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perrywrites · 10 months

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Part 4 of murmuring u want them inside u with karasu, otoya and yukimiya?? (the trio💪)

LOVE UR WORKS❤️💋

Hope ur well (•̀ᴗ•́)و

Byebye!

The trio comin' in piping hot WHOOP

Absentmindedly murmuring that you want him inside of you during practice part 5;

NSFW

Includes; Sae, Rin, Karasu, Otoya, Yukimiya

Part 1 (Isagi, Hiori, Bachira) and part 2 (Chigiri, Reo) and part 3 (Kaiser, Barou) and part 4 (Nagi, Shidou, Kunigami)

The demand for Sae and Rin in the requests is CRAZYYY 👀 I see you guys, I hear y’all, I finally found the time (and inspo) to write, so here’s five of the remaining bllk crew 🤭🤭🤭 FYI Sae’s the roughest one to start with here SJGDJHSGSD the others are a bit milder/romantic

Sae: he raises an eyebrow the moment he catches your simmering gaze. You have an interesting way of causing him trouble. But nonetheless, he chooses to focus on his practice, effectively ignoring your amorous expression - he’s too good at playing aloof, but on the inside he’s less than calm; it messes with him more than you and even he himself realizes. But that aloof facade doesn’t falter even as he’s walking towards you during his break, expression as indifferent as always, though there’s a teasing note in his voice as he says, “You’re unusually brazen today, are you asking for more?” His question refers to how he had you last night, making you whimper beneath him as he pushed your head down into the mattress, fucking into you. Just referring to that would usually make you so flustered you’d immediately blush, avoiding his eyes as you half-heartedly scolded him - but right now… Instead of reacting shyly, you let out a deep romantic sigh, eyes hooded and dreamy as you murmur something about wanting him inside of you. Eyebrows shooting up, he stares at you for a moment for your bold and unabashed request, wondering for a quick moment if he misheard you. But your wanton gaze dispels that doubt instantly, and he scoffs at your shamelessness. ‘Seems like I broke your brain’ he wants to say, but the words don’t leave him, dying down in his throat as he stares at you for a moment longer, heat building up inside him as he catches the way your eyelashes flutter, and the way your pouty lips part. Oh, you’re definitely asking for more, alright. Asking for him to pin you down and shove his cock in deep, bite down on your shoulders to make you cry out as he roughly thrusts into you. He’ll keep pounding away into you, a bruising grip on your hips as he grunts in your ear, mocking you and asking you if this is what you wanted. All of your sounds, he’ll soak them in, tug on your hair to hear you yelp as he pulls you into a messy kiss - pulling apart only when he’s buried deep inside of you, hips stuttering as he releases and fills you up. His fantasy is broken when he realizes what kind of heated gaze he’s sending you - and no way in hell is going to be caught by someone with a half-decent camera looking at his girlfriend like he wants to bend her over - so he looks away and gulps down his water, wiping his mouth. “... If you want me that badly, then be a good girl and stop causing me trouble,” he says, without elucidating what he even meant by something as arbitrary as ‘good girl’ and causing him trouble - but maybe that’s the point. Because both of you know whether you’re ‘good’ or ‘bad’ he’s going to fuck you - the only difference being how much rougher he is when you’ve been bad. After that, practice doesn’t go as well for him as it should, to the point that the coach decides to dismiss him early (him, in particular), kindly patting him on the shoulder as he tells him to ‘relax’ and not ‘worry’ about the upcoming match. Classic Sae, he shoves his hand off, telling him to shut the fuck up with his assumptions, and makes his way over to the showerrooms. After that humiliating experience, don’t think you’re going to get away without some discipline.

Rin: there is always a hint of pride blooming knowing you’re right there, watching him, supporting him, though he would never say it to you. He makes sure to not be distracted, but after every goal he still looks your way as you cheer loudly, calling his name with that kind of cheery glee that always makes his heart flutter - except this time you’re silent. It takes him a moment of sweeping his gaze over to find you for this reason, and when he finds you, his heart stops for another reason… What’s up with those eyes? Those dreamy, dazed eyes, face sat in your hands as you languidly watch him, were you even really there? Dammit, don’t just sit there like that, wanting him - but then what else were you supposed to do? It’s not like he wants you to stop… wanting him… or to go away… But still, dammit. This kind of frenzied panic only happens for a moment, though, before he sweeps his gaze away and goes back to practise like his heart isn’t thundering from your stupid audacity. Stupid, lukewarm idiot. When it’s his break and he’s walking over to you, there is a vexed crease between his eyebrows as he glares down at you - but it’s so obvious he’s anything but mad when the tips of his ears are burning up like that, his lips downturned in what can only be read as a flustered frown. “What the hell are you doing?” Stop looking like you want to be taken, dammit. You hum in response, a small, pining sound, soft like cotton and all things blissful. “I want you inside of me, Rin…” Pretty eyes widening and pupils dilating, his mouth parts open slightly in complete shock - you - you - what? What? It takes him a moment to regain himself, heart pulsing wildly right beneath his skin as he observes your dazed, adoring eyes as you look up at him, expression nothing but lovesick and yearnful, and fucking hell he loses his mind. You have no clue, do you? How much he dreams of you looking at him like that, like he’s your whole world, your entire universe, like you’re so taken in by him. It makes his heart constrict, antsy to do something - to you - because that’s the only thing that can calm this desperate need, dammit. He wants to give you the whole world, keep you trapped on his bed under his large frame as he makes love to you over and over again - until his name is the only thing you can cry out, sobbing, as he fills you up repeatedly, making you take him. He wants to see you ruined by him, all vulnerable and weak beneath him, helpless to his neverending affection. Oh, yeah, he’ll give it all to you, every piece of bliss possible. But… Not right now. Your timing is horrible. Beyond horrible. And the fact that he can’t fuck you right now pisses him off beyond anything, so as the shock leaves his expression, instead it morphs into a deep frown with an unforgettable blush. “... You better keep that energy by the time I’m done with practice, fucking freak.” Or else he’ll make you regret putting him through this dilemma right inbetween practice. Don’t play with him, dammit.

Karasu: he usually tells you to not bother trying to hide it, because he can always tell when you’re wanting him, yearning for him. But this time it seems like he has no need to tell you something like that; you’re making no attempt to hide your completely apparent and obvious neediness, glassy eyes showcasing your wanton stupor, and the way that you’re flushed… Yeah, he’s absolutely sure he knows exactly what’s going on in your mind. He pretends not to, though, as he continues on with practice - the way he can control his expressions and mannerisms down to the subtlest details is never not impressive. And he continues on with the whimsical charade as he saunters over to you, though he’s itching to tease you - nah, he’ll save it for later, when he can tease you all you he wants and then take his time having you… “Ya okay? Seems like ya have no energy, didn’t finish yer breakfast again, eh? I’ll take ya out for lunch later, how about it?” He plays oblivious, seemingly genuinely concerned, like he doesn’t know exactly what your deal is. That sentiment is immediately shattered into non-existence, and even he can’t control the way his eyes widen when you whisper that lewd sentence. Oh…? You want him inside, huh…? Need him that badly, hm? Expression falling under his control within a moment, he looks away from you for a moment as he chuckles to himself, but he can’t deny the shiver that had wrecked through him the moment your low seductive whisper had assailed his senses. “A little desperate there, aren’t ya?” You have no clue how good you sound, what you do to him when you talk in that breathy voice, do you? Oh god, it kills him. And now here he was, head full with lewd fantasies of how he was going to ruin you on his cock, make you cry out for him, turn your voice all hoarse, throat sore as you soar on the height of each prolonged orgasm he’ll put you through. You sound so good then, after all, the way your voice turns all sharp and whiny and blissful when he brings you to that euphoric high after teasing you for far too long. He loves the way your exhausted face melts into shaky satisfaction, especially when your trembling thighs jolt when he takes a few moments too long before pulling out, a soft overstimulated whimper leaving your lips. He won’t deny it, hearing that sweet sound leave your lips makes his cock twitch each time, makes him want to fuck into you again and again, if only to hear that whimper of yours over and over again. And it’s so unfortunate he can’t indulge in that desire right now - but Karasu is fully capable of being patient, very patient… Especially when he knows what kind of reward he’s going to take for himself at the end of this gruelling wait. He flicks your forehead. “... Well, since yer being so cute and eager, I won’t make ya wait too long,” he says, in a low, raspy tone, and he delights in the way you instantly react, shivering. That’s his girl.

