#i could drink a gallon of straight vodka and feel nothing

[endlessfuckup]

I've had one Smirnoff too many

I must bid you all farewell before I shitpost too close to the sun

[presidentbungus]

sniper loves his parents but he wishes more than anything that his parents cared. they did care, and they took care of him, but he would come home from school bruised and scratched by stones and leaves and he'd say, mum, I think there's something wrong with me, no one likes me and I hit Jimmy McKenson square on the nose with a rock from thirty feet away, and his mum would say i like you and you're just fine the way you are love and go back to knitting and watching her stories on the telly. and demo loves his mum to death but, you know... she's Like That. she cares so much, in the way that wraps and binds and suffocates--contribute to the family, contribute to your life, don't spend all day dreaming or playing or drawing or crying or you're gonna end up in a shit house doing nothing like the rest of the kids on the block...

there's an aching realization at the end of the day that they would've done anything to have each other's parents... and then the following, less welcome one that they probably would've come out the other end just as fucked up. what's done is done. there's nothing else to it. the best thing they can do is be the person the other's needed the entire lives (and maybe themselves, but that's something that'll come much, much later)

they're different people, completely and utterly, but to a certain degree the contrast is what makes them work. sniper just about forced himself into seclusion when he was a kid, curled up in a tight little ball inside a turtle's shell, and over the years that shell just thickened and hardened until he could barely hear anything outside of himself. demo, meanwhile, learned to be good at people, learned to talk his way out of things and into things and bare his entire self day in and day out just so he could feel like he was seen, and the only way he knew how to operate was to be true and authentic so if his true authentic self wasn't welcome he'd just change, even if sometimes that was easier said than done. it's actually surprisingly easy for a guy to straight-up flanderize himself like a cartoon character; i'll leave it at that.

they drink together (they're both good at that). they bare the entire contents of their souls to each other, because despite all the walls they've both put up they're pretty easily lowered by heaps of sympathy and gallons and gallons and gallons of shitty dollar-store vodka. in private, with someone they trust, they change; Sniper juts talks and talks and talks and talks and talks, flush with words he never even knew were there, Demo is content to just sit and listen, and for once he doesn't feel the expectation to be the center of everything going on. you know

[stonecoldjerseyfox]

Jersey on my mind (part 9)

Daryl pushes the out of function automatic doors open and takes a step into the convenience store. He looks around, lets his eyes pass half-empty shelves and broken fridges for soda and bottled water. It’s dead quiet, except- Daryl turns around. Juri stands right behind him and looks curiously into the store, hands deep in the pockets of the dungarees. Where did Mila go? He looks over Juri and sees the door to the liquor store closing. Great. He looks down at Juri again. 

”Okay, kiddo. Stay behind.” 

Juri nods obediently and Daryl turns to the store again. Cautiously he takes a step further into the empty store. But he hears nothing, no hissing noises, no dragging steps. The coast is clear. He turns and nods at the boy, who walks into the store and steers towards the shelves with candy. Daryl directs his steps to the section of the store with washer fluid, car wash tools and gas cans. Does she usually let the boy go away on her own? Probably not, she seems like the protective type of mother. What made her let the boy run after him then? Does she trust him, Daryl? Daryl’s cheeks suddenly turn all warm, again. Damn it. He takes a red five gallon can from the bottom shelf and walks over to the shelves with candy. On his way out he grabs two bottles of water from one of the dead fridges. Juri methodically goes from one end of the chocolate bar shelf to the other when Daryl approach. There is not much left, but he is still careful about what he chooses. How does muteness even work? God, Daryl felt stupid before, he had no fucking idea what it meant to be mute. Juri’s little nose wrinkles at the sight of a raisin bar. 

”Hadn't chosen it either.” Daryl says. ”Found any Mars? Snickers?”

Juri points to a plastic bag on the floor. There are about ten Snickers bars in the bag, along with KitKat bars and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Daryl gives him a thumbs up. What do you talk to mute three year olds about? 

“You’re tough, kiddo.” Daryl says and grabs a Snickers bar from a shelf, opens it and takes a bite. “Your mom too. And stubborn...” 

At that moment he sees something in the corner of his eye. Mila is back, holding the rifle.  

”Ready to get some gas?” she asks.

”All good to go.” Daryl says and holds up the metal can. 

They leave the convenience store and head for the pumps. Mila's backpack looks moderately heavier than before, filled with Juri’s bag of chocolate bars and, what Daryl thinks, a few bottles of vodka. He doubts that she uses it as mouthwash. Daryl’s just about to start filling the red metal can with gas when Mila exclaims:

”We have a visitor.”

A limping figure, whose skin is reminiscent of sour milk to the color, hurls himself against them from behind the corner of the supermarket. Daryl puts his hand on the crossbow, ready to take it out, but instead he gets Mila’s rifle pressed into his solar plexus.

”You fix gas, I take care of him.” Mila pulls a knife from the shaft of her boot. ”Look away, Malish.” she says softly to Juri, who clings to her jeans. 

Obediently, Juri puts his hands over his eyes. With determined steps, Mila goes to meet the walker. With impressive finesse she stabs it in its neck, bringing it down on the pavement, where she finishes him off by inserting the knife deep into its ear canal. She stands up, noticeably unmoved by her action, albeit clumsy and probably in pain due to the fact that her midsection is wrapped up like a Christmas present, and walks back to them. Daryl continues to fill the tank under silence. He doesn’t know what to say. It’s like being in the presence of a tornado and he feels dazed, like after a rollercoaster ride. Mila exhales and leans up against the petrol pump. Sweat runs down her forehead.  

”Here.” Daryl hands her one of the water bottles. ”Couldn’t find any cold ones.”

She takes the bottle, unscrews the lid and drinks, before handing it to Juri. 

”I thought I had better, what’s the word? Physical… stamina than this.” she says and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. 

”Ya’ also thought ya’ were a great medic.”

”Yeah that was pretty dumb.” she chuckles and meets his gaze. ”What was it you called it, scrapbooking?”

Daryl quickly looks away. Mila chuckles.

”I heard about it. Denice told me.” 

”Didn’t mean it-”

”I didn't think you had humor.” Mila says and nods towards her stomach. ”Juri calls it the ’mummy tummy’. I don't know which bad name for it I prefer.” 

Daryl can't help but grin. He puts the gas pump back and screws on the cork to the gas can. When he lifts the heavy can, a rhythmic clucking sound is heard when the gasoline hits the metal on the inside. He’ll probably have to go back and get another can or two tomorrow, but for now this will do. Besides, Mila seems a bit wobbly. 

They start to walk back to the car in slow pace, passing overgrown lawns, abandoned vehicles and houses. A rusty swing set cries out for attention from children that no longer plays on it. A shopping cart lies on the sidewalk and walkers are scattered around the ground like the first yellow leaves of autumn. Juri scurries a few meters in front of them. The blonde hair bounces around his head. Every now and then he turns, to make sure they are following. 

”Where have you been, by the way?” 

”Huh?” Daryl turns his focus back to Mila. ”What?”

”I haven’t seen you since I was interrogated, in bed. Where have you been? What do you do? I practically know everyone else by now… almost. You saved my life. I wanna… talk.”

”Haven’t ya’ been sleeping for, two days straight?” Daryl scoffs.

”You could have dropped by?”

”What do ya’ wanna know anyway?” 

Daryl glances her. Why is she so determined to talk to him? What does she want to know, and why? There’s nothing to know. He’s a nobody. Besides, he can’t talk with her. Obviously it’s completely impossible for him to have a normal, intelligent, conversation with this person. And yet, although he feels like the biggest idiot in the world in Mila’s presence, he’s quite comfortable in her company, or their company. It may be because he stayed away from them, didn’t do as the others and checked up on them. Just because he’s, what? A social misfit? Whatever he is; here they are, walking past rotting corpses side by side, talking to each other. How ‘bout that. 

Daryl raises his gaze. Mila’s eyes glow like sapphires in the sunlight, peering at him underneath the brim of the hat. 

”What do ya’ wanna know?”

”Like, did you pick the unusually boring wall color I was forced to stare at while in bed?” 

”Shut it, Jersey.”

