in the hall that led to the living room. She said,

Où est ma mère?

The man turned. He was dressed in a jet-black suit.

Laissez-moi passer. J’ai besoin de parler.

The man motioned to the living room with a lanky arm. "Elle vous attend."

With each step the hall increased a little further and further. Living room should only be ten steps away, not fifteen. Not twenty. When she looked back the man was elsewhere. The living room was empty. On the sofa was a large, red stain. Her mother must have spilt the wine.

The shock of cold liquid percolating her socks. Someone had tracked water into the house.

She followed the trail into the kitchen. A different man hunched over the sink, in a white coat and snowpants. A rifle slung around his shoulder, at his hip. Black gloves. Black boots still damp with melted snow.

Before she could say a word he grabbed the rifle and turned to aim at her with mechanical precision. Muscle memory.

"You aren’t supposed to be here." His accent wasn’t Austrian, or French. Garbled through the blood trickling into his mouth, under his tongue. "Get out, and I’ll forget about this."

There was a hole in his jaw the size of a 9×19mm Parabellum. Nine rounds loaded into her father’s Beretta 92S, under the cabinet with the bleach.

She explained in a high voice how the stain in the living room needed cleaning. Her mother would be very upset if she didn’t. She just needed to get to the cabinet for a moment, please.

His teeth bared, stained red. Finger on the trigger. "I won’t ask again."

She opened her mouth and screamed, maman, run—

Two shots. Impact tearing through her body without regard for gravity. Looking down in time to see blood spattered across the hardwood floor. Brain matter and bone fragments against a hot car window.

She plunged her hands into herself. Clawing away the sheets. Unbroken skin, sheened in sweat. Her eyes flooded with tears as she sat up and began to rock herself back to stability. Waiting for the initial swell of terror to pass, as it always did. Regulating her breathing. Just a trauma response. Sitting still, unsure if it was midnight or five in the morning. 

Pressing her face into her palms. A dull throbbing behind her eyes, in the base of her skull. About to get up when she heard the footsteps. Movement from the hall towards the living room. A few seconds later, Safin’s voice, indistinct. She couldn’t make out what he was saying at first. Something in Russian. Orders from his employer, most likely.

And what must they think of her? Another privileged idiot, living in a bubble. Disrespectful to her father and his syndicate. Hypocritical.

She contemplated feigning sleep. The warmth of the sheets was too cloying. Her phone read 06:21. Still too early for her to be awake. She stood up, barefoot on hardwood, creeping over to the balcony. Reaching out to touch the pane. Cool glass kissing her naked palm. In two weeks it would be October. Two months from now, the ground would be laden with snow. The ocean grey and still.

Opening the door. Stepping out onto the balcony, gripping the rail. Taking fresh air into her lungs until the soles of her feet smarted. Hardly any boats. Just her and the horizon and the night sky.

Stumbling into the bathroom when she couldn't bear the cold any longer. Bags under her eyes more pronounced than the day before. Madeleine had a shower, trying to piece together the dream, hazier than in her youth. Visceral details heightened by recent exposure. An intimation of childhood memories depicted in abstract. She shook it off, dressing for the day. It was only a dream.

Before she left the room she caught the silvery glint in her peripherals. The old television reflecting the light from outside. Combing around the drawers for a remote. She clicked it on. Quickly hit the mute button. Squinting at the harsh colours that only reignited her headache. Flitting through channels for news. Poring over the headlines. Not a word about the MSF. 

She sat there for a while letting the colours wash over the room. Clicked it off and went downstairs to have breakfast.

Safin, hovering by the glass doors in the living-room area overlooking the ocean front, was dressed as if for another commute. “Dr. Swann,” he greeted.

She rifled through the pantry and found it stocked. Looking for some cereal, something basic—catching briefly on the bottle of liquor. Madeleine took the cereal, fixed herself a bowl and some coffee. Still had a headache. Light breakfast. Plus, the caffeine would dehydrate her.

“I don’t suppose this safehouse has any painkillers?” Safin looked over. She was already going through cabinets. “It’s my head. Just the weather.” She met his gaze with more confidence than she could back up. Safin’s attention shifted to the side of her head.

“On your right.”

She took two with her coffee. Ate in silence. Waiting a week in the hope her father might have an excuse was a truly miserable proposition. What would she say? Hello, Papa. I’m still alive. Did you pick this location to remind me of your home in Austria?

Well, one thing at a time.

“Who do I speak to when I’m ready to leave?”

In lieu of a response, Safin glanced over at his associate.

⁂

She couldn’t travel beyond Zürich’s aptly-named canton. She could not contact anyone else outside of SFT to confer information about her father’s whereabouts, or anything else for that matter. Aside from that she was free to go wherever she liked within the constraints of the itinerary.

