#truck fender

[us281trktrl]

We provide customized truck fender installation services at our truck and trailer repair shop in Edinburg, Texas.

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[radracer]

Datsun 620 Pickup

[rollerman1]

[odinstoyfactory]

Handmade Wood Toy Truck Fat Fendered Panel Wagon Hand Painted With Bright Red Acrylic Paint and Amber Shellac 1413270977

Buy Now

More Fat Fendered Cars

In a world where plastic toys dominate the market, handmade wooden toys hold a special place in the hearts of those who appreciate the craftsmanship and durability that comes with them. One example is this fat-fendered handmade wood toy panel truck.

This charming toy truck is a product of the creative mind and skilled hands of the artisan who made it. The truck's design is inspired by classic American pickups from the 1940s and 50s, with its distinctive fat-fendered body. The attention to detail is evident in every aspect of the truck, from the carefully crafted wheels to the painted exterior.

One of the most appealing features of this wooden toy truck is its durability. This handmade truck is built to last, unlike plastic toys that can easily break or wear down over time. The solid wood construction can withstand rough play.

Another benefit of buying a handmade wooden toy like this truck is that it is eco-friendly. Many plastic toys end up in landfills, where they can take hundreds of years to decompose. In contrast, wooden toys are biodegradable and can be easily recycled or repurposed when no longer needed.

When you purchase a handmade wooden toy like this panel truck, you are supporting a small business and skilled artisan and investing in a toy that will last for years. It's the perfect gift for a child or collector who appreciates classic American trucks' beauty and nostalgia.

In conclusion, the handmade fat-fendered wood toy panel truck is a beautiful and durable toy that will delight children and adults alike. Its classic design, attention to detail, and eco-friendliness make it an excellent choice for anyone looking for a unique, high-quality toy. So why settle for a plastic toy when you can have a handmade wooden one built to last?

[jhsealstrip]

Custom quality car fenders in various sizes

Phone:+8618733911223(Whatsapp/WeChat)

Website ➤ https://jhsealstrip.com

[seat-safety-switch]

No matter who you are, what your station is in life, we all want the same thing. We're all unified by our desire to get pressure washers. Wait, what were you gonna say?

Life is full of things that get rusty and dirty. Engine blocks. The windows of your house. And we've only got so much time on this little blue marble to be cleaning them. That's why some geniuses at NASA or something came up with the pressure washer. It's like your garden hose, but more kick-ass. Pulling the trigger emits this perfect line of high-zoot water, which causes exciting things to happen to whatever you point it at.

Grit just disappears from the sidewalk. Paint disappears from the fender of your truck because you stood too close to it. You can knock out a day full of cleaning in just under an hour, which leaves you with a lot more free time to fix all the stuff you broke by pointing a 300psi needle of water at it. No power comes without consequence, which just makes us desire that power all the more. I'm built different, you tell the shattered husks of your wife's least-favourite lawn ornament. I'm not troubled by trifling concerns such as this when I wield the strength of ten gods.

Now, I've never bought a pressure washer. If you're reading this, you probably haven't, too. They're very expensive, and they take a lot of maintenance, such as not throwing it in the backyard every winter when you're tired of it. Used ones, you ask? A great idea, except the previous owner also threw it in their backyard, and all the o-rings are cacked. You'll spend a year of weekends just swapping them out, if you can even find them, and you'll never trust your crude hayseed repairs to what is generously considered an improvised backyard bomb enough to use it after that.

Luckily for all of us, there is another option. It's called "use it for a weekend and then return it to the store." Maybe it's noisy, or smells funny, or you just ran out of things to wash after you knocked all the vinyl siding off your house and nearly killed the neighbour. If you feel bad, don't. You're creating valuable jobs at the return desk. Chances are you won't even be the first person to have done it with that particular washer, too. Just wipe the blood off first.

[teaboot]

Yo I can't speak for 911 dispatch but working on the ground here are some tips for calling or radio'ing help:

First: Give information in the right order. 911 WILL ask, before anything else: City? Police, Fire, or Ambulance? They need to know who they're sending and where. If you're calling me (mall cop) I know you're looking for security presence, so my assumption is that either we don't need 911, 911 has already been called, or I'm about to be calling, so this part isn't always required.

Second: Location. I can't do shit about the five-foot-six Caucasian female wearing green shoes breaking into your car if I don't know where your car is.

Third: The most distinctive thing you see. Trash can on fire? Yellow truck got busted? Body on the ground? Person brandishing a weapon?

Fourth: If the issue is a moving target, pick the most distinctive trait about them first. Something that can be seen at a distance. "Wearing jeans" is not as useful or as distinctive as "orange baseball cap" or "coveralls". "Truck" isn't isn't useful or distinctive as "brown pickup, busted fender".