”Okay. Take me to the quarry then.” Mila responds.

”Why?” 

”Because, I want to see what the fuss is about.” Mila lifts the backpack and rifle higher up on her shoulders and grunts when she stretches her abdomen wrongly. ”Did you say thousand?”

”Ya’ think I count them?” he waves his hand at her. ”Come on, give me the backpack.”

”No, why?” 

”Because you’re weak and will collapse any goddamn’ second. Hand it over.” Daryl waves his hand in front of her again, to show her that he’s serious. “Come on.”

Mila sighs and crawls out of the shoulder straps. Daryl throws the clinking backpack over his shoulder.  

”Great. Let’s go look at the dead bastards.”

[afewmarvelousthoughts]

Stay Ch. 13

Master List

Pairing: Natasha X Reader (Female)

Summary: You have a gift, the ability to see other people’s innermost secrets. For years you used it to gather intel for the highest bidder when you take on The Widow. After she becomes more than a mark the two of you spend years stealing moments. Post snap you wait in your designated meeting place, look back on the sordid past you share with the woman you love and hope against everything that she’s still alive.

Warnings: Angst, light violence.

A/N:  I have been SO excited to share this with y’all. I straight up almost posted it earlier in the week because to me this is when their story really shifts and just so much is coming. 

I hope y’all enjoy! 

Tags are open!

@mywinterwolf @disagreetoagree @breezy1415 @peachthatdrinkslemonade @5aftermidnight @jeromethepsycho @marvel-randomness @daniellajocelyn @katecolleen @yanginginthere @wonderlandmind4 @piensa-bonito @for-the-love-of-the-fandom @lesbian-girls-wayhaught @siriuslycloudy2

- Post Snap -

The sound of that hotel door in New Orleans reverberates in your ears even here in the present. You sit in the windowsill, thankful this place still had windows that could be opened, and puff perfect smoke rings into the cool night air.

Old regrets bubble up. Maybe if you had been able to swallow your pride, work things out then and there, you’d be in a much different place now. Maybe she’d be here in your arms and not out somewhere in this burning world… Maybe, maybe, maybe.

It would be easy to drive yourself crazy thinking about all the may have beens that have piled up over the years. Regret got you nothing, you remember telling your team that. No point in mourning the past, but here you were. Hypocrite.

Regardless, you didn’t make it to January.

- November 2006 -

After a month or so it hurt less. You knew she was out there doing what she needed to and you were making money like a fucking mad woman.

Admittedly not being with her may have been soothed by the revolving door your bed had become. So what? You were having a good time, had the cash to burn, why not spend it on beautiful women and good booze?

It had been a particularly wild couple of weeks. The job you just wrapped put you smack in the middle of Amsterdam’s Red Light district and… well… you weren’t sad about it. If more jobs were likes this one, you’d go to hell with a smile on your face and damn good stories to tell the devil.

The night before you leave you wake up panicked. A dream so fucking real you were confused when consciousness came barreling into you. Practically pushing the two women off your bed you stumble to your duffle for your phone, hands shaking.

You hadn’t checked the voicemail. It wasn’t the first time you’d forgotten for more than a few days. Nothing was ever there. For some reason that dream… Natasha running, scared, panicked… you could feel it in your bones.

The women ask what’s going on and you tell them to shut up as you dial the codes with trembling fingers.

“Palais.” Natasha’s voice was trembling, breathless, scared. Left over a week ago. Panic pulses out of every pore on your body. The phone slides from your grasp and you hit your knees.

“What’s happening?!” You hear one of the women scream. 

It’s all so far away. The other starts to sob, thick choking sobs. Both on the brink of full-fledged panic attacks. While you... are strangely calm, feeling your emotions and yet… not. Turning to them you stare in shock.

Somehow you know you’ve done this. How you don’t fully understand. But they’re trapped in your emotions, their confusion making them all the more terrified. You can’t blame them. You also can’t fucking care.

“Get out,” you growl at them both.

“But… what’s…”

“Get. Out.” Quickly they slip into their clothes and run out, still scared out of their minds.

Within the hour you’re out of the hotel and on your way to the airport. Any other time you’d drive, easier to stay off the radar but it was 11 hours and you couldn’t wait that long. You book the first flight out. 

Five hours later you’re tearing into the doors of the hotel, the strange sense of deja vu hitting you hard.

It’s early but you know if she was here she would be in the bar. Still you check with the front desk for Nancy Rustin, your agreed name for her to use, nothing. You feel that same panic rise in you like it did in Amsterdam and you bring it in. A hotel lobby freaking like the women had would be newsworthy and not something you had the time for.

You slam back a whiskey neat at the bar and another, the warmth calming your nerves just a little bit. The third one you sip trying to figure out what to do.

If she was… no. You refuse to believe that, can’t allow yourself to go down that road. Instead, you start to plan just what strings you need to pull to figure out where the fuck she was. Whoever had her wouldn’t be standing for long, because you’d burn the world to get her back… You had to… had to tell her you loved her… Why hadn’t you just said it when she left in New Orleans? Now…

A man slides onto the stool next to you and you bristle. There’s a whole open bar and he just had to sit beside you. You’re about to let him have it when he orders a vodka neat. It’s a normal enough order but it packs salt into the wound nonetheless, sucking the words from you.

From your peripheral you see him take a sip and look at you. An emotion rolls off him. Apprehension? Disapproval? Curiosity?

“Palais,” he says matter of factly.

Your heartbeat kicks up but you remain facing forward. After taking a sip of your drink you respond, “Very good, you know where ya are. Want a fuckin’ gold star?” You aren’t sure why you let your natural accent show but you do.

He snorts, “She said you had a mouth.”

You slide a sidelong venomous glare to him, “Who?” It’s practically a hiss. You’re already formulating ways to kill this man right here.

“We have a mutual friend?”

“I don’t have friends.”

“No?” He sips his drink, obviously not enjoying the taste. “How about someone who’s more than that?” You say nothing.

Reaching into your pocket you pull out a few bills, grab your bag and walk out of the hotel. The man hot on your heels. You turn down an alley and as soon as he’s close enough you pull your gun. His hands are up a smirk on his face.

“Hey, let’s take a second here,” he’s not projecting any kind of fear. Actually, he’s almost too calm.

“You have exactly five to tell me where the fuck she is before I blow that smile off your face.”

“She’s safe.”

“Not good enough. Three.”

“If I was lying you could tell, right? So why don’t you work your magic trick before shooting me.” He lowers to his knees, “I’m trying to help. Just… look.”

Cautiously you approach him, gun still drawn. Going behind him you press the barrel to his temple with your right and press your left to the other side of his head. Not enough to harm, just to pull information. Focusing on one thing, her. 

Natasha, looking tired but smiling fills your mind. “Y/N, I’m ok, I swear I’m ok baby. You can trust Clint. He’ll bring you to me. I’m telling him this so you’ll believe him. Oh, and when you’re done say the word pineapple, he doesn’t believe you can do what I said. I love you.”

You release him and lower your gun, tears stinging in the back of your eyes. Nothing but honesty and determination radiates from him. He’s legit.

“Fuck,” he rubs his temples, “that really does suck.”

“Pineapple,” you say barely audible.

“Huh?” He looks at you, “Sorry, shot hearing.” Now you notice the barely visible high tech hearing aids in his ears.

“Pineapple.”

A smile fills his face, “Jesus Christ. That’s pretty damn cool.” He stands slowly extending his hand, “Clint.” You take it and get a flash of a rural house, countryside, a brunette woman with kind eyes, arrows. This man is like an open book.

“Y/N.”

“Good to meet you.” His hands are calloused and you get the distinct feeling that he’s military of some sort. “I realize it’s asking a lot to-”

“I’ll go where ever you want.”

“Oh. I had a whole speech prepared and everything. Didn’t think you’d make this easy.” He shrugs, “Well come on then.”

On cue, a black nondescript sedan pulls up and he opens the back passenger door, you can see the barrier between the front and back seats, no handles on the interior of the doors. Fuck.

“Nothing personal just can’t be too careful,” he says, a weak smile on his face. It doesn’t matter. He knows where she is, you’ll play along for now. 