First, clothing. That took her to Bottega Veneta. In Flagranti’s Business Acumen playing over the intercom. Madeleine’s hackles raised. The painkillers in effect. Caffeine wearing off. She started parsing out signs. She hadn’t really thought about what she needed beyond the vague idea of change. Starting fresh. So accustomed to the life of a disconnected middle-class that its opposite became seductive. Perusing the aisles in a daze. Selecting whatever pulled at her heart in a perverse reminder of home. Nothing too extravagant. A new raincoat and a couple pairs of shoes. Navy scarf for the winter months. Spare lipstick. A few more shirts and dress pants in monochrome. Spare underwear, socks.

Spent an hour trying it all on. Avoiding the eyes of the woman in the glass. She didn’t feel any different. The raincoat was too dark. She might as well be attending a funeral. She already had a reputation for being severe. What did it matter? She was always severe and the rest of the world could just bite the bullet.

The associate was waiting, outside. Probably didn’t give a damn about her, either way. She wasn’t about to humanise him beyond his occupation. They made brief eye-contact. Unimportant banter between her and the cashier during the transaction. Associate was taking her bags. Walking with her over rain-slicked asphalt. Back into the car. The beat of raindrops on the window lulling her into a false sense of security.

Snapping herself out of it when the car stopped. Treading up the stairs, down the hall. Pulling old clothes out of drawers, off hangers. Substituting her purchased goods. It wasn’t enough to fill the wardrobe, but she would have time to buy new clothes. Set aside the old stuff to be dealt with.

Each time she returned to the safehouse, there were men checking over everything. Protocol, on top of all the scrutiny. 

“I don’t want them in my room when I come in,” she told the associate. “Around the premises, and they can check the cars if it is necessary. If they must check all the rooms, fine, I just don’t want to see it.”

Childish to her own ears. Too beaten-down to think better of it. The associate just said, “Talk to Safin about it.” He walked out of the room without looking back.

That evening, Safin was lingering around the living room. He'd made himself tea on the stove. Without looking up he said, "I hear you are feeling crowded?"

Madeleine scowled. "He told you about that?"

"That's all right." He paused. "I'll accompany you."

The next few days were a tolerable blur. Wandering through Bahnhofstrasse. The Beyer Clock and Watch Museum. Next day, the Museum of Graphic Design for ten francs. Bellevue Square. Sattel-Hochstuckli. The three hundred seventy four metre Skywalk. Dinner at the Mostelberg-Stübli. Home again, each time without incident.

On the job, Safin hardly said more than a couple words to get his point across. But he gave her no reason to acknowledge him beyond this, dissolving into the background noise until he was needed. At least they weren't glowering at each other.

Apart from this, he was not around except for very early in the mornings. At the safehouse he would acknowledge her in passing with a curt nod.

How much normalcy could she put up with before she broke down? She had no more power or relevance than the common man and the only difference was her awareness of futility.

Inevitable, perhaps, that her thoughts would stray back to the MSF. Conducting research on her own, in the mornings and evenings; parsing through official news sites on her laptop, then underground articles, statistics, and anything else she could scrounge up.

The Guinean military had been busy quelling unrest for the last week, but there were few details. Several key figures in the MSF were currently under investigation, tarnishing the reputation of the organisation. That stuck around the headlines, right next to some lesser story in the corner about various pharmaceutical companies cooperating in tandem with the Red Cross and clean MSF figures to ensure there was no repeat affliction throughout the rest of Africa. Madeleine didn’t see her face or any mention of a Psychosocial Unit mentioned anywhere.

By day four, it was all she could think about. She alternated between laying in bed and taking down notes from various news sources. She slept one hour. Shambling downstairs on a very shameful autopilot. No real appetite. Safin nowhere to be seen. It took all the energy she had just to stand. Maybe she could take a free-day if she was polite. He had already accomodated her other, silly demands. Moving over to the sofa. Slumping into it. Closing her eyes. Only for a second.

Sharp staccato of rifle fire tearing apart a wooden door. Gun in the cabinet, next to the bleach. Heavy footsteps on wood. On carpet. She’d never get there in time.

A gloved hand on her shoulder. Jerking awake with a guttural hitch.

“Dr. Swann?”

Face-to-face with the last person she wanted to justify herself to. She recovered her composure, averted her eyes. “I—I’m sorry. It was just a nightmare.”

“About your mission?”

He was still holding her shoulder. He didn’t need to restrain her. She was perfectly aware of her surroundings. “No. I’m not sure what. Anyway, it was only a dream.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence.” His grip tightened, causing her to flinch. “If a client came to you exhibiting these symptoms, what would you assume?”

Madeleine held her tongue. 