Otoya: he has a sort of sixth sense when it comes to these kind of things, especially when it comes to you. Do you think he wouldn’t know what his cute girlfriend is thinking? He doesn’t have to look at you to know - he just does. So honestly, he’s not very surprised by your passionate gaze, eyes glassy and needy. That doesn’t mean he’s not delighting in your erotic expression, though, because oh god he’s enjoying this so much. He’s still walking over to you when he starts contemplating on bailing out on practice just for your sweet, sweet invitation. Pity, the only thing stopping him right now is your inevitable rejection, because you’re proper and controlled enough to suggest he remain in practice, he knows it. Soon, he’s next to you, sitting close to you, his thigh pressed right against yours as he keeps his eyes on you. “Yo, what’s up? You seem needy. Wanna get out of here?” He thought you’d fight him on this, insist he stay for practice, and he’ll have to sigh and accept being blue balled, drag his ass back to the field when all he really wants now is to sink deep into your plush walls. To his surprise, the look in your eyes doesn’t change, still heady and dark and wanting when you whisper what you do - and despite himself, his eyes widen for a second, his thigh twitching once. Outside of those two miniscule reactions, he doesn’t let anything else tell of his shock - and more importantly, the blood that just rushed down to his cock. Oh, you’ve effectively turned him on like a lightbulb. Because oh boy, if only you knew how badly he wants to rail you now for saying that lewd sentence. He wants to feel up your entire body, trail his hands all over and claim you, kissing you everywhere he can, drink in your mewls as his lips keep finding yours again and again. He wants to let loose on your body, take over and possess every inch, make your body sing with his touch, skin tingle with the ghost of his touch even after he’s done. And more than anything, he wants to pound into you, be inside you like you asked, his cock moving in and out of you faster and faster until he spills himself into you - yeah, he decides, you guys have been dating long enough for him to ditch the condoms (plural, because you don’t think he’ll go just once, do you?). He’ll go get you plan B afterwards, but for now, he has to spill his load inside of you, especially after you’ve said such a dirty thing to him. So that’s why, he’s getting up, grabbing your wrist and pulling you up as well. “You want me to be inside of you, hm? Okay, sure. But don’t complain when I finish inside of you.”

Yukimiya: honestly, Yukimiya has no clue what kind of needy gaze you’re directing towards him, his entire focus is on soccer - he’s just elated and honoured to know you’re there watching him at all. This, obviously, changes when he walks over to you when it’s time for his break - immediately he can tell something is up with you… The way you’re cravingly looking at him, pupils dilated and hazy, makes him burn up to the tips of his ears, a very noticeable blush overtaking his face. He clears his throat as he comes up to you, wanting to say something about your… ardent state… but unable to, so after a moment he simply distracts himself by drinking his water, trying to ignore the eager appetite of your infatuated gaze. And within the span of a few moments, Yukimiya finds himself hunched over, violently choking. What? Did you really just say what he thinks you just did? Something like… like… that? However, as bluntly… lewd… as he found your words to be, he couldn’t help the sudden rush in his bloodstream, the way his heart pounds in his ears. The idea that you need him so intimately, that you said something like that to him, a dreamy tilt to your voice… It drives him crazy with an obsession to turn you submissive and pliant under his ministrations, to worship you and fill you up with exactly what you wished for. Languidly stretch you out with a slow passion, keenly watch your expressions thaw into pleasure and twist into need as you moan and whimper for more of him. And he’ll give you everything you’ll ask for, leisurely dragging his hips, trying to drag out this moment between the two of you for as long as possible, because gosh, he could just feel eternity at the ends of his fingertips right then and there. But alas, eternity is nothing if not humanity’s fantasy, and he’ll start speeding up as you start chanting his name. You’ll hold him close like a promise, and he’ll fall apart inside of you like a heathen turned believer, groaning your name softly as he finishes inside the warmth of your heaven. His throat still burns from all the coughing, and although you’re by his side, looking worried as you voice your concern, he can’t meet your eyes at all as he keeps turning away, unwilling and unable to make eye-contact. He can’t, not when his mind is still filled with such lewd fantasies of having you - it makes him feel like he’ll pounce if he turns and looks into your eyes as you look at him with genuine concern. So he mumbles something about going back to practice, jogging away from you, effectively escaping the situation. But the human mind is a tricky thing, and his proves to be a prison. A prison full of erotic visuals and thoughts about you. A horny jail, as you’d probably say, right? Did he use that one right…? He doesn’t know, but any attempts in distracting himself fail, and as his practice comes to an end, he comes to a clear conclusion; he needs to take you home and have you, right now.

PHEW, I finished up five charas for this over two days… And with that, this series has officially come to an end as well! Kekeke! I hope you guys enjoyed this one as well! I certainly had a lot of fun with maaaaany of these the reactions are too funny 🤭🤭🤭

#ALSO I thought I'd enjoy writing Rin the most in this last part #but lmfao Karasu's?? omg?? 😭😭😭#that man is... phew #the shaky thigh jolting detail and the overstimulated whimper detail I hold close to my heart #Karasu and Yoichi would 100% be fans of it #The feeling of having your thighs tremble and shake around them after an orgasm?? Fabulous. And the overstimulated whimper?#Oh they're going for another round alright #especially Yoichi #that man doesn't have as much restraint during or right after sex like he likes to think he does...#blue lock #bllk #bllk x reader #bllk smut #sae itoshi x y/n #itoshi sae #sae itoshi #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae x reader #itoshi sae smut #itoshi sae x you #itoshi rin x you #blue lock rin itoshi #itoshi rin x reader #rin itoshi x reader #itoshi rin #bllk karasu #karasu tabito #karasu x reader #karasu x you #karasu smut

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bakudekublogblog · 4 months

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i'm sorry i dont think we're talking enough about the bkdk music video. they wrote a whole song full of yearning lyrics and holding hands and longing to be at each other's sides and miscommunicating but still wanting to be together, and then they put child actors in bkdk colors and hand them playing super heroes and holding hands. like bkdks were just given that. an official bkdk song and music video. hello????

#bakudeku #bkdk #i can't stop watching it they wrote a whole yearning bkdk song #EVERY LYRIC IS SO DEVESTATING #WE WILL NEVER BE ONE BUT CAN I STILL STAND BY YOUR SIDE #THESE FLOWERS CANT BLOOM WITHOUT YOU #we misunderstood each other but my wish cries out STILL #the little color coded bakudeku playing as children #WITH A TREMBLING VOICE #I"M REACHING OUT TO YOU WILL YOU HOLD MY HAND #cool #your face is the source of my energy #COOL COOL COOL #normal rival things hashtag so my heart is crying with your pain #can i at least be by your side even if we cannot understand each other #THE CAPITAL Y YEARNING IS FUCKING INSANE #LIKE SO MUCH YEARNING I AM LIKE GONNA BE SHAKING FOR DAYS

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rxmqnova · 10 months

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Natasha: I just feel like I have a future with Wanda.

Y/N: So I can tell her you don't really know how to cook?

Natasha: Not if you wanna have a future.

#source: shake it up #natasha romanoff #incorrect marvel quotes #marvel incorrect quotes #black widow #incorrect quotes #natasha romanoff incorrect quotes #natasha x reader #natasha x y/n #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x you #natasha x wanda #natasha romanoff x you #wandanat #scarlet widow #natasha x daughter!reader #natasha romanoff x daughter!reader

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ghost-proofbaby · 2 years

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twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR TEN

in which you and eddie find out just how much can happen on the roof of a parking garage. a scary criminal could show up, a phone call could interrupt important moments, a bit could go too far, and... marriage vows could be exchanged?

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, one (1) use of y/n, minors dni

→ wc: 8k+

→ a/n: if this is bad don't hmu. i returned to my wordy girl roots. also shout out to @br0ck-eddie and @big-ope-vibes for beta reading this for me <3

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

10:00 ─────ㅇ──────────── 24:00

HOUR TEN - 1:00 AM

Eddie is an erratic driver, which you should have known, but it doesn’t make you any less scared as he takes the empty curves of each street with intense speed. It doesn’t make you loosen your grip as you press into him as tightly as possible, practically molding your body to his.