Your voice is soft and sweet as you toss your bag ahead of you into the back seat, “Understandable.” If she told him you can read people she likely also told him about some of the other tricks up your sleeve.

“Oh, and Clint,” he turns to you releasing the door. 

You slide his feet from under him sending him to the ground. Pinning him you press your right hand to his forehead, his eyes wide with panic. Good, she did tell him. There's the sound of feet as the driver rushes up behind you but he signals for them to stand down.

Leaning down you hiss in his ear, “If she’s not alright, I’ll burn your little farmhouse to the fuckin’ ground with that pretty brunette inside. We clear?”

“Crystal,” Clint growls out. He’s like a fortress now, actively fighting to shut you out.

“Excellent,” you stand smiling big and extend your hand to him. Suspiciously he eyes you before taking your hand and pulling himself up.

You push past the visibly confused woman who’s gun hangs limply in her hand. “Let’s get goin’ then.” As soon as you’re in the back seat she slams the door.

Admittedly you didn’t expect to be driving this long but 3 hours later you’re desperate for a pit stop. Two whiskeys plus the gallon of coffee on the flight meant you had to pee. Now.

“Can y’all even hear me up there?” The barrier was clear, maybe bullet-resistant glass of some kind, and you hadn’t heard anything from the front the whole time.

“Yes.” The woman’s tone is clipped.

“Good. How much longer we gonna be on this joy ride?”

“Another hour at least,” Clint responds. You note that the driver glares at him as if she didn’t approve of him answering you.

“Ah, well, any chance for a pit stop before then?”

“No.”/“Yes.” The driver and Clint respond at the same time.

“We are not stopping,” the woman sounds like she’s about to throttle Clint.

“That’s fine,” you say and watch her shoulders relax. “As long as you’re not the one having to clean up later.” She catches your smirk in the rearview and woo, if looks could kill.

Violently the car jerks to the side of the road and you slam into the driver’s side door. “What the hell?”

She gets out and flings the door open, “Should have worn a seat belt.” There’s the whisper of a grin on her face as you rub your left arm. “Neither of us have to go. There’s the woods.” The look on her face isn’t quite smug but it’s almost there.

You laugh, “Girl, you barkin’ up the wrong tree if you think my country ass is too prim to piss in the woods.” Quickly you stride toward the trees.

“Agent,” she says, voice low and you freeze. “Agent Hill. I’m not your girl.” Slowly you turn back to her. “And I suggest you don’t run, Oracle.” Your blood runs cold.

“Am I under arrest agent?”

“Not exactly.”

“Hmm.” You weigh your options. If they could just get you to Natasha as was promised you figured you both had a good chance of slipping them. If you ran… well if they had her and who knows what they may do…

“Well, if you’re done posturing, Agent Hill. I have some private business to attend to. Unless you’re wanting to accompany me, I’ll be back in a minute.” You turn back toward the woods and she doesn’t follow.

Once you’re done, you walk a few paces further into the trees and lean against a trunk for a minute thinking. Agent Hill didn’t specify exactly who she was an agent for. She’s clearly American unless it’s a ruse. But given that Clint is most definitely American you’re going to bet it’s not. Sure they could be with any number of U.S. agencies but your gut is telling you just who this is. If you’re right… this is very bad.

You stride back to the car, “So, Agent,” you practically spit the word, “we headin’ to some kind of S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house in Europe or are you toting me back to the good ol’ U.S.A.?” Her brows lift just a touch in surprise but otherwise, she appears unfazed. “Guess it’ll be a surprise then,” you say as you get back in the car.

Almost two hours later you pull into what seems to be an old abandoned airport. Clint opens your door.

“The states it is,” you quip looking over at Agent Hill. She says nothing and begins striding to a hangar. You grab your bag and follow Clint.

Before getting on the jet Agent Hill turns to you, “I’ll need all weapons you have on your person, Oracle.” You stare at her for a minute, curious if she will try to physically remove them if you don’t comply.

“You can give them over freely or spend the flight in shackles. Your choice.”

Giving her a slight smile you begin to disarm. Weapons were good and all but you didn’t need them to be a threat. The way Clint looks at you shows he knows this but she doesn’t. Interesting.

Not moving toward her you hold out your knives and gun, “Here.” She rolls her eyes but takes the bait coming to grab them. Your fingers just graze hers.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Maria.” The look she flashes you is murderous. You smile smugly as Clint restrains a small laugh. It never got old using something so simple as their own name to throw people. “Suits you though.” Unfortunately, she’s too good to take your bait this time and simply turns practically storming into the jet.

“Hill didn’t believe it either. What Nat said you could do,” Clint says standing bravely next to a woman that threatened him five hours ago. You bristle a bit at his casual mention of Natasha.

“Good. The less people who believe in it the better off I am,” he nods in agreement and leads the way to the jet.

You’ve never been on something so advanced. Despite yourself, you’re a little in awe. You stand in the middle of it all gawking.

“Sit,” Hill barks pointing to a bucket seat near the back. “Buckle up if you want I don’t care either way. And if you hurl it’s your mess to clean up. Got it?”

You sit down and lounge like a cat looking up at her, “Got it, Maria.”

“Agent. Hill,” she spits.

A chuckle slips from you at her reaction, “You don’t like me much do you, Agent?”

“No,” with that she heads to the pilot seat.

A few minutes later you feel the jet start to roll forward. The takeoff is so abrupt you do feel more than a little nauseous but you keep it down, not willing to give in. Once it’s passed your mind focuses on what the hell you’re walking into.

Whatever it was if she was there… it would be worth it.

[irondadgroupie]

Lessons in drinking

Inspired by the marvellous irondadtexts.tumblr.com ! I had not written anything in two years and then this little plot bunny comes bouncing my way. Features an exasperated but concerned Tony, uncoordinated Peter and mentor protege dynamics on the night of having your first drink.

.......

The clock struck half past midnight, not that Tony Stark noticed it, he was too engrossed in the latest modification of the Iron Man suit. He tried to develop the air filtration system to better combat against potential biohazards. Call him paranoid but he’d rather be safe than sorry.

His phone chimed and he glanced at it: Whatsapp message from Peter. Yes, it was not unusual, they had not the time to meet every day, with their hectic schedules but they still stayed in touch, talking about this and that.

What was not usual was getting a message from Peter and that made him take another look and open the message. The boy could be injured outside of the suit, having nightmares or anxiety attacks or-

Peter: heeeeey mr t

Tony’s brows rose up.

Tony: Mr T?

He had a pretty good idea what was going on but for the sake of the kid, he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt

Peter: Mr s

Peter: S tark

Tony was giving this kid one more chance (he was going soft): Everything okay bud?

Peter: I havn t

Peter: veeen drinking

He was going to kill this kid! Kill and set the corpse on fire. But not before kicking his sorry ass to the next year!

He hit the dial button and luckily Peter answered.

“Okay so you’re drunk?”

Peter made a sound. Music blasted in the background and he could hear teens making noise, over what he did not want to know

“You’re drunk right?” He tried again.

“No.”

Smart kid, the man shook his head. One word sentences. But Tony had been the posterchild of troubled teenager and he knew every trick in the book.

“No! No! Would never get shrunk, I’m too young-“

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose as he walked out of the office and headed to his garage.

“Yeah, you’re damn right you’re too young to drink!”

Tony made a mental checklist and took in a deep breath: no use in yelling, Peter wouldn’t be remembering it, if his slurring was any indication of his cognitive state.

“Where are you? Why the hell have you been drinking?”

Being calm did not negate the use of curse words.

“Haven’t been drinking,” The kid valiantly tried to defend himself and Tony grit his teeth.

“Peter, I’m trying to stay calm until tomorrow when you’re sober and I can rip you a new one. But you’re making it difficult by lying to me.”

Peter whimpered pitifully: “Sorry Mr T?”

That name, Tony feels like screaming.

“I’m at a paartey.”

The boy let’s out a ‘whoo’, obviously because the song changes to a more uptempo one.

“A party?” Tony nearly stops in shock. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to a party tonight?”