“This is not the first time you have exhibited this behaviour. Mental or physical distress to trauma-related cues," he inclined his head, "an increased fight-or-flight response. Difficulty sleeping.”

“So, you can define post-traumatic stress disorder. It does not make you my analyst.” She brushed him aside, staring at her hands balled up on her knees. “Most of the time, I don’t remember my dreams.”

“That’s a strange thing, to not remember something so distressing.” An undertone to his voice that made her stomach clench. “Tell me, did you buy your way into passing your psychological evaluations?”

“Let me make one thing very clear to you,” said Madeleine, standing up to look him in the eyes, “I can accept that you are here to keep me alive. I’ll go along with your precautions, or whatever you think is necessary. Your personal opinions do not apply. If that is more than you can handle, I’ll simply find someone else.”

He said, very softly, "Are you threatening me, Dr. Swann?"

"Do you feel threatened?"

A flicker of some unfamiliar emotion trapped behind his reserved countenance. Tempered with the set of his jaw. He stepped back. “You aren’t leaving until you get some sleep.” Before she could answer, he turned and left her alone, confused.

⁂

For the next thirty six hours the SFT team confined her to the safehouse. Letting her out only to walk her around the halls for twenty minute intervals like a high-strung pet. She could take sleeping pills, though she was monitored. Her resentment outweighed by desperation to regain her agency.

Falling asleep due to exhaustion rather than effort. She woke up to daylight behind the curtains.

Safin was lurking about the living area when she came down. He didn’t say anything. Maybe she was going about this the wrong way.

“You’re an independent contractor?” Safin looked at her. “How long have you been operating?”

“Fourteen years. Our operations tend to stray away from the public eye. The situation in Conakry was an exception.”

Madeleine nodded primly. Still grasping for a conversation topic that wouldn’t completely sabotage her own intentions.

“I remember there was an incident in Bolivia, back in 2008. A water crisis." Safin was watching her out of his peripherals. "Dominic Greene, the famous entrepreneur, lost his life and the organisation he was courting shut down. But the gas explosion at the La Perla de las Dunas, that was all over the news. At the time it was deemed a political assault because several key members of the Bolivian military were rumoured to be involved.”

“Did they mention a man by name of Luiz Medrano?”

“Medrano. It's been a long time. I honestly don't recall.”

Safin nodded. “General Medrano, I should say. He cut a deal with Greene. Undisputed access to a seemingly useless piece of land in the Atacama Desert. It was, in fact, the site of an underground dam. Greene would have a monopoly over Bolivia’s water, and Medrano and his coup would seize control of the country.” A particularly cold smile crossed Safin’s face but didn’t reach his eyes. “Not all of their subordinates were loyal. Someone from the outside must have intercepted at the hotel. Even so, their claim over the dam might have stayed out of the public eye if not for the amount of military figures found complicit in that political handover.” He paused. “QUANTUM’s disbandment was not made public at the time. How would you know of this?”

Madeleine lowered her voice. “My father helped found it. Greene was one of his associates. I don’t think my father mentioned him to me more than twice in my life. He’d never let me see his shame directly. Just like what is happening now, in Conakry. You must know something, please. Is this another one of his deals? Why was I singled out?”

Safin drew breath, exhaled.

“You are concerned. That is natural. For your own good, forget about what happened in Guinea.”

A week ago Madeleine would’ve clung to her indignanation. “You expect me to ignore this? It isn't going away just because I'd like it to. All those people, their families are suffering.”

“You accepted the mission knowing that there was the possibility there would be casualties.” He looked over at her. “The situation escalated far beyond any one party’s control. There’s no sense in blaming yourself. You did the best you could.”

“Forgive me if I do not want to stand by and watch people suffer.”

“There is a difference between idealism and taking action. Just because you grew up wealthy, you don’t have to prove yourself to the rest of the world.”

"It’s always been important to me. It's not just wealth. I realise that I have a lot of advantages that other people around the world may not. The least I can do is help, however I can." Safin chuckled. "What’s so funny?"

"The resources required are hardly ever provided by charity. Access to agricultural tools. Clothing. Self-defence. Usually, it falls to monetary donations without any regard for politics or economic disparities. Your MSF is something of an exception."

"First of all, it's not my charity, I volunteer. And these changes don’t happen by simply talking about it. You need to organise first. Someone has to provide funding. There is a lot of work that goes on behind the scenes you are dismissing.”

“The failure of the MSF to act indicates the organisation’s greater limitations. Not your own, or any one person's.”

“They’re supposed to be neutral.”

“What good did neutrality serve the civilians in hospital? The mining infrastructure?” said Safin coldly. “The MSF look weak, collaborating with the same men who keep these people in poverty, and future clients understand that no one is going to protect them.” He paused. “Why give your time to them?” 

