and now she doesn't

The sun's going down and the floodlights have been turned on, turning the soft golden hour light into something harsh and stark. Despite his helmet and mouth guard, Eddie can still taste dirt and iron between his teeth from the constant clods of mud kicked up by the tires. The arena is filled with the stench of exhaust and oil and gas, burnt rubber and the ozone sharpness of metal grinding against metal.

Beneath Eddie, Corroded Coffin wheezes and gutters, the hearse on its last legs. She can't take many more hits. She struggles to turn right, and the brakes grind, and the body is dented in enough that his left elbow constantly rubs against the quilt strapped to the driver's side door as makeshift padding.

Across the arena, Harrington's Chrysler Imperial has lost all of it's polish and shine, paint ground off, scraped through, coated in mud, though the light still catches on the sheen of lingering glitter. Eddie can't see his face at this distance, cast in shadow, even staring straight down the barrel. But he can hear the engine roar.

A head-on collision is stupid. It's a good way to trash your car and knock yourself out of the running. But.

Eddie's heart pounds and his blood sings and every fiber of his body screams at him to drive his car directly into, against, through, Harrington's, until mangled metal twists together and you can't tell where one body starts and another ends.

They're the last men standing. And a head-on hit always makes for a good show.

Plus version without shading and the uncolored lineart I was given, bc we should all appreciate greatness untarnished /lh

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“Wow,” he smirks. “You feeling lightheaded, princess? Should I catch you if you swoon? All the blood in your body seems to have travelled, uh –”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Eddie closes his mouth. He leans his hip against the counter, waiting for Steve to make a move. Steve does, his mouth in a bitter line, his hands still fisted – he steps into Eddie’s space, breathing hard, his fists curled up at each side.

Eddie has just barely an inch over him. Just enough to stare him down. To try and make him feel small. He waits for whatever vitriol Steve has planned to throw his way – braces himself for Steve to shove at him, even –

“So are we doing this, then?”

Eddie narrows his eyes.

Okay. Fine. Skipping foreplay, sure.

“Doing what, Harrington?”

Irritation flickers across Steve’s features as he steps forward again, still breathing unevenly. Still red in the face.

“You’re really going to make me say it?” he whispers. “You need me to ask?”

“No,” Eddie grins, reaching up to tug at the red ascot tied around his stupid little sailor shirt. He leans in closer, hooking a finger into the waistband of his stupid little sailor shorts. His lips brush the shell of Steve’s ear as he speaks, voice pitched soft and low.