No, he was not the kid’s parent but he liked to be on the loops. Especially considering the last time Peter went out, acting like a normal teenager, someone had spiked his drink and Ned had called Tony to the rescue. He had spent the night making sure the boy didn’t choke on his own vomit. Tony had been certain that experience would deter Peter from ever touching anything stronger than root beer.

“I goyta drink for science!”

For science, some kids chanted in the background like a group of mindless followers. Peter seemed to have started a cult.

“For science?!” Tony screamed and cringes as he heard drinks sloshing, he could only hope none was offered to Peter.

“I didn’t know if I could get drunk!” The boy screamed with a laugh. “Because I’m- you know- him!”

Thank god for the sense of censorship.

“Yeah, I’m well aware of your spandex clad alter ego.”

He made it to the garage and chose the car which is both fastest and easiest to clean up. He had been meaning to change the cushioning of his Audi anyway.

“Where are you, I’m coming to get you,” he directed the call to the sound system and started the car.

“Pataaay!” Peter shouts with other kids and quiets down. Please, don’t be doing shots, Tony prayed.

“Yea, I know a party but where!” He is too agitated to even roll his eyes. “What’s the address?”

He hears a thud, no doubt the phone has dropped to the floor.

“Mr Sss- I don’t,” Peter gulps heavily as he picks the phone up. “I don’t feel great.”

Tony wants to be mad with the kid but hearing his tiny voice, he can’t help but feel sympathy.

“Yeah, alcohol does that to you. Where’s the party, Peter? Do I have to call Ned and ask him?”

Was Ned even at this party? He doubted it, last time Ned had been very responsible and sober. He couldn’t imagine him watching from the sidelines as his best friend got so hammered.

“No, it’s same place as last time,” the kid forces out pitifully and groans. Tony sets the navigator to the last location and turns right. He remembered the place; it was luckily only about ten minutes from the Tower, on the part of the city with big houses and home to various stockbrokers.

“Mr T- I- oh no no I think I’m drying.”

Hell yes you are, the man felt like retorting back. The kid should know alcohol dries up the system and he was willing to bet everything he owned that Peter had not had a glass of water the entire night.

“You feel sick? Have a headache?”

The boy does not answer, all he can hear is that blasted music. Tony feels like making an initiative to ban all stereos in the State.

“Peter? Peter you still there?”

He waits, tries to hear any kind of sound from the kid. Had he dropped his phone?

“C’mon buddy, speak to me!”

No answer. He hits the accelerator, nearly running through a red light.

“You better be where you say you are because I’m on my way.”

Then Peter answers.

“Heeey mr T.”

Oh god kid, just let it go. He knows anything having the letter S is difficult to say when drunk but this was just humiliating.

“Yeah, yeah, kid, we’ve done that. “

He stops to let a young woman pass the road although he feels like running over her.

“Where are you exactly, Peter? Where in the house?”

The boy takes a while to answer, he hears shuffling. “Front uard.”

Peter is now noticeably struggling with words. He is grounding that kid until the next decade.

“Okay, stay there, I’ll be ten minutes.”

“Do you promise?”

Tony can’t help but pity the boy. It was his first time drunk and although it has been thirty decades, he can still remember how awful he felt when he crashed down. He could only hope Peter’s morning after wouldn’t include nearly choking when vomiting up half-digested hot dogs.

“Yeah, I promise,” His voice is much softer than before. “Peter, of course I do.”

“I don’t feel good,” The boy whispers and spits on the ground.

“Just talk to me, okay? Have you thrown up?”

He doesn’t know what he wants the answer to be. If Peter has vomited, it means less alcohol in his system but it is also a sign of possible alcohol poisoning. Honestly, he doubts the kid is coherent enough not to choke if his body decides to rebel.

“I don’ remebr,” Peter sniffles. “Are you angy with me?”

“I’m more concerned than angry, Petey,” the man says, using the nickname that is reserved for when the kid is under the weather or otherwise needs comfort. Peter argues he hates it but Tony always catches a glimmer in his eyes when he is addressed with it.

Peter lets out a choked laugh.

Tony takes a hard turn and drives by rows of familiar houses. The navigator informs he is getting close.

“I’m almost there and I’m going to bring you home and look after you until you feel better, okay?”

He can almost hear the kid nod his head: “Okay.”

“And then I’ll yell at you tomorrow,” The man can’t help to retort, he is so going to get back at the kid for making him worry so much. But after he has made sure Peter has had a long sleep, gallons of water and some bacon and eggs.

“I’m sorry.”

How can the words coming out of a fifteen year olds mouth affect him so much?

“I didn think I could srnk so I drank a- a- olt. A lo-t.”

“We’re gonna talk about it tomorrow, Pete. For now just focus on taking deep breaths and staying awake, can you do that?”

The party house is in his view. It’s looks the same as last time, even the same kids are hanging around in the balcony. Nothing seems to be different, there are same lights in the trees and same songs are blasting through the neighborhood.

“Yeh. I love yo- you- Mr T.”

Tony allows the moment to happen: “I love you too, bud,” He smiles. He parks the car on the curb and steps out.

“Just stop calling me Mr T,” He slams the door shut and locks the doors. He doesn’t trust the apparent seniors who oogle his car with hungry eyes.

“Okay, sorry Mr T.”

Tony takes in a calming breath and scans the scenery, the picnic table, groups of people and the miserable figure sitting against the wall, hunched underneath a window. How come none had noticed the half-lid eyes and pale skin was out of his comprehension. Had kids been that cruel and ignorant in his youth? He can’t remember.

“Okay, I see you, you big mess,” He walks closer. “I’m here now, you’ll be okay. After not being okay for a few hours.”

He ends the call and Peter doesn’t realize for a second. Then his brown eyes look upwards and a smile lit his face.

“Hey Mr T,” Peter cries with drunken eagerness and stands up only to fall flat on his face.

“Jesus christ, Kid,” Tony can’t believe what he is seeing. His Peter, his straight A’s, genius, superhero protégé was wasted off his mind. He had witnessed the boy do incredible gymnastic moves, had observed his performance in battles and now, the kid could not even walk, let alone stand on his feet.

Peter gets up on his elbows and flashes him a smile. His hair is a mess and clothes wrinkled and he reeks of vodka but at least there is no vomit on his face, it’s at least a small consolation.

“I love you,” Peter says and laughs. Tony rolls his eyes and helps the kid stand up. He has to take most of his weight and he ponders for a second if carrying him over his shoulder would be more effective.

“You’re the- best,” The boy points at his mentor. “I like you so so much. You’re just so-“

“Yes, yes,” Tony nods his head and looks around. “Is Ned here?”

Peter follows his gaze: “No, he was supposed to come here but got cold.”

That explains a lot, the man thinks and begins to haul the kid to his car.

“Hey mr,” Peter slurs his name so horribly it is not a sound a human should make. “Do you like me? Even a teeny tiny bit?”

“Peter, I came here in the middle of the night to drag your sorry ass to bed, we’re past the point of just liking.”

The boy didn’t seems to understand.

“Too many words,” he groans and sinks to a crouch. Tony struggles but manages to get the suddenly very dizzy boy to the passenger seat. Thank God he had parked with the right side towards the house. Peter leans against the backrest and breathes heavily, seemingly out of it until Tony starts to tie him in with a seat belt.

“What- What is-“

“Easy,” Tony guides the kid’s hands away. “Leave it be,” he buckles the belt in and makes sure is secure. As precaution he takes a plastic bag from the passenger side door and opens it.

“I hope you won’t throw up but honestly, you’re starting to look a little green.”

“I’m dizzy,” Peter mutters and sinks lower on the seat. Tony guides his head between his knees and encourages him to take deep breaths. The boy is coherent enough to obey but his skin loses more color.

“Peter, if you feel sick, just let it go, you’ll feel better.”

The boy shakes his head and straightens up valiantly, Tony has to admire him.

“Let’s just go.”

The man nods and rounds the car to his seat. The engine roams and Peter grimaces at the loud noise.

“You’ll be okay,” Tony rubs the boy’s arm in support, the way he wishes his father would have done.

The journey is silent, no music, no talking, nothing to make the ride normal. Tony misses the kid’s babbling, with rock music blasting from the stereos. Now all he can do is glance at the boy every couple of seconds to make sure he is still in the land of the living.