“That’s the trouble with men like you. You’re focused on the bigger picture. You don’t give a second thought to anyone else who might get caught up in the mess you thrust them into.”

“Good-will is useless when you are looking down the barrel of a gun. In the end they needed someone willing to work outside of their jurisdiction.” He glanced at Madeleine. “To keep the peace.”

Madeleine mulled over what he was saying. Studying his face. Too intricate to be leprosy or a burn wound. It couldn’t be an acid attack, as the structure of his face remained intact. Chemical, perhaps. It was a very distinctive type of scarification she’d read about once or twice, but never treated.

“Are you trying to diagnose me?” he said, turning to look at her directly. “You could just ask.”

Easy to read. She paused. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

The ice in his eyes dispersed into indifference. He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.” Cordial, but not openly genial. “Now that you're awake, I can tell you. There’s been a slight change of plans. Your father should be arriving later this evening.”

Madeleine exhaled. "Just my luck." Then she looked over at him. “Well, I suppose I've no reason to distrust you.”

“I’m just the messenger, Dr. Swann.”

Madeleine smiled. “Please, just call me Madeleine. I’m not working right now.”

He paused. “Madeleine.”

[fizzycarbon]

Oh Souichi would soooo think he looks cool with the smoke on his eyelids. He’s just so loser like that. Is this an excuse to give him eyeshadow? The world may never know…

But dude I so love the duality between our Souichi soda-sonas!! You really hit it on the money because I was going to add lore and maaaybe make an animatic and make him kind like.. turn people into zombies and create tortured life like Frankenstein 🧍🏻

Rats! My plans have been foiled again!!! /j

Also for the black magic aspect- I thought of him being very sick with his immune system due to the toxins and smoke he’s surrounded by 24/7 and I was like.. what if he uses black magic to make himself live longer?? It works! But he’s suffering on the inside. Literally. Like it’s literally just a prolonged dying process. Also he takes the life force of the people he made into zombies. Heh… He gets their life span, and they get to be his minions! It’s a win!!!

I probably should clarify that I added this Souichi to be in an earlier timeline. It’s steampunk-ish so I was like- I’m gonna make his time 1931, when the Frankenstein movie was made. I should also do more research about the film too..

God- every Souichi fan has to agree that he’s just so boy failure. The Edna part 😭 that’s literally him.

Also about the animatic.. I was already cooking up a Souichi one that’s still in the beta phase. It was for my Fantasy!Souichi au, but that can wait. Time to pull my art knowledge outta my butt and grind on ibis paint.

Sorry my paragraphs are all over the place- I have horrible memory and I am not gonna go back and forth to organize it!! But now we have to make Souichi megamind content dude.. He’s so edgy like that it’s insane. YES I’m giving him two outfits!! What are y’all gonna do about it?? I’m going to list all the functions of his gear, why he has a ‘working’ outfit and a ‘study’ one, attempt to draw a background of his work bench, ect.

I also loved the self-proclaimed Doctor Souichi you did so much. He’s so egotistical like that. Again, the duality between our designs is just chefs kiss. OMG this reminds me of Bill Cipher-sonas.. I love it!

His cape being impractical but he refuses to take it off. He’s so diva /hj

Imagine Cyborg Cider finds Souichi in his evil lair and slips on a chemical spill while trying to apprehend him. Souichi laughs his ass off but just ends up in a coughing fit from all the smoke and Cyborg is like “🧍🏻” . That or like you said, he just can’t see for dog crap. His own lair is his demise- that’s why he sends out his poor minions while he’s in his basement dweller era.

This is the longest I’ve drawn consecutively. I got BIG motivation..

His sodasona is mostly done? I think? I’ll debate on whether or not to do lineart.

@olde-scratch wanted to see my version so here it is ‼️

(Hope the ping doesn’t bother)

Omg wth I need to fix his shoulder bye

[lozzypoz321]

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: I’m so sorry I haven’t posted in so long!!! But I am quite surprised that my current 200 followers (wow) haven’t unfollowed by now but this is my 200 celebration fic even though I’m a bit late- also I’m sorry if this sucks I just haven’t written in ages! Please bare with me! Kindly proofread by @canadianhufflepuffavenger 💗

Warnings: angst, past break up

Your real dad

-

Steve tightened his grip around your draw-string bag that he had convinced you to part ways with, as you, him and your mother made your way into the tower. He was dreading the reunion with Bucky after not seeing the team for about 2 weeks. You were practically bouncing on your feet to see your real dad. While Steve was there watching you treat your dad like a hero but not even spare him a glance.

Your family relationship was complicated yet simple at the same time: you hated your mom but tolerated her, loved your dad with all your heart, hated your stepdad as much as he tried, treated Peter like your brother and Thor exactly like your uncle.