You’re just grateful he was right – you didn’t see another soul for the entirety of the five minute drive. And if you did, you would have been mortified for them to see the way you clung to him.

His secondary location is a parking garage. If it were anyone else, if it were even so much as Eddie from ten hours before, sirens would be going off in your head and screaming for you to run as far as possible from this situation.

You don’t. Because it’s Eddie, and it’s Eddie being kind and flirty and civil. A new version of Eddie, and a new version of you.

You sit still and polite as he navigates the bike through a gap in the gate, the perfect size for a motorcycle to fit.

He keeps driving in circles, nearly making you dizzy, going up up up the parking garage levels until the ceiling breaks and you catch sight of the night sky again. The stars are more visible this high up, above the buzz of the city, closer to the atmosphere in altitude.

“Still alive back there?” he calls out as he cuts the engine, coming to a stop in one of the darker corners of the top level. You tell yourself it’s for practicality – if any sort of security happened upon this level, the two of you would remain hidden.

“Mhm,” you hum just loud enough for him to hear you through the helmet, arms aching from how tightly you continue to hold onto him.

If either of your hands were to slip, you’d graze against his partially exposed torso. Your fingers would make contact with his hips, would trace the expanse of curves and softness, possibly find their way to the trail of sparse hair down the center of his stomach.

It’s enough to make you fist his shirt into both hands, just to prevent that outcome.

“You sure?” he twists his body to look at you, and as he does, a hand comes up to rest on one of your arms.

It’s just a hand, and it’s just an arm. It’s just skin on skin. It’s nothing to call home about; Robin has grabbed your forearm plenty of times out of unbridled excitement, Steve has held onto it to guide you through crowds without losing you countless times, even Nancy has held your arm there before. None of them ever burned you before.

Maybe it’s not that Eddie’s touch scorns you, it’s not his palm kissed with flames. When his skin closes over yours, it only focuses your fire. That’s why it sears, that’s why it leaves your skin nothing but hot coals.

You burn for him.

“I’m positive,” your breath threatens to fog up the glass visor from the inside, “How do I get off this thing?”

He chuckles, and the hand holding your arm trails down, passing each of your knuckles with the press of a fingertip, drenched in intention. There is no reason for his touch to linger. There is no reason for him to draw roadmaps over your skin – it isn’t his to mark. And yet, the ashen lines appear all the same to you.

“Just swing off. I’ll stay sitting to balance the bike.”

You unravel your arms from around him, leaning your chest away from his back and immediately missing the proximity. You miss it as you clutch his shoulders, you miss it as you lift off the bike, you miss it as you stumble ever so slightly with your feet planted on concrete, and his hand shoots out to your hip in an effort to balance you.

It was an earnest effort, a casual touch, absolutely nothing but innocence in his fingertips as they wrap around your hip for a mere second before retracting. That doesn’t stop it from being gasoline on your fire.

He stands off of the bike unaware of the effect he’s continuing to have on you, pulling the keys from the ignition and popping the kickstand with such cruel casualty it begins to drive you insane.

“You need help with the helmet, or is it just part of your look now?” Eddie inquires as he walks around the back of the bike to stand in front of you.

The fucking smirk and the fucking dimples and the fucking eyes and the fucking-

“I need help,” you deadpan, playing into his game of cat and mouse. You’re willing to see how far you can push this until it breaks, is he? “You put it on me – you take it off.”

Your mind wanders to his comment, his threat, earlier. How if you didn’t get ready to come here, he’d undress you himself.

If him taking off this helmet is the closest you will ever get to that, so be it. It’ll give you something to think about tomorrow night in the comfort of your own bed.

Eddie shrugs happily, taking a step forward and carefully reaching out both hands to either side of the helmet. He’s slow in lifting it off, certainly just being careful and mindful of not hurting you, but it sends you hurtling even further to insanity. Inch by inch, the night’s cool air creeps up over your chin, over your cheeks, over the bridge of your nose. Your eyes flutter shut somewhere in the process.

When the helmet is fully removed, you keep your eyes shut. You wait for the shuffle of Eddie stepping back from you. You anticipate a comment on the state of your hair, your surely disastrous ‘helmet head’.

Neither comes. Instead, a warm breath hits your now cold cheek.

Your eyes open to find Eddie standing impossibly close to you. All downcast amber as his eyes trace over your face steadily, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips that remain slightly agape with each puffing breath. You don’t think he’s even recognized the way you had closed your eyes, nor the moment you’d opened them to catch him memorizing you up close.

“Eddie?” your voice cracks with the questioning, his name heavy on your tongue, “Is… Is everything okay?”

When his brown eyes meet yours, gilded honey and roasted chestnuts, they make your breath catch.

He nods with trepidation before breathing out, “Yeah. Everything’s…”

His words trail off, fading out into the buzz of the night surrounding you. The sounds of a city that never sleeps – distant sirens, a one-off car alarm, the random chirping of a bird, the beeping of a crosswalk signal. They all meld together into white noise, none of the singular components discernible. They’re nothing more than a background to the way Eddie is looking at you.

He raises a hand suddenly, still leaning in at a creeping pace, and tentatively reaches out to carefully tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. As his fingers curl into the skin behind your ear, lingering for far too long, the heel of his palm brushes your cheek.

You lean into it. Your face turns ever so slightly, eyes beginning to flutter again, desperately seeking out his touch. Enticing him to break, to cup your face fully, to give you more than you deserve in this moment.

Because he’s looking at you as if he’s about to kiss you. His eyes are flickering to your lips as you give in to futile want and heedless need, continuing to lean into his feathered touch, and you’re sure he’s about to kiss you. And you’re sure that you’ll let him.

His chest heaves just as painfully as yours. His pupils widen larger than yours, if possible. You watch an internal war rage behind his eyes, and you’re begging the part of him that wants you, wants this, to come out the victor. You want him to abandon all sensibility as you have.

Fuck civility. Fuck nuclear explosions. Fuck ocean waves. Fuck forest fires. Fuck friendship.

You’re past the point of return. All you want from him is his lips on your lips.

“Baby,” he whispers, a sickly sweet prayer falling from his lips, not a single ounce of malice soaked into the nickname. It’s not sweetheart. It’s not uttered in the same playful cadence as when he said it as he started up the bike. It’s not him teasing you. It’s a plea, a beg – he’s begging something of you that you’re too far gone to recognize.

But you hum in response, not knowing what he’s asking of you, opening your eyes as wide as you can manage in your moment of weakness, recognizing that his palm now fully cups your cheeks as his fingertips lazily press into your hairline. He’s closer now, leaning over you and covering you in his shadow, multiplying the darkness you reside in.

His nose bumps against yours. The oxygen you breathe in is replaced by his breath. He’s close, so terribly close, yet still so far. You’re tempted to finish the distance, but you need him to come to you. You need him to want this as much as you do, if not more.

You need to be the ocean this time. Because if you come to him, you’ll drown. You’ll descend to his darkest depths, and never find yourself above the surface again. Irreparable, collateral damage to yourself. All for wanting a man you’d claimed to hate ten hours prior.

Eddie’s freehand is grazing your hip, prepared to curl around you with force this time, to pull you into him and kiss you until the two of you are left bloodied and bruised, when your phone rings.

Both of you jump. In an instant, the closeness is lost – his hand leaves your cheek and hair, your eyes fully open, both of you stand awkwardly and flustered in the light shadows.

“I-” you don’t know what to say, hands shaking as you reach into your pocket and wretch out your phone.

JOHNNY BOY.

Jonathan is calling you, and you don’t know whether you want to commit a federal crime against him or your phone. Or maybe yourself.

You swear you can taste Eddie despite your lips never touching his. You can still feel the weight of his palm against you.

He has to take the phone from you, this time only because you’re holding it so tightly, glaring down at it so indignantly, he’s scared you might break it.

His thumb that once rested against your skin so gently is gliding across the screen, answering the call and putting it on speaker. “Hello?”