Peter’s eyes start to fall shut as his head nods against his chest.

“Hey!” Tony snaps his fingers in front of the boy’s nose and jolts him awake. “No sleeping until we are at the Tower.”

“I feel sick.”

As he says it, vomit starts dribbling down his chin. Peter tries to hold it in but his stomach spasms are too intense.

“Just let it out, Pete.”

The boy needs no more urging. He grabs the bag and retches. Tony winces in sympathy but luckily they are just at the garage. He parks the car and turns his head to the boy who spits into the bag and groans.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you were remarkable,” The man gets up and walks over to the boy. “Remind me to tell you of the time Rhodey and I went to this charity ball. They had the Lakers girls serving tequila shots. My car back then had orange seats, not after that night.”

Peter tries to chuckle but fails as tears fall from his eyes. Tony takes the bag and drops it into the garbage can. They make their way silently to the living quarters and there Tony faces a shock. He had hoped the kid would tire himself out but instead, throwing up seemed to have spiked up his energy.

“I love this place!” Peter runs to the windows and Tony has rush after him to ensure he does not open the balcony door.

“Now, let’s get you something to eat,” he takes a hold of the kid’s arm and drags him towards the kitchen.

“Nooo, it’s so pretty!”

“Yes, yes, sky is pretty.”

Peter steps into his way and locks eyes with him.

“You know what?”

“What?” He humors the kid. Peter is silent for a moment but then snorts.

“I forgot!” He bends over in laughter. The voice echoes in the hall and Tony shushes him.

“Oh!” Peter is in an ADHD episode, like a kid who had too much sugar. He runs to the bar and grabs a bottle. “I want this!”

“No!” Tony tried to be nice but this is where he draws the line. He snatches the bottle from him and places it on a higher shelf.

“Tooonyy!” The boy whines. “It’s good!”

“You are already in the verge of getting your stomach pumped.”

“Why? I feel great!”

“Peter, what comes up must come down.”

“I already threw up, I must have more,” Peter takes a whiskey bottle but before he take a swing, Tony forces it out of his grips, slams it to the table and turns his furious eyes to the boy.

“I’m not having you die under my watch!”

The boy’s eyes glaze over: “Would I fit there?”

The kid was lucky he loved him, there were very few for whom he would stay this patient.

“C’mon,” Tony guided the boy to the kitchen and sat him on the floor, he didn’t trust him with a stool, he would only crack his skull open.

“First lesson in drinking, Peter,” He took a pizza box from the fridge, his lunch, and sat down beside the boy. “Never drink on an empty stomach.”

He holds a slice of mozzarella-pepperoni pizza to the kid’s mouth. Peter is wary for a moment but then takes a small bite, so small he doesn’t need to chew on it to swallow.

“Nope,” Tony shakes his head. “Chew properly or it will be hell to bring it back up. “

Peter shivers and a tear slides down his face.

Tony doesn’t know what to do. Even after a year of knowing Peter, he is still very new to gestures of affection. He cares for the boy, there is no doubt about it, but the man is used to showing it through money and grand gestures and a witty comment here and there. Peter is different, from a completely different world, where people were open with their emotions because others could be counted on noticing them. Peter was a hugger, with a constant smile, and Tony wants to be able to return the gestures but he can’t.

There is a lock in his mind that he can’t bypass. Not for now at least.

The boy sniffles and takes the pizza slice.

Tony feels awful. He gets up and grabs a washcloth, he rinses it under the tab until it is warm. Peter’s eyes follow him as he gets on his knees and wipes at the tear tracts.

“You poor thing,” the man whispers and rubs the boy’s temples, trying to ease a building headache.

“Tony,” Peter says. “Do you hate me?”

What?

“No,” The man shakes his head and wipes away the tears that follow. “Why do you think that?”

“I don’t know,” Peter shrugged with half-lidded eyes. “Sometimes I get that feeling.”

“It’s just your anxiety speaking,” Tony stands up and fills a glass with water.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

Just what he needed, Tony rolled his eyes. He was well aware Peter’s self-esteem left a lot to be desired and honestly, he couldn’t understand why. He was a great kid, better than anyone.

“Sometimes it feels like the entire world is against me,” Peter cries softly.

Note to self, Peter is a weepy drunk. Never take him to a bar.

“Drink this,” He ignores the tears and holds the glass to the boy’s lips. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Peter gulps down the drink, obviously wishing it was something else. Tony takes the glass as the boy rests his head on his mentor’s shoulder. Tony smiles softly and ruffles the boy’s hair, easing out some tangles.

“You’re such a mess,” he chuckles in pity. Peter cries and eats the pizza.

“I am a mess. I made you come and get me. I’m such an idiot.”

“Peter, I know you are drunk but I won’t have you hating yourself.”

“I’m so sorry, Tony,” tears ran down his face.

“Kid, it’s alright,” The man rests his cheek on the boy’s head. “I’m not angry at you.”

“But you should be! You should have left me there! You’re so best at everything!”

He let the kid rant, only humming along in pauses.

“Tony, I think you’re the best there is. You’re the best person, and you’re Iron Man, Iron Man is best and you’re like a-“

“Okay, it’s your bedtime!” The man stood up and tried to drag the boy up.

“Tony, no!”

“Tony, yes.” He mocked and swung the boy over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

“Holy shit!” Peter shrieked as they made their way out of the kitchen towards the guest room. “You’re strong! Like Iron Man!”

“Yes, Peter, it’s kind of the point,” Tony adjusted his hold as the boy tried to jump off. Yes, he worked out but carrying Peter is no effort, the boy was like a small bird.

He kicked the door open and dropped the boy on the bed. His body bounced on the mattress and Tony moved over to unlace his shoes.

“Do you want to change clothes?” Tony asked as he took off Peter’s socks and stuffed them inside the sneakers for safekeeping.

“Tony,” Peter smiled as the man took off his belt, ”have I ever told you you’re the best?”

“Only like a minute ago,” the man muttered as he rummaged the closet for a pair of comfortable sweatpants and an overlarge Black Sabbath t-shirt that originally belonged to him. “C’mon,” he tapped the covers, “Sit up.”

Changing pants was no problem but shirt was a task, Peter seemed to have lost all sense of coordination. He got tangled in the sleeves.

“Okay, first head,” Tony rolled up the t-shirt and helped it on. “Right arm, no, your right.”

Peter slumped against the man’s chest and closed his eyes. His breathing was beginning to even out.

“It was fun,” the boy slurred. Tony gently laid him down and turned onto his side.

“Let’s get you comfortable,” he moved the boy’s right hand under his face. “I want to ensure there is no hindrance to your breathing. “

He pulled Peter’s left arm back to balance him. Covers slid over the boy’s body. The man took extra care that the pillow was supporting Peter’s head.

“There’s a trashcan right next to you if you get sick again. I’ll stay with you tonight so say if you need anything. Is your head okay?”

“Yeah,” the boy sighs. “The world is spinning.”

Tony brought his hand to the boy’s head and started caressing his hair. “Yeah, that’s no wonder. Is it bad?”

“Not really. Not like a concussion.”

“Alright, you’ll live.”

The man laid down behind the boy, his hand continuing the motion. Peter started breathing deeply in and out. Tony could still smell alcohol in the kid’s hair and it brought flashbacks to his own darker episodes.

It was just a one-time thing, he tries to reassure himself. Many teenagers drank and peer pressure can lead to unsafe behavior. This was not a sign of any deeper problem. Peter had issues, sure, but he was not suicidal. He made a mistake, had a few too many. It was just dumb luck that spider genes did not single out the effects of alcohol. In another reality, drinking this much might not have had ill consequences.

“Kid.”

Peter keeps sleeping.

“You would tell me if there was something wrong, right?”

Peter makes a sound in his sleep.

“You would say if you were depressed? If your thoughts suddenly got dark and life lost meaning? You would call me to help out? You wouldn’t make any drastic decisions?”

Maybe Peter needed therapy. He had obvious abandonment issues, Tony had read last month’s Psychology journal. Also the guilt complex was something they needed to work on. Before he met Peter, he had no idea word “sorry” could be used in so many contexts.