Why did you hate your stepdad so much?

Well, first of all, he pretended like he was your real dad and tried to do all of the things with you that you and Bucky did together. Second, he always stole all your moms attention and made you feel like you were alone (whether he meant it or not)

The elevator door dinged, indicating that the three of you had reached your floor where currently Bucky, Thor, Tony, Natasha and Sam were hanging out, waiting for your “family”. The others were in the kitchen, trying to get a sneak taste of the food that had been ordered.

“Dad!” You yelled and raced up to the super soldier, he broke out into a grin and picked you up off the ground to invade you into a bone-breakinghug. “Hiya doll face.”

You grinned back at him and got down from his arms briefly to run across the room to retrieve your drawstring back so you could show your dad your new spiderman action figure that had been bought by your cousin Peter.

“Look! Look!”

He smirked slightly at your excited demeanour as you held up the toy as high as you could while jumping up and down for him to see. Once he’d figured out who the character was, you had already gone running off to see what Wanda and Vision had baked in one of the many kitchens.

“Hey Buck” Steve acknowledged as friendly as he could, it wasn’t that the two ‘friends’ hated each other, but there was definitely some tension in the room as the two sat parallel. Tony cleared his throat and mentioned something about having a cough as he quickly left the room.

“I better see where he got off to” Natasha and your mother said at exactly the same time, not wanting to experience what they thought was about to go down.

“Hi Steve” the older soldier greeted back, not sure what the intentions of the conversation were exactly. In the tower, the history between both soldiers and your mother was known but not really spoke of- Bucky dated your mother for quite a while (almost four entire years), and got her pregnant with you, but- as everybody was sure to know- all good things must come to an end- and the two broke up on good terms. That was before Steve Rogers himself got involved at a certain billionaire’s party when they realized they were (and this is in your mother's words) “meant for each other.”

“I’m erm, here to speak to you about something.” As if the awkwardness present in the room was no longer enough before, by now it was almost too much. Thor and Sam took the most obvious hint and left the room in search of something else to occupy their time.

“Well, you’re free to speak-“ Bucky was interrupted by the loud sound of laughing from behind the wooden door and almost instantly after a hushing sound. The two men had completely different reactions to this, Steve was utmostly confused, both eyebrows scrunching together, while Bucky’s face held a small smile. He knew exactly who was trying to eavesdrop and it just proved how much Steve did not know his stepdaughter from the fact he didn’t immediately know. “(Y/N),” he called out, the humour evident in his voice, “Parker, we know you're out there.”

“Awww, Peter you gave our secret identities up!”

By now Steve had caught on to the two of you and laughed lightly, trying to cover up the fact that his only chance to ask Bucky his question alone, was interrupted.

The wooden door creaked open, revealing Peter, dressed up in his spiderman suit for dramatic effect and you with a bandana on, which you thought made you look like a ninja and you held your action figure tightly in your left hand.

“(Y/N), you know it’s rude to eavesdrop” Steve scolded you, trying to be firm. You ignored him and shrugged your shoulders before going to follow the scent of Chinese food.

“Doll,” your dad stopped you “don’t ignore people, you know not to do that” he stood up from his spot on the sofa and began to also make his way to the kitchen, you right beside him muttering a small “okay dad.”

Steve tried not to let his heart sink as his best friend walked away. He would just have to try and get Bucky alone at another point in the night. If he didn’t get an answer, then he would have no use for the small box that was sitting in his trouser pocket.

“Bonjour,” Clint greeted the two of you as you both arrived for food, the island set up with enough plastic plates for everyone (Tony couldn’t be bothered with hiring people to wash normal, expensive ones multiple times a day)

Your mother smiled at you from the other side of the kitchen, but she was immediately confused when you didn’t smile back. The reason you had not, is because you had a feeling you knew exactly what question your stepdad had for Bucky and did not at all like the sound of it.

“Fries?” Bruce offered, tilting the box of food towards you. You nodded gratefully and grabbed a handful. The conversations at the table were mixed; Thor ranting passionately about the food at his home planet, Tony mumbling something about not even being hungry anyway (you thought he was just being salty since he didn’t get his Shawarma), Bucky and Sam having a silent argument across the table, and Peter was busy singing Christmas songs in his best Santa Claus voice.

“Have a holly jolly Christmas, and in case you didn’t seeeee” Natasha rolled her eyes dramatically at the teenager making everyone laugh.

“Hey don’t get annoyed at me! Everyone loves Christmas!”

You used to love Christmas before your parents separated and you weren’t allowed to spend the holiday with your dad.

“I don’t like Christmas,” your dad shrugged half mindedly while taking a sip of his soda. Peter looked at him like he had two heads and exclaimed in shock, “that impossible!”