“Hey! Eddie!” Jonathan’s voice happily calls out, and it does nothing to chip away at your fruitless fury.

He was going to kiss you, and now he can’t even look you in your eyes.

“Are you both there right now? Or is she asleep?” Jonathan continues over the line.

You finally break your silence, “I’m here. We’re both here.”

“Where are you dudes?” A second voice from Jonathan’s side of the call asks, and you recognize that warm tone immediately. Argyle.

He won’t look at you. His gaze is sturdy on the phone, as if this wasn’t just a regular phone call but a video chat, as if there’s something more interesting being reflected in the screen compared to your currently desperate face.

You want to scream at him to hang up the phone. You want to beg him to throw the damn device over the wall behind the two of you and let it fall to the street, let it shatter and let the deal be damned just so you can feel his lips on yours and taste the sweetness of his tongue.

You just want to scream, honestly. Like a child. Stomp your foot, let out a fitful shriek, and pull the boy back into you.

You don’t. Partially because you’re grown, and partially because he won’t look at you.

There’s a doubt that creeps up as Eddie says something to the two boys on the line, a shadow of doubt that is darker than the night sky hanging above you two. Maybe Eddie didn’t want this. Maybe he’d just gotten lost in the moment, and now he felt ashamed.

The scream is left in your lungs, and the blooms on your vines quiver from the insecurity its residency radiates.

“Alright,” Eddie suddenly chuckles, pulling you back into the conversation, “So, uh, did you guys call for anything else besides playing babysitter?”

“No, that’s… all,” there’s hesitation in Jonathan’s voice, words unspoken that finally makes Eddie look up to catch your gaze.

Brown eyes meet yours – you burst into flames like it’s the first time.

The shadow of doubt eviscerates in the glow of the flames, the glow of your cheeks, as you watch him take you in with careful consideration. There’s no regret in those eyes, only remarkable care. A connection, a string tying you to him, the knots first set in place that night amongst friends.

He’s looking at you like the Eddie you thought to be dead and gone.

“You sure about that?” his tone is teasing, but his face is set in stone, eyes never leaving yours, “Sounds like you’ve got more to say, Byers.”

Argyle is the one who speaks up now, “It’s not that, it’s just… The photo you dudes sent is on your motorcycle. Are you even at your apartment right now?”

“Oh, absolutely. We actually only went outside to have a photoshoot on old Nightfury here. We’re currently safely tucked into bed, don’t worry, dudes.”

Eddie’s finally cracking a grin at you, and through it you’re transported to the past. Before you is a man of possibility, someone not yet an enemy. There’s a blank page set out before the two of you, and he’s wielding the pen like a weapon to be seen.

Nightfury? You mouth at him.

He blushes in response.

Oh, you’re definitely bringing that up after this phone call. Fuck talking about the almost kiss.

“Why do you sound so sarcastic?” Argyle questions, “Are you lying to us?”

“Argy- Yes, he’s lying. Christ, where is she? Put her on the phone instead,” Jonathan sounds entertainingly frustrated at the moment, and you take a step forward, palm reaching out for your cell.

Eddie doesn’t hand it over, head tilted at you, his youth breaking through the shadows that sharpen his jaw, “No can do, boss. Already tossed her body into the canals.”

“You what-” Jonathan’s voice is shrill, and Eddie bites back his laughter as he remembers that Steve is the only one in on that inside joke amongst the three of you.

“He’s lying,” you finally call out, taking another step closer, “I’m fine. He’s… it’s a joke. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay. But are you guys actually at the apartment, or not?”

“We’re not,” your honesty has Eddie playfully scowling.

I hope you kiss me when this is over. I hope you berate me for not playing along, and I hope you press me against the cold concrete behind us, and I hope you kiss me until I can’t breathe.

The version of yourself from ten hours ago is practically wailing on the floor, kicking and screaming in defeat. You don’t even care. You can admit it – you want Eddie Munson to kiss you. You don’t have to say it out loud, you don’t have to voice that want quite yet. It’s enough for your beating heart to silently admit it and accept the truth.

“Then where are you two? Jesus Christ.”

Eddie opens his mouth to answer, but you’re shaking your head with warning, knowing he’ll only lie and make things worse, “Some parking garage. Don’t worry about it.”

“Some parking gar- are you two fucking stupid? It’s one in the morning, go home,” Jonathan’s using a brotherly voice you’ve only had the pleasure of hearing on rare occasions – usually when you’ve joined him, Steve, and Robin out at the bars, and the latter two have drank well beyond their limits.

“We know what time it is,” Eddie scoffs. Now that he’s set his stare on you, he’s unrelenting. He keeps you in his line of vision as if you’re a buoy in his ocean, as if he’s capable of getting lost in his own waves.

Hopefully he is. If you can’t be an ocean to him, you hope he has to suffer in his own depths.

“We’re being safe,” you assure the two boys over the line. If you took one more step, you would brush up against Eddie. Shoulder to shoulder, cotton sleeve against leather sleeve. You don’t, but the thought still thrills you.

“Safe?” Jonathan is now scoffing, making Eddie twist his face in annoyance, which makes you want to laugh. He’s getting a taste of his own medicine. “Do you two even know our city’s crime levels? Eddie, I’ve seen you in fights, you cannot-”

“First of all, you’ve seen me in drunken fights,” Eddie snaps in interruption, finally looking down at the phone he holds, “I can throw a fucking punch when I haven’t drank my body weight in whiskey. Second of all, we’re fine. I’m sure if I can’t take whatever big, scary criminal that comes our way, little miss independent here can. She’s scarier than we give her credit for.”

Silence. You almost don’t notice the way Jonathan and Argyle have gone quiet as you’re still hung up on the nickname of little miss independent.

Eddie’s the one who steps closer this time. He glances around the empty rooftop of the parking garage, and he takes a microscopic step closer to you. It’s more of a shuffle, really, but it’s enough for your shoulders to finally brush.

“Shit, man,” Argyle is sighing over the line, as you stare at the ground and Eddie stares at you, “Nance was right.”

Eddie freezes. There’s a choking sound from the phone, and it sounds an awful lot like Jonathan.

Nance was… right?

“What was Nance right about?” you ask, looking up to Eddie quickly. You expect him to be just as confused as you are but he looks petrified.

If all his blood hadn’t drained from his expression, he’d surely be blushing. But he’s stark pale beneath the moonlight, eyes glued to the screen as if Argyle could see his death stare over the line. He looks like a man caught red-handed. You have to look over his palms, the one holding your phone as well as the one quickly being shoved awkwardly into his pocket, just to double check that the skin there isn’t painted maroon.

“What was Nancy right about?” you repeat yourself, but the question is less directed at the phone now. You don’t care about Argyle or Jonathan’s answer – you care about Eddie’s, “What did she sa-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jonathan interrupts, “We’ve gotta go, but there’s no need for you guys to send a photo this hour. We, uh, we’re the only ones awake probably, so… consider this your official hourly check in. Please, stay safe.”

“Talk later, my dudes!” Argyle yells in the background.

The line goes dead. The black screen returns to flash both yours and Eddie’s face in the reflection. One looks overexposed, left out in the light for far too long, and the other looks shadowed, as if having been left behind in the dark.

You’ve been left in the dark. Whatever just happened between the three boys, you’re clueless to it.

You have to put your hand out for Eddie to give back the phone, still looking far more nervous than he was before the phone call. All the cocky attitude, all the hints of teasing, all the almost kisses are gone.

Now’s a perfect opportunity to grill him on what Nancy said. He obviously knows, and if you were smart, you’d dig your heels in and force an explanation from it. You deserve answers; after an exchange of apologies and a quiet acceptance from both of you at giving this a real chance tonight, you deserve to not be left as the odd one out still.

“Why is your bike named Nightfury?”

Except it’s not the perfect opportunity. If you ask him now, he’ll deny knowing anything about it. You’ve learned a lot about Eddie in the last ten hours, and the major discovery has been the way in which he uncurls pieces of himself for your eyes only. He is slow and shy in being observed, and he won’t offer honesty when put on the spot like that.

If you change the topic, if you let it slide, he might tell you on his own time. You’re praying he tells you on his own time.

He looks taken back by your question, watching as you tuck your phone away into the pocket of his sweats that rest on your hips, “What?”