His thoughts were interrupted as Peter turned on his back and groaned.

“No, no,” Tony sat up. “On your side-“

His words were cut short as Peter gagged. In a second, Tony had him on his stomach, with head resting over the trash can.

“It’s okay,” he whispered as the boy coughed and emptied his stomach. Tony rubbed his back in circles while he held his forehead with his other hand. Peter whimpered as another gag hit him and Tony made sure he did not fall of the bed. Stench was overwhelming, Jesus what had the kid drank? Vodka was obvious, tequila, beer and yep, there was a piece of the pizza.

“Help,” Peter tried to keep his stomach in check but it was no use, he was puking again. Tony patted his back, making sure the kid did not choke.

“I’m helping, I won’t leave. You’re safe here.”

Almost as suddenly as they had started, gags stopped and Peter fell limp. The man rolled him back to the bed and set to emptying the bucket and rinsing it before the stench made them both sick. He returned the container to the same spot and sat on the bed. With gentle hands, Tony gathered the boy into his arms and set his neck to rest on the crook of his arm. Peter was spent and hovered on the border of unconsciousness. A glass of fruit juice sat on the night stand and he brought it to the boy’s lips.

“Peter, you have to drink,” the man ordered as the boy fought back. “You are getting dehydrated. Next step is the IV.”

Threat of needles always worked. The boy took a cautious sip and when his stomach stayed calm, Tony poured more into his mouth. Maybe he imagined it but Peter’s skin seemed to gain more color as sugar and vitamins were reintroduced to his system.

“Yes, the second lesson in drinking: water only worsens the hangover, I prefer sparkling water or juice and sodas.”

There were a couple of more lessons but they could wait until Peter was 21.

[effyeahzimbits]

Title: Beer Pong Penalty

Rating: M

Pairing: Zimbits

Summary: Anyone who loses beer pong must face the penalty. The day comes for Eric Richard Bittle to put his money where his mouth is.

Warnings: Swearing. Description of piercings. Many hangovers.

Read on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14061129

     He’d been hit by a truck. That was the only possible explanation for the ungodly pounding in his head. He was going to open his eyes and find himself in hospital and covered in bandages and being doted upon by his beautiful Canadian Adonis boyfriend. Said Canadian Adonis boyfriend was going to be dressed in nothing but the tightest little underwear and spoon feeding him his dear old Moomaw’s Georgian peach pie.

     So, when he did finally wrench his eyes open, Bitty was thoroughly disappointed to find himself staring up at the peeling grey ceiling of the Haus’ lounge area. It took a moment for the realisation to sink into his hungover brain, but when it finally did, he let out a disgusted squeak and quickly rolled off the germ ridden couch and onto the floor. The grubby carpet was littered with plastic red cups and empty plates and other remains, but it was still preferable to that green cesspit of Hell.

     Bitty groaned miserably and pressed the heels of his palms to his aching eyes in a futile attempt at forcing the headache away. Memories of the previous night’s party came flooding back, including the gross tequila that had cost Ransom a grand total of six bucks and the cocktails that Shitty had fervently claimed to be mimosas but had contained the distinct burn of cheap vodka. Sober Eric always declared that he was going to have an easy night and wouldn’t get too drunk. Sober Eric was a dirty liar.

     He sighed heavily and let his arms flop to his sides, gazing up at the ceiling with all the energy of a dead fish. Truthfully, he couldn’t remember any of the finer details. He knew there had been beer pong in there somewhere (he always lost catastrophically), a little crazy dancing to Beyoncé had also happened at some point (Holster always liked to indulge him), and Bitty wasn’t entirely sure at this point but he might have taken a lot of tipsy selfies and sent them to Jack. When he had the strength to sit up he’d check his phone.

     He spent ten whole minutes convincing himself that the headache was going to miraculously vanish if he laid still long enough. It didn’t of course, and he finally decided to drag himself up with a dramatic groan. The room spun so violently he thought he was going to blow chunks. The couch would look considerably better soaked in vomit, he mused, but the thought of cleaning it up made him think better of it. Instead he used it to haul himself up and onto his unsteady feet. He wobbled only a little, and after a couple of deep breaths the nausea settled enough for him to make it into the kitchen.

     He kicked more cups and plates and – was that a bra? – out of the way as he padded through, and he was pretty sure he could hear someone snoring somewhere, though he didn’t see any limbs sticking out from underneath the furniture. His beloved kitchen was completely trashed, though he hadn’t expected any different. If he’d recovered enough by this afternoon then he would blitz the whole place top to bottom with industrial strength bleach, but for now he’d suffer through the mess to get a cup of coffee.

     The coffee beans took ages to grind and he stared at them with a dead expression, the steady drip drip of the black liquid hammering into his brain. It had only meant to be a few casual drinks to celebrate their latest winning game, but things grew dark when Ransom pulled out that stupid tequila. The bottle stood half empty on the counter, it’s plastic moustached sombrero lid practically mocking him. He had a sudden burst of energy and tossed the alcohol deep into the trash, hiding it under a stack of Chinese takeaway cartons. If Ransom asked, he’d play dumb and pretended he had no idea where it went.

     He dug his old faded mug out of the sink and poured steaming hot coffee into it without even rinsing the porcelain. And because he would never be broken inside enough to drink it black, he dumped as much sugar and caramel creamer into it as he could stomach. He sat at the table to slurp it, trying to blink away the cobwebs. He scalded his tongue more than once and the sting woke him up a little more.

     It was only after the second cup did he start feeling more human. He’d heard the front door open and close a couple of times and assumed some of their guests were starting to rouse and realise they were in the wrong house. He hoped someone reclaimed the bra. Holster had turned the last one into a hat of shame for whoever came last at beer pong. Bitty had had to wear it for a whole half an hour last night. Remembering he probably sent Jack a picture of that too, he took up his phone and scrolled through his messages. Of course, there was a selfie of him in the bra hat. There were lots of selfies in fact. He started out looking quite cute and presentable, until the last one where his hair was sticking up in all directions and his cheek was smeared in Lardo’s purple lipstick and his nice blue shirt was drenched in the vivid orange fake mimosa concoction. Luckily Jack had only seemed to grow even more amused as his sobriety deteriorated.

     Jack had of course already sent him his usual good morning text three hours ago. Sleeping in for Jack meant waking up at seven am, and he always went for a run half an hour later. At first Bitty teased him for it, calling him an exercise freak, but then he’d learned that Jack’s anxiety medication had a bad habit of making him feel drowsy, and the morning runs helped to wake up his foggy brain. Bitty continued to chirp him for it, but only because it made Jack laugh. He was still learning a lot about Jack, and each nuance he discovered only made him fall in love with his former captain even more.

     He was just tapping out a reply with his own good morning and apologising for the ridiculous selfies when the Haus started to come back to life around him. Ransom and Holster descended the stairs first, looking like they’d taken in a bath in neat vodka and then slept in a ditch. The frogs and tadpoles followed them, and Bitty assumed they’d all crashed on Chowder’s floor because the last he’d seen of them they were playing ring of fire with the volleyball girls in Chowder’s bedroom. Then finally Lardo and Shitty crammed themselves in the tiny kitchen too, helping themselves to the rest of the coffee and whatever food they could scrape together from the remnants that were left from the night before.

     “So, Bits,” Shitty chirped in a voice that was far too disgustingly cheerful for Bitty’s delicate head.

     He was naked as the day he was born and perched on one of the counter tops. Bitty wondered if there was a bleach that was stronger than industrial strength and where he could buy five gallons of it.

     “When are we heading into town, ya crazy little fucker?”

     Bitty lifted his heavy head and narrowed his eyes at his friend.      “What?” he asked eloquently, his voice hoarse from the alcohol abuse. “Why would I want to go into town?”      He wasn’t going to step one foot out of the Haus today. He was going to go straight up to bed and sleep until his head exploded and he died, or the hangover wore off. Whichever came first.

     “Dude, don’t you remember the bet?” Ransom asked gleefully. “You know, the beer pong bet?”

     Bitty wracked his cotton wool filled brain but could definitely not remember any bet relating to his spectacular loss. He remembered the honour belch, that was difficult to forget, but certainly no bet. He shook his head, creasing his brow in a frown.