“It ain’t kid,” Bucky chuckled while your mother shifted in her seat uncomfortably, realizing the reasoning.

While you worked your way through the pile of noodles, Thor’s incessant ranting came to an end, and the teenager had seemingly run out of songs, the group of superheroes decided to hang out in the living room and watch a movie before you, Steve and your mother had to go home.

“Which one?” Nat asked the room while holding up two movies, the nightmare before Christmas and the corpse bride. Both Halloween movies, neither particularly scary.

“How could one have a nightmare on the day before Christmas? Surely that is against the rules of the Holiday Christmas, that is based on happiness?” Thor asked, earning a quizzical look from you. “Stop tryna act like Shakespeare big man” Tony laughed while grabbing a handful of popcorn and shoving it all into his mouth.

Steve ignored the billionaire, and while no one seemed to be paying attention he directed his attention to Bucky, swallowing nervously. “Hey Buck, can I speak to you for a sec outside?”

Confusion spread over the soldier’s face for a split second before complying and getting up from the couch with Steve as discreetly as possible as to not raise suspicion from the rest of the team and you.

“What’s up?” He asked once they’d reached the hallway outside, he didn’t know what was up with the younger man but he could easily tell that he’d been acting nervous around himself and your mom.

“Um, I have a question, you don’t have to say yes or no or anything-“

“Your ranting.”

He stopped and thought for a second, wondering how to put it. “I know it’s been complicated recently, and I know this might make it worse with all your history with (Y/M/N) and (Y/N) but I really do love both of them and since (Y/M/N)’s parents passed a while ago, there’s no one to really ask for their blessing so I guess I’m here to ask you, can I have your blessing to propose to (Y/M/N)?”

Bucky stood emotionless for a second, not knowing how to react. He wasn’t sure whether to be happy for Steve and support him or to be angry. He had both reasonable attributes for each option but was cut short when he heard the sound of a door banging against its hinges on the floor above.

Both of your dad’s eyebrows scrunched together, who was that? Everyone in the tower knew not to do it because Tony despised it, and everyone with a brain knew that when Tony got annoyed, bad things happened.

Then almost instantly after the door entering the living room revealing an awkward Loki “I’m sorry to interrupt this conversation but your daughter slash stepdaughter, just ran upstairs in tears so if you could quickly wrap this little moment up, it would be greatly appreciated”

Bucky’s heart stopped, why were you crying?

He and Steve completely forgot about their previous conversation and quickly headed upstairs, nearly running Peter over in the process coming from the toilet. But just as they reached the door where you normally stayed when you came for sleepovers, Bucky stopped and put a finger to his lips.

“I think I should go in.” Instead of arguing, and saying that it would be good ‘bonding time’ to get you to like him, Steve silently agreed and let your dad go in.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he gently closed the door behind himself, instantly catching sight of you sat on the carpeted floor, furiously wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie.

“Hey, hey, don’t hurt yourself,” he took ahold of both of your wrists and set them down on your lap, “why’re you crying doll?”

Tears continued to stream unapologetically down your cheeks, you didn’t know how to tell him. That you had snuck out of the living room to see where the two had gone and then eavesdropped into their conversation, and once hearing your stepdad (who you did not like at all) was going to become a permanent part of your life, ran off crying.

“I don’t wanna talk about it” you shook your head, making him sigh. “Please tell me, I wanna know why. You trust me right (Y/N)?”

The simple nod was all he needed, yet his heart still ached. Seeing his only daughter in tears and didn’t trust him enough to tell him why? It was heartbreaking for him. “I don’t want him to marry mom,” you quietly admitted, “the only reason I’m still allowed to see you is because she thinks I still need a father figure, so now he’s gonna be here forever I won’t be- I won’t be able to see you anymore.”

He sighed deeply, trying to find a way to comfort you. “You will, I promise. I’ll always be apart of your life doll. No one can ever take you away from me because you're my daughter and I love you so so much, m’kay?”

You sniffled and wiped the final tears from your cheeks. “Okay.”

Before you could both get up and return downstairs to finish the movie, Bucky stopped you and lifted you up to whisper something to you.

Once he had finished you pulled back and nodded hesitantly, realizing that you should put your grudge behind you and face a fear.

Your dad and you returned outside, Steve waiting patiently while resting on the wall, gently smiling at you to make sure you were okay.

“Go on doll,” Bucky quietly urged, making you take a deep breath and just go for it.

“I give you my blessing to marry mom.” Steve’s heart skipped multiple beats as his brain tried to process what you had said. You’d finally accepted him into your life?

He broke out into a grin, trying to form words to thank you without seeming like this meant the absolute world to him. “Thank you (Y/N). I appreciate it so much.”