“You mentioned your bike’s name is Nightfury,” you shrug nonchalantly, “Is it some superhero reference I’m not getting? It’s fitting, but I just… I don’t know. I’m intrigued, I guess.”

“Superhero reference? Uh, no, not quite,” he scrunches up his face, and you recall the weight of his palm on your cheek. The almost taste of his lips almost on yours, “It’s- Jesus Christ, now I wish it was a superhero reference. The truth is so lame.”

You break a smile and bump your shoulder against his, trying to shake the racing of your heart, “Can’t be more lame than all your action figures back home.”

“Didn’t you say they were actually cool?”

“I actually called them creepy, if I’m recalling correctly.”

The two of you move as a unit, gliding over to the concrete ledge that over looks the city, simultaneously leaning your full body weight onto your forearms as Eddie digs out a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket’s pocket.

He catches you eyeballing them, and immediately shakes his head, tapping the top of the carton against the palm of his hand (the same palm that was once cradling your face so gently), “I’m not sharing my cigs. Fuck off.”

There’s no malice, and that’s probably the only reason that, once he’s pulled his own cigarette out of the pack and discarded it onto the concrete in front of the two of you, you immediately shoot a hand out to take one. You await for him to snap at you, to smack your hand away, to repeat himself.

He stays silent as you pull one for yourself. Offers his lighter, even, once the end of his glows cherry red.

You wish he would just lean over and occupy your space again, cup his hand around the end of the cigarette that is dangerously close to your cheek, let the flint fueled flame flicker between you as your gasoline fueled embers sparked to life again. You wish, you wish, and you wish. And he doesn’t. He doesn’t even meet your eyes as you pass the lighter back and inhale the smoke.

You hold it until his fingertips brush the palm of your hand, before you exhale sharply.

“It’s from How to Train Your Dragon.”

You have your cigarette halfway to your mouth, leaving it hovering as you side-eye him, “What?”

“Nightfury. It’s from the movie, How to Train Your Dragon. The, uh, main dragon, Toothless, is a Nightfury.”

Oh, Jesus Christ. You already wanted to kiss him badly enough, already found your defenses drooping limply when it came to him, and then he had to go and say shit like that.

“You named your motorcycle,” you start slowly, tilting your head in his direction, “After an animated movie? Cute, although I don’t think scary metalheads like yourself were the intended audience.”

Your words make the corners of his mouth twitch. Smoke curls out from the center of his lips, puckered in consideration as he turns his gaze to the buildings towering around you. “I’m a massive nerd who holds a weekly D&D club and collects mythical creature figurines. I am exactly their intended audience.”

“You have a D&D club?”

You’ve learned a lot about Eddie tonight. And yet, every new discovery you uncover continues to surprise you.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” he laughs quietly into the night air, “You saw the inside of my apartment, did you really not see the whole Dungeons and Dragons bit coming?”

You shrug, still watching him watch the city, “I… I don’t know. Contrary to belief, I really don’t know much about you. A shame, really.”

“Are you trying to say you’d like to know more about me, sweetheart?”

Yes. “God, no. I think I’ve had my fill of Eddie Munson Jeopardy for the night, thank you very much.”

You want to know the name of his band, you want him to ramble on about the game you know nothing about, you want him to elaborate more on his love for How to Train Your Dragon. You’re brimming with wants, overflowing your cup with curiosity. He shouldn’t intrigue you this way. It’s dangerous – you don’t know where you’ll put all this information when the night ends and you two part ways, both five hundred dollars richer and returning to the hatred that had been established.

Was it even hatred anymore? Or had it morphed into a softened version of itself, something more akin to indifference?

“Hey, Eddie,” you watch your cigarette burn away at itself, think of it like your insides as the flecks of ash fly off into the wind of their own accord, “What happens after tonight?”

You’ve caught him off guard; he’s not expecting the question, and it occurs to you he’s just as unsure as you are.

He doesn’t know where to go from here either.

“I dunno,” he murmurs. His arm shifts, and the hand that has his cigarette tucked between the fingers is now resting beside your own, “What do you want to happen after tonight?”

I want everything to change. I want to laugh with you again. I want to see you when we’re out with our friends and for you to smile instead of scowl.

You just shrug, and it makes your shoulders brush again, his leather crinkling against the movement, “Nothing has to change. We can… We can pretend it was all a bad dream, if you want. Although I’m definitely referring to your motorcycle as Toothless from now on.”

“No one will believe you,” he scoffs, ignoring your comment on nothing changing. But the curl of his lips had faded instantaneously, a subtle change that would have been missed if you weren’t watching him so closely. But you were. You noticed. You’d probably never be able to not notice. Even when he returns to scowling, even when he’s returned to the bottom of his ocean and you’re left with legs too weak to continue kicking in an effort to keep you afloat, “But… yeah. Yeah, it can all just be a…. Dream.”

Dream. Not a bad dream, just a dream.

“It’s weird that we don’t have to take a photo, right?” you’re quick to change the subject, to avoid deep diving into his implications.

It should give him whiplash, but he seems completely unaffected as he waves a hand around the open air in front of you two, “Not really. But we could still take one, if you want, though. Just for us.”

Just for us. A stolen moment and a blanket of security that this night existed, that it wasn’t just a shared fever dream and that it was all real. The Eddie you first met still exists six feet under, you two managed civility, and it was real.

“We could,” you agree, a bit too eager for your liking, “I mean, it’s a pretty view. We shouldn’t waste it.”

He doesn’t comment on the fact that he’s mentioned he comes here often, that this is a space he finds himself running to, just like the bar. He bites his tongue just as he had when you’d stolen a cigarette for yourself. A cigarette now wasted, because you hadn’t taken another drag in far too many minutes.

The hand that rested beside yours so casually inches closer, pinkies beginning to overlap. “Exactly.”

Your hand shakes the entire time as you reach into your pocket and produce the phone, as you hover the camera to perfectly capture your two hands and the cars that are so small in comparison on the streets below. Overlapping pinkies become hooked, twisted together, and you’re not sure if it was you or Eddie that took that final step.

You leave the flash off as two cigarettes glow orange like a sunset, like the ending to a beginning you’ve been hurtling towards at full force with Eddie this entire night.

It’s a nice photo.

Eddie lowly whistles as he glances over at the screen and the barely blurry photo displayed, “That’s a good one. We’ve gotta put it in the scrapbook, for sure.”

“The scrapbook?” you giggle, still memorizing every detail of the moment frozen in time, “What are we going to call it? ‘The Night Y/N and Eddie Didn’t Hate Each Other’?”

“The name can be a work in progress. After all, the night is still young. Maybe murder is still on the table and it can get shown on our Dateline special.”

You snort, and he grins. Your pinkies are still interlocked.

“Imagine the name of that episode. Just Keith Morrison narrating our greatest hits,” you muse as the breeze picks up around the two of you. It’s nice, cool and relieving from the flames that have been building and creeping up your wrist.

Both cigarettes are wasting away now; neither of you are willing to let go of the contact long enough to properly smoke them.

It’s as if he’s noticing it, too, as he curls his hold even tighter, a subtle squeeze you return without thinking. It’s just a small touch, a miniscule connection between the two of you, but it feels bigger than anything before. It’s larger than the almost kiss, it’s larger than his apology, it’s larger than everything. That’s what it is – it’s nothing in the grand scheme of things, but it’s everything to you. A rebuilding and rekindling of all the paths not taken.

Eddie pulls you from everything suddenly, not by pulling away his pinky, but by putting on his best Keith Morrison impression, “Two enemies, one apartment, an unfortunate series of city canals. Hatred is a fine line to dance, but just how far can one young woman go when a twenty-two year old man takes things too far. Tonight, on Dateline…”

Your free hand shoves at his shoulders, and his pinky clings stiffly to yours to keep his balance, “Shut up! Why am I the one murdering you? I’m a helpless woman! If anyone’s getting murked, it’s me.”

“Oh please, sweetheart, that’s exactly why you’d be the one to get away with it! No one suspects the sweet college girl who lives in the dorm down the hall to murder the big, bad wolf,” he cackles, returning to lean into your space tauntingly as he sets the scene, “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t throw my ass into those canals if given the chance.”