     “Bro. Bro,” Ransom seized his shoulder, looking like all his birthdays had come at once and not like he’d had a disgusting hangover not two minutes ago. “You have to go get a piercing.”

     “I have to get a what?”

     Bitty blinked at him, straining his eyes through the fogginess to frown at his friend’s ecstatic face. He had to have misheard him. There was no way he would agree to anything like that, no matter how shitfaced he was. He shook his head, ignoring the throbbing between his temples.

     “You heard the man!” Shitty crowed, grinning just as widely. “You were going on all night about how you’d always wanted a piercing, so we decided to make you put your money where your fucking mouth is.”

     “He’s right,” Lardo told Bitty with a smirk, and around them, the rest of the team were laughing as they recalled the events from the night before. “You promised, Bits. If you lost the game, your penalty would be to go and get that piercing.”

     “Y’all’re lying,” Bitty said slowly, glaring at them all when his friends just cracked up laughing. “I agreed to no such thing. Prove it.”

     “Bits,” Shitty said gleefully, clapping a hand over his shoulder. “Bits. My sweet, spicy southern beauty. You have just asked a motherfucking lawyer to prove something.”

     Bitty’s glare dropped slightly when he realised exactly that, but he attached it back into place a moment later. He folded his arms obstinately, watching Shitty scroll through his phone with a huge grin on his face. A moment later, his own voice filled the kitchen, a little high pitched and definitely tipsy.

     “I, Eric Richard Bittle,” the recording began, making Bitty cringe. “Hereby announce that my penalty for suffering a crushing defeat at beer pong, will be to obtain exactly one piercing in a place of my choosing, tomorrow the fifteenth of May.”

      Bitty’s mouth dropped open. He had clearly been reading from a handwritten sheet, as he’d stumbled over words between drunken giggles. The others roared with laughter at Bitty’s horrified expression, and Shitty smugly put his phone back onto the table. Bitty stared at it as if it had personally thrown out all the butter in the house.

     “Shall I get my car keys?” Lardo smirked, slinging an arm around his shoulders.

     Bitty couldn’t speak. It’s true, he had always entertained the idea of a piercing, but never seriously. His mother would kill him for one. And he never thought he’d ever actually have the guts to go through with it. But a bet was a bet. He couldn’t back out of a beer pong penalty. It was written in the Haus rules. He sighed in defeat. At least he could choose where he was going to have it.

      “Lord, I must have been so drunk,” he groaned, sinking his face into his hands.

     The others’ laughter drilled through his brain, reminding him of his crippling hangover. He wasn’t stupid enough to get a piercing with so much alcohol in his system, so he waved his coffee cup in Holster’s general direction. It was instantly plucked from his hands and refilled. It appeared by his side a moment later, filled with wonderful creamy caramel flavoured coffee.

     “If I’m doing this, I need food,” he pouted, dragging the mug close and inhaling the fumes in the hopes that it would bring him back to life.

     Ransom leapt towards the fridge for ingredients comically fast. Bitty couldn’t resist the smirk as he watched his friends scramble to make a hearty breakfast. He took his phone again and swiped open the front facing camera, appraising his face in the screen. His ear would be the obvious option, but Bitty figured if he was going to do this then he might as well go all out. He turned his face to the side, humming thoughtfully as he tried to imagine a shiny stud in various places.

     By the time breakfast appeared in front of him – a large plate of eggs and waffles and bacon – he was starting to feel excited. Now that he was more comfortable with himself, he had started playing around with his own personal style, and a piercing would be an extension of that, albeit a little more extreme. He figured if he didn’t like it, he’d just take it out, though he’d hate to waste money like that.

     “Eyebrow,” he finally announced, putting his phone down and picking up his fork instead. “I’m going to get my right eyebrow pierced.”

     “Dude,” Ransom whistled, lifting his own eyebrows. “You will look so hot with an eyebrow piercing. Good choice.”

     The others all nodded and offered their own words of encouragement between shovelling food into their mouths. Bitty grinned widely and tucked into his own breakfast, practically buzzing with excitement already. He realised he hadn’t finished his text to Jack and took up his phone again, chewing as he typed. He wondered what Jack would think and considered asking for his opinion, but eventually decided against it. He loved Jack, and valued his thoughts, but he didn’t want to risk his boyfriend putting him off the idea. It would be a surprise instead.

     After breakfast, Bitty took a long shower. The hot water washed away the cobwebs and he stepped out into the steamy room feeling fresher and brighter. He dressed and dried his hair in record time, meeting Shitty and Lardo in the kitchen. Luckily, Lardo hadn’t drank the night before, and was perfectly chipper. A little while later, they all piled into her tiny car and headed off into town.

     There was a small tattoo parlour on the outskirts, popular among the Samwell student body for it’s friendly staff and attractive prices. Lardo knew it well after accompanying a few of her course mates, and had assured Bitty that it was a safe and trustworthy place. As they neared town though, Bitty’s nerves started to kick in and he began tapping his fingers impatiently on the door handle. It wasn’t the pain he was worried about. Not much, anyway. He was more worried about how he might look with it, what Jack would say, what his mother would say.

     By the time Lardo pulled into a parking space, he was starting to feel a little sick.

     “Hey, Bits,” Shitty murmured, catching his attention.

     Bitty looked up to see both Shitty and Lardo turning towards him from their front seats, both wearing soft expressions that he couldn’t quite read.

     “If you wanna back out, we won’t say anything brah,” Shitty reassured him.       “Right. We’ll say they were closed or something. We don’t want to force you into doing this if you really don’t want to,” Lardo added.

     Bitty looked at both of their faces, touched by their obvious concern. As much as they’d encouraged him back at the Haus, they weren’t about to coerce him into something like this if he genuinely didn’t want to do it. Bitty smiled, his heart swelling with a warm affection for the pair of them. He felt his nerves melting away, leaving that excitement once more.

     “Let’s do this,” he grinned widely, laughing when both of their faces lit up.

     He hopped gracefully out of the car, having to resist the urge to scamper into the shop like a thrilled child heading into a toy store. Instead he strode through the door confidently with his head held high. A shrill buzzing noise that irritated his ears came from the back of the shop, where he could see a big, colourful woman hunched over a client, her hand moving rhythmically over their arm. There was a man at the counter by the large window, and after a nudge from Lardo, Bitty headed over.

     It was a small room, and the walls were adorned with hundreds of flash designs and posters. It smelled strongly of antiseptic too, and Bitty focussed on that instead of the awful buzzing. The man at the counter was young, tanned and heavily tattooed, and flashed them all a wide smile as they approached. He nodded at Lardo, obviously recognising her.

     “Hey, what’s up? How can I help?” He asked, when he realised that it was Bitty who was interested in getting something.

     “I’d like a piercing please. My eyebrow,” Bitty grinned, the excitement evident in his voice. Both Shitty and Lardo snickered at his lack of chill, sinking into a row of seats on the far wall.

     “Sure. I just need you to fill this form for me,” the assistant replied, sliding a sheet of paper over the counter towards him. “And I need to see some ID too.”

     It was tempting to skim the boring questions about allergies and scribble his signature, but Bitty forced himself to read it properly and answer honestly. He was that keen on getting this done now that he didn’t want to ruin it by doing something stupid. Once he was satisfied, he signed his name and pulled out his driving license, along with the forty bucks required.

     He perused the selection of body jewellery available while the assistant read over his form and made a copy of his ID. He was already fantasising about the elaborate and brightly coloured bars he could wear after it had finished healing. At the back of his mind he worried about what his mama and Jack might say, but he quickly squashed the thoughts down. He was a grown man and could make these decisions for himself.

     The assistant called him over towards the back of the shop. Bitty flashed Lardo and Shitty one last excited grin, then headed around the counter and into the sterile workroom. The colourful tattooist looked up from her work and winked playfully at him even as her client grimaced in pain. Bitty walked past them towards the large, paper covered bench and lithely hopped up after the assistant gestured towards it.

     “My name’s Danny,” the man smiled, taking supplies from the shelf and placing them on the small trolley beside him. “My job isn’t to hurt you, okay? I’ll be as gentle as I can. While sticking a huge needle in your face,” he grinned widely.