Fifth: At this point someone is on their way looking for what you've described, but they're still listening. Now is the time to add details. Heading north? Carrying a weapon? Additional clothing, descriptors, etc.

If you are calling emergency dispatch, don't just start talking. They will usually ask for what they need in the order that they need it.

If you're calling for security or CCTV surveillance: Location, distinction, details.

Note: I've only been in the industry a few years but I get a lot of people giving bad descriptions or misordered ones so I thought I'd put out a general PSA, but if anyone with more experience here has anything to correct or add on, please do

[yanderedrabbles]

What would Yandere state-trooper, cowboy, and military officer react if y/n got sick or was trying to hurt themselves?

(I love your work btw❤️)

Thank you so much for this prompt!! It literally instantly inspired me

Yandere boys when you get sick/hurt yourself

Yandere! Cowboy isn't sure why you're curled up in bed when it's just a little flu. He's worked even with sprains and cracked ribs and stitches keeping him together. At first, he'll just snap his teeth in irritation and tell you to "get tough." But seeing the fever work a blush across your cheeks softens him up. He'll bring you some good old fashioned chicken soup, just like his mama used to make. He'll smooth the hair away from your face and press a cool cloth against your neck. When you thank him, he'll just huff and tell you not to get used to it. He isn't going to baby you. But secretly, he likes taking care of you. And the next time you slip and twist your ankle, he's right there to pick you up and fix it all.

"Quit being so damn clumsy, I ain't gonna kiss it better."

Yandere! State Trooper is the first one on the scene of the crash. It isn't too bad, a rough fender-bender at most. But you're bleeding from a nasty cut on your cheek and cradling your arm. He sees red and before he can even register what he's doing, he's hauling the other guy out of his truck and grinding his face into the tarmac. His cop buddies have to physically pull him off and cover it up, say the other guy was being belligerent. The second he calms down, he's kneeling next to you and practically shoving the paramedic out of the way. He cups your chin in his hand and cleans the blood off your face, telling you everything will be just fine and to let him take care of it. He insists on riding in the ambulance with you, even though he's still on duty. When you're finally alone, he'll kiss you and snarl just a little when he orders you to be more careful. You ask him why he cares so much and he gives you one of his vicious smiles.

"The only bastard that gets to rough you up is me, got that?"

Yandere! Soldier comes home to find bloody footprints all over the kitchen floor. He finds you in the bathroom, picking broken glass out of your feet and trying not to wince. At first, you won't let him touch you or even get near you. In growing irritation, he slams his palm into the wall next to you - you're a lot more docile after that. He kneels infront of you, his palm wrapped around your ankle to stop you pulling away. He's methodical and surprisingly gentle, picking out every single shard even though it takes the better part of an hour. When he's wrapped and treated both your feet, he carefully picks you up and carries you back to bed. You're still an unpredictable, hissing menace and he doesn't trust you to take care of yourself, so he calls in sick for a week. And for a whole week, he doesn't let you walk anywhere. He carries you around the apartment, complaining that you're too light and that he's going to lose his muscle mass. Eventually you can stand on your own feet again and you manage to mumble something that sounds like thanks. You don't see it, but he smiles.

мой долг заботиться о тебе

"It's my duty to take care of you."

[us281trktrl]

Custom fender installation at our truck and trailer repair shop in Edinburg, South Texas.

The customer brought this beauty in to have the fairings removed and custom fenders installed.

Brackets were made specifically for this beauty. 

A custom fender gives this beauty a completely new look.

Jorge has over 50 years of experience in diesel truck customization.

For any questions about custom fender installation, frame extensions, or any other customization ideas Call Jorge Lopez at 956-293-9896.

Or visit us online :  https://www.us281trucktrailerservices.com/

[breadvyn]

anyone know how to lift a curse or do I just let this thing kill me lol

[ms-demeanor]

Just watched large bastard deadlift the ass end of a riding lawnmower because he wanted to demonstrate that the fender wouldn't rip off if it was used to hoist the mower into the truck.

The guy who was selling the thing (a delightful 90-year-old named Ralph) looked at him and was like "well shit son, why don't you just carry it home? save us the trouble of rigging it up."