Bucky was proud of you for taking a leap and letting Steve into your life when you were scared. He realized at that moment that even if you did have a dad and a stepdad at the same time, he’d fulfilled his role already.

Taglist: @marvel-ous-hobbit @snarky--starky @rae-is-typing @stargazingfangirl18 @canadianhufflepuffavenger @herecomesthewriterwitch @every-marveler-ever @hera-the-writer @lovers-in-japan-reign-of-love @just-one-ordinary-fangirl @rooskaya-yelena @deephideoutmilkshake @kidney9-9 @js3639 @am3l1a-24 @bonkybarnes107 @ilovemarvel-andcats @sapphireplums @deannawallacee @keenmarvellover @garbage-potato @mollbt @spookybooisa

[wrinkled-sheets-and-sunlight]

Lounging on the bed, butterfly-knife is twirled between his hands as nonchalantly as if he were shuffling his deck of cards. With no concern about cutting his fingers— it’s been a long time since he’s done that accidentally —he studies Kaz and Gunnie going about their business, expression calm as a contemplative cat. Interrupting the domestic quiet, Kokichi casually states without any warning, ❝ Yeah, I could take you both. ❞

Tone doesn’t suggest he’s speaking to either of them ( sounding more like he was mulling over a personal pondering ) but the glint that arises in violet hues betrays otherwise. Stabbing his knife onto the bedside dresser with no regard for the mark left in the wood— he’s done playing with it —he quirks a brow, neutral expression giving way to a smirk as he adds, ❝ Easily. ❞

Is he talking about in a fight or in… another way?

Well, that’s for him to know and them to possibly find out.

- (( *shoves over a gremlin because he is just Like This* ))

@not-bcring

It had become...surprisingly easy to slip into such a domestic role with the three of them living in one room. Sure, things got a little tense at times, Kazuichi wasn't the neatest person, and Gundham tended to be very particular about how he kept his things, but they managed just fine none the less. This was one of the quieter moments, Kazuichi kneeling to the floor to stock up the mini fridge he had made just for their room with soda, all the while Gundham sifted through their laundry, folding and putting away what had just come out of the wash.

Both so caught up in their own tasks, the sudden break in the silence had caused them both to jump, only to go back to what they were doing when they realized it was just Kokichi.

...And then they actually processed what he had said.

Kazuichi, who had just cracked open a soda and took a drink, began to cough as he inhaled a shocked breath, the can being slammed down onto the top of the fridge as he tried to regain his breath. "What the fuck?!"

Gundham had a much less of a response, only giving a snicker at Kazuichi's struggles, and then an indignant huff as the knife was stabbed into the bedside table. "If you could please refrain from damaging the furniture, I would be most grateful. I am still trying to buff out the genitalia you two saw fit to carve into my desk." He didn't know which one had done it, so naturally he blamed them both. "You know any damages sustained to this room are ones I must pay for myself come end of term." He could only imagine the bill Kazuichi had wracked up over the years...

"Will you shut up about the fucking furniture! That is so not what's important here!" Voice cracking and face as bright as his hair, Kaz vaguely gestured to Kokichi with a flurry of motions. "Did you hear what Kichi just said?!"

Gundham pretended to mull it over, only to break with a smirk at Kazuichi's new wave of protests. "Yes, Kazuichi, I heard. If the son of Loki wishes to believe in such falsehoods, that is his business." By the look Gundham shot the little leader, he was a willing participant in whatever chaos Kokichi had planned. "There is no way he could endure such a feat." They all knew that was a lie.

[yes-i-am-happyaspie]

How about a little bonus @sicktember Mini-fic?

This one is solely based on something that is mentioned in the fic 'Loosen Up' by @jenniboo311 AND to make it better she helped me write it! (not to mention convinced me to actually post it) Some of the most amusing parts of this were her idea and I love her for it.

I call this one 'A Crappy Situation' and it's 993 words of Peter questioning his eating choices. It's hurt/comfort in the most ridiculous and humorous way possible.

Summary: Against Tony’s advice, Peter scarfs down a questionable looking hot dog directly before heading out on an impromptu mission. It turns out he should have taken that advice. Yet, under no uncertain terms does he want to admit the man was right. Unless he absolutely has to. Sicktember prompt: Food Poisoning

Warning for mentions of diarrhea/stomach upset and illness. Also *read in Cap's voice* Language.

[Full Fic Below the Cut]

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Tony asked while suspiciously eyeing the hot dog clutched in Peter’s greedy hands. Their dinner plans had been interrupted by a call to assemble. Though, apparently his protege, who was determined to never miss a meal, had accosted a street vendor nearby. “I’m not sure street meat is the wisest choice before-”

“It’ll be fine,” Peter interrupted with a shrug, then he inspected the hot dog for a generous three seconds before devouring it in an animalistic fashion that made his mentor cringe.