     Bitty laughed and nodded, grateful for Danny’s humour. It settled his nerves a little bit. He calmly placed his palms flat down on the bench, focussing on the rough paper beneath them. He watched Danny meticulously clean his surfaces and readied the equipment.

     “Here’s a selection of eyebrow bars we can use. Any take your fancy?” Danny asked, showing Bitty a small selection of jewellery in a case on the wall.

     Bitty hummed thoughtfully as he inspected them. There were a few plain ones in different colours, and others that were adorned with crystals. He didn’t want anything too flashy, but none of the plain ones interested him either. At the end of the row was a small curved bar in a metallic rainbow that he instantly thought was perfect. The colour was subtle, but was one that resonated with him.

     “That one please,” Bitty grinned, pointing it out.

     Danny took the required piece of jewellery and sterilised it carefully before unscrewing a ball at one end, ready to be inserted in the fresh piercing. With that done, he took a marker and carefully placed a dot above Bitty’s right eyebrow.

     “Does that look like the right spot?” Danny asked, nodding towards the huge mirror that ran along one wall.

     Bitty turned to look, examining the small green mark. His stomach churned with nerves again. He caught Shitty and Lardo’s faces in the glass and they both gave him huge grins and thumbs up. He laughed, he took a deep breath and nodded.

     “Yep. Looks good. Let’s do it.”

     Bitty found it easier if he watched Danny’s hands pulling on gloves rather than focus on his racing heart. He wasn’t going to look in the mirror, and he really wasn’t going to look at the needle waiting in its sanitary container. Danny carefully pinched his brow between two fingers and secured a tight clamp over the skin. It wasn’t painful, but it was uncomfortable, and when he saw Danny go for the needle, Bitty closed his eyes.

     “You ready, dude?” Danny’s voice came gently from somewhere in front of him.

     “Ready,” Bitty replied in a voice that was surprisingly steady.

     He felt Danny stabilise the clamp, and then a moment later a sharp, stabbing pain blossomed in his brow. Bitty inhaled abruptly, but did his best to stay still. The shooting pain faded almost instantly to an intense sting that flared a little as Danny fiddled with the bar, and then settled down again. When Danny gently released the clamp, Bitty opened his eyes and let out a relieved laugh, his shoulders slumping. He hadn’t even realised he’d been tensing them.

     “All done,” Danny announced with a bright grin. “It really suits you, take a look.”

     Bitty turned to examine his face in the mirror, ignoring Shitty and Lardo’s loud and excited hoots of celebration from the other side of the counter. His right eyebrow was already swelling around the curved bar, but Bitty already loved the shiny metal that accentuated the curve of his brow. Danny was right, it really did suit him.

     “It looks amazing, thank you!” Bitty laughed, turning to give Danny his biggest grin.

     “No problem, I’m glad you like it,” Danny laughed, disposing of the needle before tugging off his gloves. “Okay so that’s gonna sting for a bitch for a few days, take an Advil if it gets too bad. You should clean it at least twice a day with warm saltwater and avoid touching it at all. The swelling should go down soon, but don’t change it for a smaller bar for at least eight weeks.”

     “Got it,” Bitty nodded, determined to listen to Danny’s every word. He had the whole summer to let it heal, and hopefully it would be fine long before he had to put on a hockey helmet again.

     “I can do it for you if you don’t want to try it yourself. And if you have any questions, just give me a call, okay?” Danny took a small business card from the counter and offered it out.

     Bitty took it and hopped off the bench, sliding the card into his back pocket. He thanked Danny again and made his way back around the counter. Shitty and Lardo instantly started hollering and grabbed him the moment he was in reach.

     “You motherfucking stunner,” Shitty gushed, sounding weirdly choked up. “It’s perfect.”

     “It looks good on you,” Lardo agreed with a wide grin, slinging her arm around his shoulders as they headed out of the shop.

     “Thanks,” Bitty laughed, starting to feel a little drained from all the adrenalin. “It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. Stings though.”

     “Let’s go get lunch,” Lardo suggested, guiding him towards a nearby Subway restaurant instead of her car. “We should get some sugar in you.”

     Many hours later, after lunch, a raucous drive back to the Haus, and answering questions fired at him from the other members of the SMH, Bitty finally found himself perched cross-legged on his bed with his laptop open in front of him. He’d refrained from taking any selfies until he’d shown Jack despite being desperate to flash it all over Twitter. Maybe he’d take one before bed, but right now all he wanted to do was talk to his boyfriend.

     Jack picked up after three rings. He was freshly showered, his damp hair curling as it dried. He had a sleepy smile on his face, worn out from his game. Bitty’s heart swelled with affection just from the sight of him.

     “Hi, Sweetpea.”

     “Hey Bits. How was-? “

     Jack broke off his sentence midway, his mouth forming a perfect little ‘o’. He frowned and leaned forward, squinting at the screen. Bitty didn’t say anything and smiled calmly. His eyebrow was red and swollen, but he knew the piercing would be clearly visible.

     “Did you get your eyebrow pierced?” Jack asked softly, his blue eyes wide.

     “Yep!” Bitty chirped with a laugh, feeling overwhelmed with giddiness when Jack seemed more in awe than anything else. “It was my pong penalty from last night. What do you think?”

     Jack was quiet for a moment, eyes scanning Bitty’s face again. He smiled widely and nodded, completely unaware he was making Bitty’s heart flutter.

     “I really like it,” he admitted softly. “You look really good.”

     Bitty could argue that Jack always thought he looked good, but the compliment made him beam all the same.

     “Thanks, sugar. I really love how it looks. I can’t wait for it to be all healed up. Lord knows what my mama will say about it,” Bitty laughed, a little too high pitched.

     Lots of men had pierced eyebrows, it wasn’t like it was a ‘feminine’ piercing, but he was still a little worried that it would only emphasise his sexuality. He was still getting his head around the idea that he was allowed to be proud of who he was and what anyone else thought wasn’t his problem. Though feeling that pride was a lot harder when he couldn’t muster up the courage to come out to his mother. Staying with Jack for the summer was sounding more and more appealing.

     Jack could tell him that he was an adult and could make decisions whether he had his mother’s approval or not, but he sensed that it wasn’t the right time for that conversation. Bitty had had a fun and exciting weekend, and Jack didn’t want to ruin his good mood by bringing up such intense topics. They could talk about it another day. So, Jack just smiled and told him he looked nice again.

     The bright smile on Bitty’s face meant it was appreciated.

     “Are you going to get any more?” Jack wondered, shifting into a more comfortable position.

     “I’m not sure,” Bitty hummed. “I haven’t thought about it. I don’t think I’ll be like you and your tattoos though,” he teased playfully.

     Jack had booked himself in for a tattoo session in late July, just in case the Falconers made playoffs. It would be his first, and was working with Lardo on a small and meaningful design that was top secret. The trouble was once he’d started thinking about them, he found himself thinking of possibilities for more designs and where they might go on his body. Lardo had warned him that getting your first tattoo was a slippery slope, and he was starting to see why.

     “Hm, shame,” Jack joked with a lopsided grin.

     Bitty gracefully raised an eyebrow and smirked. It was hard to tell through a computer screen, but he knew Jack well enough by now to tell when he was starting to get excited. His pale cheeks were beginning to flush, and his eyes seemed dark and even more smouldering than usual.

     “Mr. Zimmermann. Is my piercing turning you on right now?” Bitty purred lowly, carefully moving his computer off his lap and onto the bed in front of him.

     “It’s not the piercing,” Jack argued with a laugh. His cheeks went even pinker after being called out. “Though it does look amazing. It’s you. How confident you are and how you know you look good.”

     Bitty inwardly softened a little, smitten with how Jack looked at him. It was something he could revel in later, when it was dark and he was ready to go to sleep. For now, he deftly whipped off his thin t-shirt, careful not to catch his new piercing.

     “Well then, honey. Make your handsome self comfortable and I’ll show you just how confident I am.” The End

A.N: Please do not get piercings after nights of heavy drinking. I took creative license with this lmao.

Thanks for reading!