#;fixit

Fixit Chose Violence

She was fine. Had been fine, and that was something she would have continued to tell herself and anyone else that would listen. Except Fixit had never been the listening sort, in her experience. There was always something with that guy. Always something he was just one step ahead of you on, and it pissed her off to no end.

She'd been perfectly fine, and then he had to open his big fucking mouth and start something. Was it on purpose? Probably. Was he also correct in saying she'd hurt herself long before making a mark on him? Absolutely.

Doesn't mean she wouldn't bare teeth and try anyway. Before Molly realized she'd even made the fist, she hauled off and sent it flying into his face. And immediately regretted it as it sent pain shooting up her arm. "Mother...fuck!"

He won’t be a problem to you from here on out. You can consider this my marker to you on that. You want to see me, leave a light on.

Somebody's in Time-Out...

She nearly missed the fuckin' thing. Nearly stepped over it or let the wind take it wherever aimless things like old receipts go, had it not been for that hand. It's like he's mad at the pen, isn't it? Pressing it so hard against the paper that it nearly pushes through--but she also knows Fixit has more control than that.

Apparently more control than Banner did at this point.

Molly turns the receipt over in curiosity, and it almost makes her smirk to see the origin--it's so him, isn't it? Just like the asshole to treat a smoke shop receipt like it's fine stationary to write odes to a paramour on. She glances this way and that, like he could be very well around the corner, tapping the paper against her palm. Then, she retreats back inside with a decisive snap to her door.

“Gonna have to be a helluva chair. For an elephant, maybe.” He’s laughing. Actually laughing.

The cigar is an ember on the floor, smoldering quietly. Someone should really see to it before it catches. Before it makes for a real problem.

It has the potential to do a lot of damage if fanned.

“Babydoll, I get myself worse than that shaving. Give it up.”

Joe Fixit has been accused of pyromania before.

Tend to it she does, by stamping down on the fuckin’ thing with vigor. She’s tempted to just light him on fire instead. See how his clothes smolder, and how smug he’d be after that.

It’s really the diminutive that throws her the most.

Molly grits her teeth and turns, taking up the closest, heaviest thing she can lift. A lamp, as it happens--maybe she’d work her way up to a chair.

“Don’t...call me...” She’s jumping up, smashing the lamp over the brute’s head, “Babydoll.”

Pick Molly Up Meme

6)  for receiver to pick up sender who keeps insisting they aren’t tired and carry them to bed anyway. (aka I can't read and I'm assuming they're picking up Molly since she's not big enough to do the opposite)

"Quit looking at me like that." Molly mumbled, keeping her focus on the book laid out before her. She'd rubbed her eyes once--just the once--and now suddenly Banner seemed to know better. Molly didn't need bed, and she sure as hell didn't need a babysitter. That didn't seem to matter to Bruce as she suddenly found herself scooped up with ease, carted away from the work she'd been pouring over for...well, damn near two days at this point.

"Banner--what the hell, man?! I was almost done!" She wriggled, not really caring if it tipped the both of them over.

12)  receiver walks into kitchen while sender is cooking,  sender picks them up and sets them on the counter. 

Her nose had led her--or at least started the journey. The rest of the way had been paved by her stomach, growling like a beast. There wasn't much that could tear her away from her pages once she'd gotten settled in them for the evening, but damn if whatever was going on in the kitchen didn't smell divine.

She also hadn't expected it to be due to Fixit's handiwork.

"...Joe?"

The second the name had slipped from her (though chances were that he'd heard her long before she'd seen him), Fixit's hands were at her waist, hoisting her onto the countertop with maddening ease. "Seriously? Manhandling me isn't gonna win you brownie points--" She cut herself off with a sniff of the air. "...whatever's cooking might, though."

24)  our muses are walking somewhere together and receiver spontaneously picks up sender to carry them the rest of the way. 

"I am not walking too slow, I'm walking the perfect speed and the perfect amount and perfectly--HULK!"

Before she could blink, the green goliath had raised her high and set her over his shoulder as easy as he might lift a dishrag. Clearly she'd been wrong when she stated that she was moving the perfect speed--it had been, for her, but apparently not for him. "Dude, this is so unprofessional. I could lodge complaints, you know! Wouldn't do much, but I could!"

A really nice goddamn penthouse.

He deposits her onto a couch that looks like it costs a regular person’s monthly rent four times over and sits on the one opposite- amazingly, it does not groan under his weight. There is a coffee table between them.

“Cards it is. First, though, let’s wet that whistle, huh?” He slides her a glass of water from the pitcher (there must be half a dozen scattered throughout the sitting area, like someone was expecting a small convention).

“Boo.”

Molly pouted at the glass; it was very obviously water and not a beer, or a whiskey…or anything but water.

Rather than take the hint, she ignored the glass for now and shifted in her seat (this was an incredibly comfortable couch, and she wanted one. She’d have to ask where it came from) to look around the penthouse. Big…clean. Rich.

“C’mon. Pop me one. Or two, even. Wherever you feel like makin’ me hurt. Just not too hard, huh, sweetheart? Wouldn’t wanna bruise those pretty hands.”

Threatening Meme

Go fuck yourself, Molly seethed, her hands curling into fists at her sides. Is she tempted? Hell yes, she’s beyond tempted and eager to teach this ridiculous prick a lesson. Anything from the considerable training she’d endured as an agent…to just picking up the nearest chair and bashing him over the head with it.

Why she doesn’t? That’s still Bruce. Well, he’s sharing Bruce’s body, that face. However contorted it was here…it pained her to consider hurting him.

Instead, she shoved those fists into her jacket pockets, clenched tight enough for her nails to cut into her palms.