[violettwrites]

american teenagers — ii.

prev | next

the sun was dipping low behind the trees, bathing the trailer park in shades of orange and gold. sunsets had always made you happy— and for a rundown old place like the trailerpark, it sure had some beautiful views. the smell of smoke from merle’s bonfire filled the air, mingling with the sounds of harsh laughter and musing blaring from the open windows of his beat up truck. his so called “party” was in full swing, with half the trailer park and a few strangers from who knows where hanging around, holding onto beers and swapping stories.

you sat on the hood of an abandoned truck— one of the many rusted vehicles that had been left to rot in the trailer park —the metal warm from the sun and sipping a beer that was already a little too warm for your liking. daryl was leaning against the front fender, a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, absentmindedly flicking ash onto the ground.

“your brother sure knows how to throw a classy event,” you teased, lowly gesturing towards the chaos. someone had already started yelling about a card game gone wrong, and a couple of merle’s friends were attempting to set up a wrestling match on the grass.

daryl snorted, taking a drag. “yeah, real high society,” he muttered, his tone dry. you had always noticed that daryl had never been the biggest fan of merle’s friends, and you didn’t blame him. you weren’t either. but you noticed how tense he was whenever they were around.

despite the rowdiness, there was a comfort in being here with daryl. you two had a way of carving out your own little bubble, even amidst the noise. he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against your knee as he moved to place his beer on the hood beside you.

“you gonna stick around long?” he asked, his voice low, almost lost under the sound of someone revving a dirt bike.

“depends. you plan on staying sober enough to walk me three steps home?” you teased, though you knew daryl never drank much at these things. one of you had to be the responsible one, and it was almost always him.

“guess that means i’m stuck babysitting,” he chuckled softly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that formed on your features.

as the night wore on, the crowd around the fire grew rowdier. the air filled with the sounds of loud laughter, hollering, and the occasional crackle of a beer can tossed into the flames. you hopped off the truck hood, brushing your shorts off.

“i’m grabbing another drink,” you told daryl, gesturing towards the cooler by the fire. “you want anything?”

“nah,” he shook his head, but his eyes flicked to the crowd near the bonfire, his posture shifting slightly like he was already on guard. “hurry up, though. this crowd aint exactly sunday school.”

you rolled your eyes but waved him off, weaving your way through the small group of people. you had grown up around events like this, and you were definitely fiery enough to hold yourself. as you reached the cooler and bent down to grab a beer, a hand landed on your waist. the grip was firm, too firm, and when you straightened up, one of merle’s friends was standing way too close.

“hey there, sweetheart,” he drawled, his breath reeking of whiskey and cigarettes. his grin was wide, too much teeth, and his hand trailed up your arm now, tightening it’s grip around your forearm. “haven’t seen a pretty face like you ‘round much. you merle’s little sister or somethin’?”

you tensed, trying to pull your arm away, but his grip only tightened. “not his sister,” you said sharply, giving your arm another tug. “now let go.”

“aww, don’t be like that,” he slurred, leaning in closer. “just tryin’ to be friendly.” but you knew he meant anything but friendly.

your pulse quickened and disgust rose in your chest as you glanced around for an escape, but the guy was blocking your path. before you could muster a response, there was a sharp, familiar voice behind you.

“she said let go.”

daryl.

he appeared out of nowhere, but you knew he most likely had been keeping an eye on you. his presence was like a storm as he stepped between you and the man. his hand shot out, grabbing the guy’s wrist and wrenching it off your arm with a force that made him stumble back.

the guy’s, still nameless— though you could care less— expression twisted with drunken indignation. “what the hell’s your problem, dixon?” he snarled, puffing up like he had any chance of intimidating daryl.

“my problem’s with you touchin’ her,” daryl snapped, his voice low and threatening. “you’re gonna back the hell off, or i’ll make you.”

the guy laughed, a hollow, ugly sound. “oh yeah? you gonna make me?” he teased, imitating a baby voice as he shoved daryl’s shoulder. a stupid move if there ever was one.

daryl didn’t waste a second. his fist shot out, connecting with the other male’s jaw, a sickening crack sounding through. the man staggered, but didn’t go down, swinging wildly in retaliation. his fist hit daryl’s shoulder, but it wasn’t enough to phase him.

daryl grabbed the guy by the front of his shirt, slamming him into the side of an old truck. the sound reverberated through the air, and the party came to a screeching halt as everyone tuned in their attention to watch.

“think you’re real tough, huh?” the man spat, blood dripping from his split lip. he swung again, but daryl ducked, driving his knee into the guy’s stomach and sending him crumpling to the ground.

“get the hell up,” daryl growled, though his boot pressing square into the man’s chest said otherwise, his voice ice cold.

the man groaned, trying to push himself up, but daryl pressed his foot down harder, fists clenched at his sides, ready for more.

“daryl!” you shouted, stepping forward and grabbing his arm. “stop, he’s done!”

for a moment, you weren’t sure he had even heard you. his chest was heaving, eyes blazing with rage as he stared down at the man. but then he turned to you, and the tension in his body seemed to drain away almost instantly.