I wouldn’t. “I’m about ten seconds away from it.”

“Yeah?”

No. “Yeah.”

“Well, that’s hot.”

You remember his whimpers from the bathroom suddenly, and bloom into color. Instead of answering his banter, you bite your lip and look harshly down at your conjoined hands. Pinky in pinky, cigarettes dying down together. The burning end has neared where your fingers clench on the filter, and you tell yourself that that’s the source of the heat coursing through your body. It has to be, because it certainly can be the effect of Eddie. Eddie, touching himself. Eddie, moaning. Eddie, definitely not stubbing his toe.

Flames and oceans, you remind yourself, flames and oceans do not mix. Can not mix.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks with certainty, the cadence in his voice fading into something of serious discussion. The playfulness is still there, just more subdued, “And can it… not cause some big fight between us this time?”

Well, that can’t be good. “Go for it.”

“I told you why I hate you, so… why do you hate me?”

You understand his request immediately; it’s a loaded question, no doubt.

Why do I hate you?

For the life of you, you can’t pinpoint an exact moment. And unlike Eddie, you’re willing to tell him the truth, you want to reward him with honesty. The time of avoidant answers has passed for you, and you want to bare your soul to him in a peculiar sense.

“I- Okay, I don’t know exactly why,” you begin, considering finally disconnecting your pinky from his before deciding against it, “So I’ll talk you through it, but no interruptions, okay?”

“Okay. I’d pinky swear, but, y’know,” he raises your hands into the air ever-so-slightly, acknowledging the position he’s put you two in for the first time in the entire conversation.

You both laugh at the sentiment before you continue on.

“I’d like to preface this with the fact I know you won’t tell me the truth about this, even the others can’t tell me the truth about it, so don’t think of this as me seeking out answers. I’m the one offering an explanation, not you. So…just…” you take a sharp breath in and catch his eyebrows shooting up into his bangs from the corner of your eyes. You can’t look at him head on, a lingering fear of showing this type of vulnerability with him being impossible to shake, “That first night we met. You were nice, right? You were nice, we got along, and then… Then I went to the bathroom. And I came back, and suddenly, you… you weren’t nice. You weren’t quite mean, not yet, but you certainly weren’t acting the same anymore. And I don’t know why you changed, I don’t care,” An absolute lie. You cared. You cared so assiduously, far more than you should, to know why, “But after that, you were just… cold, I guess? And it all built up. I thought it was a game at first, I gave up trying to be friends and decided whatever was happening between us might be normal. You’d give short answers, so I gave short answers. You’d insult me or make fun of me, so I’d insult you or make fun of you. It was just a game. Until you got mean.”

A siren flashes by on the street below, and you can’t even make out the sound of his breathing. Now feels like a good time to pull away your pinky, to take a final drag of your cigarette, to leave behind his burning touch. The moment you try, he completely traps your finger between his pinky and ring finger.

He’s not letting you go without a fight.

You’re tired of fighting him.

“I actually think it took me a while to really hate you back, y’know? I think I was still holding onto this... this childish hope that you didn’t mean to be cruel. Or that you were just jealous of me intruding on your friend group – you told me yourself that you guys go all the way back to high school. I was this invader, and I excused your cruelty for a really long time because of it, because I told myself I understood. But then… six months ago, I stopped understanding. I had to admit defeat and hate you because you didn’t give me much of a choice.”

“Steve’s party.”

He says it so quietly, you almost miss it. He sounds remorseful, he sounds sad, he sounds regretful, he sounds mournful.

“Steve’s party,” you confirm just as quietly. Your pinky is slack against his as his grip finally loosens, “That night, everything you said… It finally felt personal. From the minute I got there, you were just… awful. You knew exactly where to hit me when I was down. And it took me shattering Steve’s poor glass to realize you really do hate me. You hate me, so I hate you.”

It’s out there, the truth – your only reason for hating Eddie Munson was because he hated you. It was based on a worthless principle. Born out of necessity, you had forced yourself to hate the man who currently has your pinky wrapped around his, who had pledged his protection over you with the same mouth that had claimed he’d never miss you if you evaporated from his life.

The hate would always be there. It wouldn’t wash away with his waves, and it wouldn’t turn to ash from your flames. You couldn’t get your hopes up that one night could fix it all.

“I was a dick that night. I know I’ve already said sorry but… I’m sorry,” he finds his reply in the darkness, in a hushed tone. Quiet and ridden with shame.

His pinky falls even more slack with yours as if he’s silently offering to let you go, as if the memory of what he’d done is enough to remind him you aren’t his to keep. But you’ve already given up the fight – your pinky stays with his.

“You were a dick,” you agree, “But I know you’re sorry now, it’s just a matter of… accepting it. Letting it go. I’ve not exactly been innocent in this. Remember Chrissy Cunningham?”

He laughs dryly, clearly recalling the blonde you’d caught him out on a date with.

“Jesus, fuck. Yeah, I remember Chris. I never did get a second date.”

“Because of me,” you try to tease, doing as he would and leaning your bicep into his.

He nods, “Because of you.”

You’d been extra spiteful that night. It was before Steve’s party, even. The moment you’d seen them in that booth, Chrissy giggling far too much at each of what had to have been Eddie’s terrible jokes, watching her perfectly manicured hand settle on his shoulder, you had been out for blood.

You’d approached them, and made Chrissy believe Eddie was already your husband. You’d even switched one of the rings on your right hand to your left ring finger. An entire debacle had been made in that diner, and Eddie looked ready to murder you when Chrissy had left and murmured something about ‘calling him later’ as you continued to credit him for being an absolute cheater.

She never did call. You must have really sold the entire lie with your crocodile tears.

“I was a bitch that night,” you supply as you let your cigarette finally drop from between your fingers, hitting the concrete as it begins to sizzle out, “So… I’m sorry. And we’re even.”

Eddie steals his cigarette into his other hand and takes a final drag before he properly puts it out, “Looking back now, it’s kind of fucking funny. Seriously. Did you know I knew her in high school?”

You don’t expect his lighthearted response, but you take it in full stride with a squeeze from your pinky, “What?”

“Yup. She never gave me the time of day back then. And after our date, I found out she’d been already trying to get back with her on-again, off-again boyfriend from back then,” he shrugs, turning to glance at you, “Guess I wasn’t the cheater.”

“Jesus, I’m sorr-”

“Don’t. Don’t apologize for her. Apologize for the fact you never even signed a prenup with me, or invited me to our wedding, wife.”

That makes you break. You both laugh so hard you have no choice but to relinquish your hold on each other, bringing your hands up to laugh freely into your palms.

“I am so sorry, my dear husband,” you taunt, “Maybe I’ll remember to invite you to the renewal of our vows in five years time.”

“Five years?” he crinkles his nose, shaking his head harshly, nearly tearing his curls from his makeshift bun, “Fuck that. I never even got to say my vows the first time. You owe me a wedding, princess.”

“You never bought me a ring.”

“My bad,” you barely squeak out before you succumb to even more laughter. Eddie’s dimples shine as he joins you, looking to the ground as his shoulders shake.

He sighs deeply once the two of you compose yourselves, turning and leaning his back onto the ledge, staring out at the empty parking lot, “Where should we have our honeymoon? I’m thinking the diner would consider hosting us, even after your fiasco.”

“The diner?” you feign offense and mimic his position, “Fuck that,” you parrot his words right back, “You’re taking me to Paris, pretty boy.”

It’s a deliberate choice; the nickname doesn’t slip carelessly this time. It’s said with a conviction that makes Eddie blush, that makes him look at you with dark eyes.

“Pretty boy and sweetheart,” he mumbles, gaze flickering down your face, “We make quite the odd married couple. I don’t know how they’d feel about us in Europe.”

“They’d certainly stop and stare at first glance,” you play along, still giggling quietly, “But I think then they’d see just how in love we obviously are and just….” you pause and let your eyes flutter shut for dramatic effect, not catching sight of the way he suddenly melts for you, “Swoon.”

You don’t see it, but he’s looking at you like he’s about to kiss you again.