However, an hour later, after the impromptu mission had wrapped up and Peter was clinging to Iron Man’s back, it was not fine. His stomach had started gurgling unhappily towards the beginning of the fight and had since progressed to something more painful. And undeniably embarrassing.

He knew he needed to say something. Something like, ‘Hey, Mr. Stark. I’m in desperate need of a bathroom, do you think we could take a quick break?’ or ‘Excuse me. Would you mind landing at the next possible gas station?’ But something was stopping him. Mostly his pride. He could practically hear his mentor’s saying, ‘I told you so,’ and really wanted to avoid bringing that into fruition. Then his insides twisted with such ferocity that he had no other choice but to speak up.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” he began, but that's where the pre-planned speech ended. Because the urgent cries coming from his intestines had somehow managed to wipe all manner of professionalism and eloquence from his brain. Thus the words “I’m about to shit my pants!” flew out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“What?” Tony curtly replied, taken aback by the abruptness of the comment.

“We have to Land! Bathroom. Bathroom now!” Peter squawked, all sense of self-respect having gone completely out the window. “Put me down. Put me down. Put me down!”

As Peter began to twist and turn on his back, Tony had to readjust his pitch to counter the movement and keep himself steady. “Alright, alright! But you’ve got to be still!” he shouted belatedly processing the actual request.

“I can’t!” Peter shot back between a few stuttered breaths, his gut was growing angrier by the second.

‘Don’t crap on your childhood hero, Peter,’ he thought to himself as he frantically tensed every muscle in his body. ‘You'll never recover.’

“Do you want me to drop you?!” Tony questioned, once again adapting his torque and using the flight stabilizers to prevent them from taking a sudden nose dive. While he was well aware that Spider-Man could stick to damn near anything, he couldn't stop picturing him plummeting to the ground.

“Do you want me to shit on you?” Peter shouted, then abruptly realized that was not a sentence he ever thought he'd say to anyone, let alone Tony Stark. Hysterically, he reflected on what his life had become.

Tony sped up and gritted his teeth. “You better not,” he grumbled under his breath. That was not a situation he wanted to have to explain to anyone. Ever.

“Then shut up and land, already!” Peter screamed, knowing he would likely regret it later. But for the time being, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had much more urgent things to dwell on. Like, not crapping in a multi-million dollar suit.

Had it not been for the second-hand anxiety, Tony would have felt the need to berate the kid for telling him to shut up. But he figured they could circle back around to that later. When there weren’t any unpleasant threats looming over him.

After spotting a Seven-Eleven on the corner, he started their descent, half-expecting Peter to take off via web once they'd reached a reasonable altitude. However, the kid seemed to be more focused on trying to strangle him through the armor than anything else. “Pete, you’ve gotta ease up. This armor isn’t impervious to your super-strength, and I’m mortal.”

“I can’t ease up. I’m terrified to unclench anything,” Peter whimpered, the pressure was building and he was starting to fear for the worst. Although, he did make an effort to reposition his arms so that he wasn’t in danger of inadvertently murdering his famous, superhero boss-slash-friend-slash-father figure. Whatever. He didn’t actually have the capacity to try and put a label on their relationship at the moment.

As Peter adjusted his grasp, Tony sucked in a sharp breath. “I’ll take those consequences over pending death, if you don’t mind,” he coughed, then landed directly in front of the convenience store. “Alright, Kid. Go-”

Peter did not require any further prompting. He hurriedly detached himself from the armor and tore through the gas station’s door with enough strength to rip it off the hinges. “Sorry! It’s an emergency!” he hollered but didn’t slow his steps. He only had eyes for the wooden men’s room door that was taunting him from the back of the store.

Once Peter was inside, Tony stepped through what could no longer be considered an actual door and waved casually towards the dazed attendant. “Yeah. I’m gonna pay for that,” he said as he retracted his armor to slide a can of clear soda and a ‘Stark Damage Control’ business card onto the counter. “You can bill me.”

Fifteen minutes later, Peter emerged with a sweat soaked brow and the stench of hot garbage trailing behind him.

“Ready to go?” Tony asked, popping open the can of soda and passing it over.

Peter lifted the bottom of his mask to take a sip, ignoring the horrified look the store keeper was shooting between him and the bathroom. “Yeah. I’m good now. Thanks for, uh- yeah.”

"So, we're never going to speak of this again," Tony stated in no uncertain terms, lifting off to resume their journey.

Peter nodded his head gratefully. "Does this mean we can ignore the part where I told you to shut up?"

"Yeah, no. That part, we're speaking about."