“you okay?” he asked, his voice softer now, but his gaze didn’t waver from yours.

“i’m fine,” you said, your voice shaky but sure.

“good,” he muttered, his attention snapping back to the man still trapped under his foot. “stay the hell away from her, you hear me?” he spits, finally releasing the man from being trapped.

the man nodded weakly, coughing and wiping blood from his mouth as he crawled away, clutching his stomach.

merle’s laugh broke the silence, loud and obnoxious. “that’s my baby brother!” he hollered, clapping his hands. “knew you had it somewhere in ya!”

daryl ignored him, his focus still on you. “c’mon,” he said, nodding his head in a direction away from everyone else. “let’s get outta here.”

he didn’t wait for an answer, his hand brushing your arm as he led you away from the fire and the stares. your heart was pounding, but not just from the fight. the way daryl had looked at you— protective, furious, and something else entirely —lingered in your mind as you followed him towards your trailer, vacant from anyone else.

as the both of you reached the small porch, you glanced at him, noticing his red knuckles and tight jaw.

“thank you, daryl,” you spoke softly, looking up at him.

he glanced at you, his expression softening for just a moment. “ain’t nothin’,” he muttered, but the way he gripped the door handle before pushing it open told you it was more than that. and as you stepped inside, the noise of the party faded behind you, the silence almost jarring after the chaos outside.

you sank onto the couch, still somewhat shaken, and daryl stood near the door, arms crossed over his chest, tension radiating from him.

“why’d you do it?” you asked softly, breaking the silence.

he glanced at you, his brow furrowing. “what do you mean?”

“why’d you step in like that? you didn’t have to go that far.”

for a long moment, he didn’t answer. his gaze locked onto the floor, his jaw working like he was trying to figure out the words occupying his brain. finally, he met your eyes, and there was something raw in his expression.

“i don’t know,” he admitted, his voice low and almost hesitant. “i just— i had to. couldn’t stand seein’ him touchin’ you like that.”

the honesty in his voice hit you like a punch to the chest, a for a moment, all you could do was stare at him.

“daryl…” you started, but the words caught in your throat.

he shifted, looking uncomfortable under your gaze, but he didn’t move to leave. “you’re all i got,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “ain’t gonna let nobody mess with you.”

your chest tightened, and you felt the sting of tears you didn’t want to shed. instead of speaking, you stood up, making your way over to him and wrapping your arms around his torso, squeezing tightly. “thanks,” you spoke softly, the word carrying more weight than you could put into it.

he didn’t say anything, but you felt him nod his head as his arms wrapped around your figure, holding you close. and in that quiet moment, the unspoken connection between you felt louder than anything else.

hi guys !! i hope you enjoyed chapter 2 !! i had a lot of fun writing this one and im excited for you guys to see the rest of what i have planned 😈

i am still unfortunately going thru it a little, but writing this is helping me keep my mind off everything. i love you guys and your support means so much to me

as always! if you enjoyed reading this, don’t forget to show your support by liking and reblogging! if you’d like to be added to my tag list, comment below!!!

tag list: @rotten-biter @negansbestie @moonbaby6 @sunnykittyzz @twd4life7

[l1ndseyper3z]

Gallavich headcanons cause I'm tweaking out about them

- mickey loves bands (basically confirmed in 1-07 cause of the radiohead shirt) and the first time he heard I Love You by Fontaines all he could think about was ian so that's basically their song to him

- mickey runs cold, ian runs hot

- I kinda get the vibe that after a while Terry's death actually started fucking with Mickey kinda in the way Monica's death fucked with Ian. it made mickey get kinda clingy but Ian didn't mind

- in s5 when Ian broke up with Mickey. it was 100% self destruction, he'd seen Monica and didn't want to drag Mickey into what he thought he was destined to be

- ian calls mickey baby and anyone who teases mickey about it gets threatened cause mickeys a softie who will never admit it

- although Mama Milkovich canon is unclear, I think she died somewhere in season 1 after being ill for a while. it definitely fucked with mickey and I believe that's why he ended up hooking up with ian. he thought because she was gone he had no reason to live and was just winging life. he was definitely close with her

- some songs that make them think of each other are Arms Length - Sam Fender, Open Wide - Inhaler, The Craving - Twenty One Pilots.