“Here,” he suddenly says, fiddling with his fingers when you snap your eyes back open, “Allow me, Edward Munson, to vow myself to you…. Uh….” he pauses as he realizes he doesn’t know your full name, and so you jokingly lean in and whisper it to him as if you aren’t the only two up here. He repeats it back as if he’d always known it, and you’re both back to giggling, “In sickness or in health. In hatred or in murder. In…. bets and from this day forward.”

He’s holding one of his rings, one decorated with a chunky skull, and motions for your hand. You offer it and allow him to slide the ring on with as much ease as he had slid the helmet onto you.

It fits a bit big, but you both look down at it as if it’s the world’s greatest gift.

“Wow,” you breathe out, your hand still cupped by his, “It’s certainly no diamond.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Allow me to just go to the twenty-four hour diamond shop and get something more to your taste, my beloved,” he goads, finally dropping your hand.

The metal is warm on the inner ring from his skin, searing into you just as his touch does.

“You sure know how to commit to a bit, Munson,” you murmur beneath your breath, lifting your hand to inspect the ring more closely. You’ve never paid much mind to his rings before, only ever knowing that they were there and they were a staple to his look.

“That I do, wife,” he grins widely, boyish in his suddenly shy stance, “You’re already wearing my sweats and my shirt, why not add the ring? Complete the look?”

“Complete the look,” you repeat and shake your head, shrugging, “Okay, fine. But just for tonight.”

Just for tonight, because after tonight, nothing changes. Your heart pangs at the thought but you don’t let your smile or joking demeanor fade with him.

“Of course, of course,” he waves the hand that is now one ring lighter, “Just for tonight. Come morning light, everything goes back to normal. No one has to know you spent the night married to me, sweetheart.”

“I mean, I’ve already moved in for the night,” you remark, looking up into his eyes, “We have moved quite quickly, haven’t we?”

“We have. All that’s left is consummating the marriage, or whatever,” he shimmies a shoulder into you, turning to face the motorcycle, “Speaking of home, we should get going before any scary criminals show up and you have to beat them up for me.”

Your cheeks are burning red, your hand is carrying his ring and flames, “Oh, I’m sorry. We are so not brushing right past the fact you know the word consummate.”

It’s easy. Being with him is easy, on fire or not. It is easier to enjoy him and joke with him, fall into civility with him, than to force yourself to hate him. You don’t care if tonight changes nothing for him; it changes everything for you.

“I’m brighter than I look, doll.”

It is easy to burn for him. For tonight, and for the rest of your life, quite possibly.

He picks the helmet up off of the seat and holds it out for you as you follow him, immediately making you grumble in protest as you take it without a fight.

You decide to take one last chance before the helmet separates the two of you again. One last way to tell him you don’t hate him, you don’t know if you ever hated him, you aren’t sure if you’ll ever hate him.

“You know, I think we skipped a step,” you flip the helmet, not meeting his eyes this time, mustering all your bravery, “Usually, you have to kiss your bride, then consummate the marriage.”

Quiet. He’s too quiet.

You’ve stunned him into silence, and you take it as a sign that you’ve gone too far. You’ve brought the almost kiss back up in the most indirect of ways, and you regret it immediately.

“I’m sorry,” you immediately try to rectify, “I- that was dumb. Bad joke. I… I’ll leave the bits to you.”

You don’t give him a chance to reply as you shove on the helmet, much less gracefully than he had put it on you, and wait for him to get on the bike.

No words are exchanged. You can’t see if he’s blushing through the tint of the visor. You convince yourself that he’s only tense as you climb onto the bike behind him because he’s uncomfortable now, because you’ve breached a limit you’d never even noticed.

Of course he wasn’t going to kiss you. Of course you shouldn’t have mentioned it, let alone joked about it. You’re an idiot. Even in civility, you’re an idiot.

He drives even faster to the apartment this time, which is dangerous considering you don’t grip him nearly as tightly.

A game of fate you should have realized is dangerous to play. It is dangerous to burn for him, because he does not burn for you. This fire is one-sided and self-destructive, and although it is easy, you should have known better. The hating him is safer than the wanting him. The fury is safer than the yearning. The glasses shattered were safer than the moments shattered.

You arrive back at the apartment. He parks the bike. You return the helmet to him.

You walk up the stairs ahead of him. You don’t speak to him. You twist the ring he gave you.

You keep your head down at the door. He rustles with his keys.

The burning is too easy. You should have known better.

But then, he says your name, keys still hanging from the lock of the door to apartment 2C.

You look up at him, and wonder if he sees your embers, clear as day. You wonder if he’s about to tell you to collect your things and inform the others that the bet is off, that the two of you will scrounge together the money you owe them and forget the night ever happened.

“Tonight changes nothing, right?” he questions once he has your full attention. You can only nod, ignoring the sharp pain of reality, “Nothing that happens tonight has to matter, right?”

You swallow hard. “Right.”

He’s the one nodding now, seemingly lost in thought.

This is it. This is the part it all ends.

“Great,” he finally concedes, voice raspy. You’re about to parrot back the sentiment when his hands are suddenly back in your hair, and his breath is back against your cheek, "Then fuck it."

This time, almosts don’t cut it. He kisses you, and he tastes like salt water as he meets your ash.

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#twenty four hours #my writing #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fic #i am nervous for this one jesus fuck #shaking as i post it but the show must go on!#gonna go offline for several hours now #or just simply read bluey's newest story hehe #no one look at me

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the-marshals-wife · 4 months

Text

Cinnamon Sugar (Colt Seavers x Reader)

─ ⋆⋅��⋅⋆ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⋅☆⋅ 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

A/N: A spontaneous Colt fic because I saw The Fall Guy again and I'm hopelessly in love. Someone needs to get this man his coffee, and it might as well be you. ♥

Description: Colt Seavers x Fem!Reader, flirty fluff | Warnings: nada, just Colt being the supportive sunshine he is | Setting: before Jody (or AU without) | Word count: 2,129 | Gif credit: user tay-swifts

Imagine being Colt's old flame and reuniting under unexpectedly sweet circumstances

As it turns out, production assistant was just a fancy name for errand girl. At least that seemed to be the case for you in the nearly two years you'd held the title. Yet after everything you'd been through to get here, you couldn't lose this job. Nearly an hour after you were supposed to, you haphazardly assembled the daily morning coffees for the sound crew on Stage B, and were now rushing like mad across set to make the first of many apologetic appearances for the day.

"Excuse me, sorry," you repeat nervously as you duck around people.

You'd overslept your alarm after staying up nearly all night printing a mountain of forms for the design director. Having never even eaten breakfast, you calculated if you also skipped lunch, you might be able to catch up to your usual routine. You weave between the tents as fast as your legs will carry you, trying not to bump into anyone and lose your cargo of caffeine.

As you cut the corner around a camera truck, you're fixated on the tray of beverages in your hands, and you don't see the person right in front of you. You collide at full speed.

The tray flies back into your chest. You gasp as the lids of two of the cups pop off and pour coffee all down the front of you and the poor soul you collided with. You recoil and frantically try to catch the other two cups, but you're unsteady from the impact. A strong hand grasps your arm and keeps you from tumbling completely to the ground as you attempt to regain your balance and find purchase in the loose gravel. Despite your efforts to recover, the tray and all its contents falls at your feet. You're left drenched and clinging to the arm that's gripping yours.

You gape down at the mess, frozen in horror.

"I am SO sorry," you begin shakily, "Oh my gosh, I'm so so sorry! I'm such a-"

The second you look up, it feels like time stops, along with your pounding heart. You would know those baby blues anywhere, even through the narrow visor of a helmet. He removes his headgear, and you stare in complete disbelief at the rugged, all-too-familiar face before you.

"Colt?"

"Y/N?"

He sounds equally stunned, his eyes filled with recognition.

"It's you," you breathe.

"It's you," he says, flashing a bewildered smile, "Are you alright? Did you get burned?"

"I'm fine. It was lukewarm anyway" you reply, embarrassed, "Are you okay?"

"Perfect," he nods distantly, "Long time."

"Yeah. Furious Seven set, right?"

"Close. Fate of the Furious," he recalls, "Summer 2016. Havana, and Atlanta."

"That's right. I can never keep the order straight."

"No one can," he laughs, lips twisting into a grin, "You look great."

"So do you," you smile.

Somehow, he'd gotten more handsome than the last time you met. Memories come flooding to the front of your dizzied mind. Many of hot summer nights spent by the pool, and even more of sneaking off together to the hotel rooftops to be alone. Even now, you could still feel the warmth of his strong arms wrapped around you while you talked for hours beneath the stars, sharing your dreams and imagining the future. You'd hoped desperately that he would be in both. And here he was, crashing back into your life and looking at you as if he'd never left.

Knowing you were already slipping back under the spell of his lovesome stare, the coffee dripping off your cheek and down your neck brings you back to reality.

"Oh, look at your suit," you despair at the splatters, attempting to wipe them away with your shirt sleeve, "I'm so sorry, Colt. You know me, always the klutz."

"Don't worry about it. It looks like it's water and coffee resistant," he dismisses, gesturing to the helmet in his hand, "I'm the idiot walking around with this thing on. Just trying to slip away for five minutes without someone yelling at me. Director's got a stick up so far up his backside today, I think it's stabbing his brain, if you know what I mean."

"Oh I definitely do," you grin, followed with a sigh, "I think the whole art department has it out for me at this point."

As you swipe away the last of the obvious drops, your hand lingers on his chest. Blinking, you remember yourself and quickly step back.

"Unfortunately, I don't think my getup is as resistant as yours. Probably should swing by costuming next," you laugh, looking down at your soiled, previously white blouse.

"What am I doing?" Colt admonishes himself before shouting over his shoulder, "Uh, can we get a towel over here, please? Or two? Thank you."

Much to your gratitude, another assistant walking by hands you each a towel a moment later, the studio logo emblazoned on the corner. You hurriedly rub the black linen over your face and turn your focus to your ruined clothes.

"Great service around here," he remarks.

"Coffee delivery notwithstanding," you add.

As he brushes the remaining droplets off his shoulders, his expression turns hesitant. "Oh, you uh, missed a spot. May I?"

You pause wiping at your sleeves and nod to him. He delicately brushes away your hair to dab your temple with his towel, and his touch is almost as soft as his gaze upon you.

"There. Good as new," he declares.

"Thank you," you say, proceeding to wipe at your java-stained jeans in an effort hide your flushed cheeks. "I had no idea they brought you on."

"I've only been here about a week," he explains, clearing his throat, "The last guy's wife just had a baby. I'm just filling in 'til he gets back."

Your stomach sinks at the news, and you try to conceal your disappointment as he continues.

"But yeah, we started the shoot for the big chase scene today. Just wrapped up the opening shots."

"Wow, that's great. I can't believe I haven't seen you around before now. Then again, I don't see the set much while the cameras are rolling. I'm mostly behind the scenes, running all over creation bringing this and that. Speaking of which..." You toss the towel around your neck and squat down to clean up your accident. "I know some people on Stage B who are probably wondering where their drinks are right about now."

Colt takes a knee and retrieves the tray for you, and you begin to stack the empty cups and sticky lids.

"You're not going to get in trouble, are you?" he asks, worry in this voice.

You flinch at the thought, "Not much if I hurry up and remake these."

"Let me help you then."

"You don't have to do that, Colt. I'm sure you're busy."

"I'm on break, and you only dropped them because of me," he insists, "Even if I wasn't, what are they gonna do? Start without me?"

You smile to yourself. There was no arguing with him. He was just as charming as you remembered, and twice as stubborn.

"Alright, you win, Mr. Bigtime Stuntman," you tease.

He holds up the last cup and he raises his eyebrow suspiciously at the letters scribbled in marker on the side.

"What does the 'C.S.' stand for? Colt Seavers?"

"Cinnamon sugar, actually," you chuckle, "Vanilla latte with exactly six shakes of cinnamon sugar on top. Executive producer's favorite. He orders it every single day, no joke."

"That sounds good. I might have to try that myself," he smirks, "Is there like a coffee list I need to put my name on? Or do I just...swing by your trailer?"

"Like they give trailers to production assistants," you scoff, standing up.

Before you can pick up the loaded tray, he snatches it off the ground and jumps to his feet. You know better than to try to take it back from him.

Tucking his helmet under his arm, he gives a little bow. "Lead on, milady."

"The machine's in the catering tent," you giggle, walking in that direction.

"Why are you running around getting coffee for people anyway?" Colt asks, following alongside you, "I thought you were writing the greatest paranormal, pseudo-thriller mystery romance movie of all time? 'Lovers of Lives Past.' What happened with that?"

"You remembered," you say, blushing.

"Of course I remember! I love that story! Did you finish it?"

You frown, reminiscing on the hand that fate had dealt you since you were last together. "My mom had a bad fall, and I took off a year to take care of her. She's better now, but when I got back, I couldn't find any work. The studio wouldn't take me back in my old role. Said they 'downsized the crew.' That included the writer's room. I couldn't even get a spot as a proofreader. When this position finally opened up, I had to take it. It was that or quit the filmmaking world altogether," you sigh, crossing your arms, "I don't know, after being away so long, working on the script didn't seem to matter anymore."

"It does matter. If it means something to even just one person, it matters," he states emphatically, "It matters to you, and it matters to me, so that's already two people right there. Look at you go, Miss Bigtime Hollywood Screenwriter."

His words get a snicker out of you. You'd missed that unbridled enthusiasm of his so very much.

"Oh Colt," you say, shaking your head, "I don't think I have it in me to write a real movie. Besides, you know how quick the landscape changes in this business. No one wants the stupidly optimistic, cheesy stuff I write. They all want gritty, dark scripts or things they can make ten-year franchises out of."

He stops in his tracks and immediately faces you. "Now that's where you're wrong. People want the cheesy. They want the hope, even if they don't know they want it. They need it," he insists, "I know you can do it. I believe in you. But that doesn't matter unless you believe in you."

You stare at him thoughtfully, heart swelling. He was wasting no time reminding you of all the reasons you fell for him in the first place. As if you could ever forget.

"You're sweet," you say.

Sweet. Warm. Inviting. Comforting. Your cinnamon sugar.

He smirks. "It's the vanilla latte."

You start walking once again. The catering tent was close up ahead, and the butterflies in your chest were building up with every step.

"So um, where are you heading next? When the other guy gets back, I mean," you stammer.

"I'm not sure. My schedule is actually pretty open after this," he answers, giving you a coy look, "Why?"

"Just wondering," you say, biting your lip.

"I was thinking of maybe hanging around here a bit. Slow down, take in the scenery, see the sights," he suggests, "You know anyone who could show me around town?"

"I might." You fight to suppress your excitement as you sense his meaning.

"Colt!" someone calls out from behind you, "Pyro wants to talk to you about the ramp launch! They're worried about the impact of explosion on the car with you in it!"

Colt comes to a halt and groans, bowing his head.

"This is why I had the helmet on," he says under his breath.

You look over your shoulder and see that the voice belongs to the stunt coordinator. He had been friendly the few times you'd spoken to him while handing out donuts to the crew, but at present, he looked less-than-thrilled to be delivering that message.

"I see you, man! I know you can hear me!"

He finally turns on his heel to shout back. "Alright, just gimme a minute!"

"Chief wants to see you now. They're almost done prepping the next shot!"

Colt pivots back to you, wincing. "I'm sorry. He always gets intense over fire stuff."

You laugh and take the tray from his hands. "You better go. Wouldn't want you to get in trouble either."

"I'll be back for that coffee. Cinnamon sugar, six shakes exactly," he says with a wink as he steps in the other direction.

You give him a thumbs up. "I'll keep the machine running."

Mere seconds after you turn your back, he calls your name, and you're spinning around again.

"Hey, Y/N?"

"Yes, Colt?"

"Promise me you won't give up on your story?"

"Okay," you agree.

"Say you promise," he points a finger at you, walking backwards, "Say the words."

"I promise I won't give up," you concede, grinning, "Promise me you won't blow up?"

"Cross my heart."

#colt seavers x reader #colt seavers x y/n #colt seavers x you #colt seavers imagine #the fall guy #the fall guy fanfiction #colt seavers fanfiction #the fall guy imagine #ryan gosling #my writing #colt seavers #why yes *six* shakes of cinnamon sugar IS a reference to the gray man how did you know? 🤎

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