- they're such girl dads this is not up for discussion

- I think they end up having one kid, a girl. mandys the surrogate and she basically ends up being mickey with red hair

- mickeys a big Eminem fan cause I said so and once he has his daughter mockingbird RUINS him

- I imagine the first time Mickey held his daughter he literally just sat there for hours in awe and all the Gallaghers were just like woah ian you've managed to break mickey what the hell

- they're such good dads

- if their kid ended up with bipolar they'd deal with it so well

- honestly they're the ones most likely to break the cycle

- ian is generally clingier but mickey doesn't mind. he actually quite likes it (although he'll never admit that out loud)

- ian fell first, mickey fell infinitely harder

- mickey gets quite emotional sometimes, I mean you saw how much he cried over ian. I think finally coming to terms with all the shit he went through hit him like a truck around the time terry died

- ian is big spoon

- cause they're little domestic bitches one of their favourite things is ian reading a book while mickey naps on him or next to him and ian messes with his hair with his free hand

- people act like they don't engage in pda but they TRADEMARKED pda

- mickeys too possessive to not like pda

- mickey and debbie plus ian and mandy. lethal

- ian loves seeing mickey fit into the family. family's a massive thing for the Gallaghers so seeing mickey blend right in makes ians heart melt

- ALSO seeing mickey do anything domestic like laundry or shit makes ian horny just saying

- mickeys scent 100% grounds ian. it's what he was around at the peak of his bipolar and it brings so much comfort to him

- hence why they share clothes so much

- mickey just likes robbing all ians shit cause why not and ian loves smelling mickey

- going back to if they had a bipolar teenage daughter mickeys literally the best dad ever

- needs a day off school cause shes struggling? absolutely let me call them.

- she feels like shit? come here we'll get comfy on the couch and watch a movie

- doesn't wanna take her medication? talk to me about it, tell me why and I'll explain why you should, we can try new stuff if you need it

- mickey hated ians black hair

- after they banged in prison for the first time they were lay there and mickey just went "why u not a redhead anymore? you look like a fucking idiot"

- part of him being such a good dad is because of terry but also because he's genuinely a gentle person deep down and it just took security and comfort to bring that out. plus he wants to make his mum proud

- everytime ian sees mickey with their daughter he just like falls into a puddle on the floor

- they visit Monica's grave every year. mickey doesn't really like her but he wants to make sure ian stays connected to her

- same with mickeys mum, they visit her a lot

- everytime they go into the Kash n Grab when they're in the southside they just giggle. it's so goofy to them now

- they see Jimmy Steve's dad out somewhere one time and they're both like 😦😦😦

- they're such bad influences

- always up to some dumb shit

- basically they're all of our parents and I love my sillies

[superprofesh]

The Five Times Colt Seavers Almost Kisses You (and the One Time He Does) — Part 2

Pairing: Colt Seavers x reader

Description: The second time Colt Seavers almost kisses you — in which he thinks he might be losing his sanity.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.2k

Tag List: @strangedeerconnoisseur, @icantwaittoliveandlearn, @moonlightandstarshimmer

Author’s Note: As the Colt obsession rages on, I hope y'all enjoy part 2, because it certainly was sizzling when I wrote it :D This one is more from Colt's POV, and it includes some of his inner monologue (which I loved in the film). I appreciate everyone's kind words so far and would love to hear your thoughts about this chapter! Thank you all! <3

Part 1

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Ever since the little paint-smudging incident, Colt has been, well… off.

This never happens to him. He’s a professional, he’s been working on movie sets for years, he’s known hundreds and hundreds of coworkers. But something is different. You’re different.

As he leans against the hood of his truck after filming, one leg propped on the fender as he takes a deep breath of the midnight air, Colt can’t stop replaying the events of the day before. You painting a prop sign, you laughing at his dumb jokes, you smearing red paint across his face. The steadiness of your hands, the smile crinkling the corners of your eyes. The sunbeams luminescent in your hair. The way your hand felt for the few seconds it lingered on his cheek.

Get it together, man, his inner monologue scolds him.

Colt can’t deny that he has feelings for you. You’ve been on set together for about two months now, and he sees you practically every day. Every time he performs a stunt, you’re always there adjusting the furniture, dabbing color onto the walls, rearranging props with that magnificent touch that brings every setpiece to life. Colt is amazed by your talent in your job as a set decorator, and your skill pushes him to try harder stunts each time, to try to impress you with his own skills.

But there’s one major problem that he can’t get past — he’s just not good enough for you. Sure, Colt has all the confidence in the world when it comes to throwing himself from a moving car or flashing a dazzling smile at you across the set, but he’s destined to be an unknown stuntman for the rest of his career. Your talent and dedication promises great things for your future, and Colt has already made up his mind that he’s not going to stand in your way by coming on too strong.

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. Even when he’s trying to be noble and keep himself from getting you distracted from your career, he’s replaying the way your eyes fluttered shut for a moment when his thumb brushed your jaw.

I’m so screwed.

Colt has just agreed with his inner monologue that he will keep his distance from you and turn all his unfulfilled feelings into protein powder when you step out of a nearby trailer, one arm over your eyes as if you’ve been crying.

All thoughts of noble detachments shatter instantly, and Colt pushes off his truck to make his way toward you. He’s relieved when you lower your arm from your face and he can tell that you weren’t crying — just so dead tired that you can barely keep your eyes open.

“Hey, Van Gogh,” he calls to you, keeping a distance of about six feet as he reverts to his usual habit of artist-nicknames. Too familiar, too familiar, abort, abort. “Too much moonshine?”

Your eyes pop open in surprise to see him standing there, but a wearied smile crosses your face nonetheless. “Too much moonlighting,” you correct him, leaning back against the art trailer with a sigh. “Gordon has been on my back all day about the props for the train station scene. I got wooden benches for a rustic vibe, but he wants metal for a grittier vibe. I painted the graffiti mural in multi-colors, but he wants it red for a sharper contrast. I spent the last week distressing the station floor so it would look lived-in, but now he wants it clean. Clean, cold, and clinical.” You bury your face in your hands, rubbing your red-rimmed eyes. “I just finished making twenty neon signs for the depot, but I don’t know if he’ll even still want them by tomorrow.”

Colt’s heart tugs seeing you so exhausted and discouraged, and he elects to ignore his previous inner monologue and take a few steps in your direction. “Sounds like Gordon is trying to direct a hospital soap opera instead of an action thriller.”

“Exactly!” You throw your hands up in frustration, letting your head loll to the side as you look at him through half-opened eyes. “I never want to see another paint roller again. Or at least not until tomorrow.”

Colt chuckles at that, taking another step closer. “It is tomorrow. It’s past midnight.” His brow furrows in concern as he watches your eyelids drift closed again. You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet.

“Right. I knew that,” you mumble. “I need some sleep.”

“I’d say you need a hibernation,” Colt says gently, cursing himself for the way he feels the urge to reach out and touch you. “When’s the last time you got any winks?”

Your eyes roll back in your head as you try to recall. “Uhhh… Tuesday?”

Colt shakes his head. “Come on, I’ll drive you back.”

Your eyes open at that, and you automatically shake your head, swaying a little as you do so. “No, you don’t need to do that! I’ll be fine. My hotel is just a few blocks from here.”

“Good,” Colt agrees, reaching out to put his arm around your shoulders. “Then you won’t have to pay me back for gas money.”

You sigh in mock frustration but give in when he starts leading you to his truck. He can feel you leaning on him, drawing from his strength when he knows yours is depleted. Colt has to force himself to focus on the task at hand and not get distracted by the intoxicating smell of oil paints and charcoal and wood chips emanating off your skin. He especially tries not to notice the way your head naturally falls against his shoulder while he leads you to the passenger door.

Once you’ve climbed into the seat, you immediately droop forward and rest your forehead on your knees. On an impulse, Colt pulls off his jacket — his most comfortable one: the brown one with the drawstrings — and drapes it across your shoulders. He suppresses a grin when you mumble something that sounds like “hmmk hmum” but probably was supposed to be “thank you.”

The drive to your hotel lasts all of three minutes, and he parks his truck under the portico so you’ll be closer to the door. Against the pitch black of the midnight sky, the hotel looks cozy and welcoming, street lamps bathing the sidewalk in a halo of golden light.

Colt opens the door to the passenger side, a smile crossing his lips when you turn your head from where it’s resting on your knees to peek up at him.

“Are we there yet?” you mumble, eyes fluttering between open and closed.

“Just a rest stop,” he informs you jokingly, holding out a hand to help you out of the truck. You gladly accept it, so exhausted that you can barely stand up straight. Colt feels another shimmer of worry at seeing you so worn out.

With his arm around your shoulder again, Colt walks you to the hotel door, which opens automatically to let you in. His thoughts are a jumble of worry, consternation, and elation at this situation, but he breaks out of his reverie halfway to the elevator, when you start giggling uncontrollably.

“What?” he asks, basking in the way your musical laugh wraps around him like a melody. Colt, get it together. Stop romanticizing this.

You snicker again, pressing the elevator button to your floor. “I bet the desk clerk thought I was drunk and bringing you home with me.”

Colt goes stock-still at that comment, only moving again when the elevator door opens and you enter the compartment together. Your sleep-deprived brain is so addled that you barely even register the implications of your remark, but Colt’s mind instantly starts racing with his own thoughts. Be professional, don’t make a saucy joke, just play it cool, play it cool, change the subject, change the SUBJECT—

“You should call Gordon,” he suggests, so enthralled with the feel of your head resting on his shoulder that he can barely get the sentence out. “Tell him you can’t make it tomorrow. You seriously need to get some sleep.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, one that flutters across his collarbone like an autumn breeze. He swallows and turns his head the other way, using all his willpower not to completely come undone right in front of you. You have no idea the effect you’re having on him, so sleep-deprived that you’re missing any cues that would clue you in normally.

“I have to be there tomorrow,” you insist drowsily. The elevator door dings open, and Colt leads you through the opening, his arm still tight around your shoulders as you point him in the right direction. “We’re filming the train station scene, and it has to be perfect.”

“What, at the cost of your health and sanity?” Colt quips, though he can’t deny that there’s a note of seriousness in his tone.

You shake your head stubbornly. “I’m fine. This is my job. I just have to do it.” You yawn widely, stumbling a little as you get closer to your hotel door. “I just need a few hours and I’ll be good as new.”

Colt lifts his eyebrows skeptically but doesn’t argue with you. You’re pulling your room key out of your pocket, and he’s suddenly torn between the desire to run before he violates his vow of noble detachment, and the need to confess every passionate feeling coursing through his veins right now. He knows this isn’t the right time, though, and that there may never be a right time at all.

You unlock your door with a swipe but pause before going inside, leaning your back against the doorframe so you can look at Colt squarely. “Thank you for bringing me back.” Your smile steals his breath, makes him imagine a halo of stars around your face. “I couldn’t have made it without you.”

Every muscle in his body is urging him to lean forward, to close the distance between you, to capture your lips against his so he can whisper every unconfessed feeling, every gentle passion, every overwhelming longing in this silent, dimly-lit hallway. His heart is pounding so loudly in his ears that he thinks you must be able to hear it.

“Anytime,” Colt manages, his throat so tight that can barely rasp out the word. He has to clench his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to you.

You reach up to shed his brown jacket and hand it back to him, but Colt stops you by holding up his hand. “Keep it,” he tells you. Shut up, shut up, shut UP— “It looks better on you anyway.”

The golden light from the street lamps outside must be playing tricks on his eyes, because he could swear that your eyes brighten at his words. Your fingers tighten around his jacket, and all he can imagine is your fingers entwined with his, your head on his shoulder again. The way it should be.

Your eyes flicker closed for a moment, and you sway against the doorway. Colt instinctively reaches out to steady you, his hand landing on your arm and holding you up for the moment it takes you to regain your balance. His skin feels like it’s on fire from this close proximity. He releases your arm so he doesn’t lose his sanity, but the touch lingers on his palm, making his heart race and his mouth go dry. His eyes flit down to glance at your lips again before he can stop them. Another moment, and he won’t have any self-control left.

You seem to feel the tension, too, lingering in the doorway when you should have said goodnight by now. He knows you’re struggling with it, and he knows it’s his responsibility as the clear-headed one to end this before it starts. His breath is rattling in his throat as he says, “Get some rest. Let me know if you need a ride over tomorrow morning.”

His voice seems to break the spell over you, and you give him a sleepy smile as you nod. “Thanks, Colt.” Your eyes linger on him for a moment more, and then you disappear behind the heavy hotel door.

Once you’re gone, Colt turns and leans heavily against the hallway wall, suddenly feeling breathless and exhausted from the intensity of what he just felt. He can’t believe he even let himself think about kissing you when you’re so dazed, but surely he wasn’t misreading those signals? Surely he felt the heat of your own gaze meeting his?

Colt sighs, trying to clear his head while he catches his breath. He can’t even entertain the idea of starting a fling with you, because his feelings have gone way too deep for a fling. He just needs to keep his distance and stop overanalyzing every moment he shares with you. He needs to get a grip on reality so he doesn’t completely ruin your friendship and burden you with any guilt. This has to stop. I’m going to stop right now, and I’m not going to think about it anymore, and I’m going to get hold of myself before it’s too late.

He hopes his inner monologue is right this time, because he knows he’s only falling harder for you.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Part 3

[skeltnwrites]

S'mores - Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie takes you camping

Word Count: 3.6k

TW: bad driving, maybe a bit of angst

A/N: This might have something to do with that box of money from my last fic (kudos to those who guessed correctly), also writing this had me giggling and kicking my feet so good luck if you thought the last one was fluffy

Silver-clad fingers tap against the steering wheel, more in tune with the van’s blinker than the Ace of Spades cassette blaring through the speakers. Eddie glances over his shoulder before veering into the next lane, throwing up an apology wave to the sedan he just cut off. You peek up from the map, sights darting to your side mirror, then to your boyfriend. He’s inches from scratching the sticker-loaded bumper ahead of you, gassing and breaking repeatedly. 

You’re well aware that Eddie’s never been a good driver. Frequently snagging curbs and pushing speed limits, once having picked a note from the windshield about his poor parking job. It’s a miracle that he’s only been in a couple of fender benders over the years. You once nabbed his driver’s license, swatting away his hands so you could see the grainy photo of teenage Eddie. But every now and then when his foot slams against the pedal and you lurch forward in your seat only to be caught by the belt, you wonder whether it was a fake. Today, somehow, he’s in even more of a rush than usual. 

The tape ends, leaving you in silence apart from a distant honk and the familiar chug of the air conditioning. “You know the campsite isn’t going anywhere right?” 

He hums dismissively, hands gripping ten and two as his gaze darts between the road and his rearview. 

You throw a palm over his thigh, squeezing. “Eddie.” 

He’s locked in, swerving in failed attempts to get back over. “One second, sweetheart,” he manages when you retract your hand. There’s a risky opening and he takes it, the car behind instantly laying on the horn. Your eye twitches. 

He rolls to a stop, with nowhere to go between the bumper-to-bumper traffic as far ahead as you can see and highway patrol parked in the median. “Seems everyone and their mother had the same idea, huh?” He turns to you with a dopey half-smile. 

“What’s the rush?” 

He shrugs, picking at the rip in his jeans, “Just wanna get set up before dark.” 

“We’ve got flashlights.” 

“No– well, yeah. It’s not that. I just don’t wanna have to worry about it later.” 

You tilt your head, “No biggie if we set up late.” 

He nods, knowing you’re right. 

When you’d got home from work Eddie didn’t give you a chance to kiss him hello before he urged you into the bedroom to pack for a surprise weekend camping trip. Rented camping gear and a bag of gas station snacks were thrown into the back of the van and within the hour, you were on the road. As he pulled onto the interstate he’d abruptly toggled off the radio as the host discussed details of the pending meteor shower, the part of the trip he intended to keep secret. You pretended not to hear when he asked, despite having read about it in the paper the afternoon before. 

The sun sinks out of sight as you reach the exit ramp. A light pitter-patter against the windshield has you preemptively cranking up your window. Your feet cross each other over the dash as you trace the approaching circle on your map with your finger. 

“You said Bronson?” Eddie asks. 

“Mhmm. Left on Bronson Road.”

“Ya sure? Cause it’s definitely blocked off.” 

You whip your head up at the construction signs and equipment lining the street, or lack of street rather. 

“Damn it.” You rub the bridge between your nose. 

“I could just try to drive through it? I mean those big trucks can–” 

“Eddie,” you raise an eyebrow. 

“What!” He slaps the dashboard, “This girl's gotten us through a lot of adventures, right? One more won’t kill her.” He’s dead serious; Zero problem with driving past a sign that says ‘Closed’ and ‘Do Not Enter’.

“I’ll find another route, keep driving.” 

“Come on,” he groans, sagging into his seat.

“Do you want to pop a tire and be out here all night waiting for help?” 

He scoffs like you’ve insulted him, “I know how to change a tire.”

“Do you have a spare?” 

His mouth opens in rebuttal and quickly shuts.

“Drive,” you roll your eyes, hiding your smirk behind the map. 

You try another road that connects, or so you thought until you pull up to a dead-end sign. It’s pouring now and pitch black out, road signs are hard to see, street lights are sparse, and you’re both cranky from being trapped in a car with each other. It’s your fourth attempt at rerouting when Eddie declares you are officially lost. 

He holds his hands up in defense, “Look I don’t wanna say it but–” 

You send him a glare before he can finish. “We’re not lost.” 

“Look, it’s okay if–”

“But we aren’t. Look, right here,” you flick a pen against the paper. “I’m telling you this is the one.” 

He falters at your serious stare, biting a nail, and sighs, “Okay. Fifth times the charm, right?”  

“That’s what they say,” you smile. 

To both of your surprise, the fifth time is the charm and you’re able to get back on track with your navigation skills. You’re on a long stretch of dirt road, miles since the last light or building or car for that matter. Still, you swear you know where you are and Eddie believes you. He drives shockingly slow, bobbing his leg and squinting at the windshield. The wipers squeal against the glass, working overtime.  

You push your palm against his knee. He continues to drum against the floor mat. 

He feels your gaze and anticipatorily answers, “Have to piss.”

“You did on the side of the road like half an hour ago, dude.” 

“Think it’s the rain. Rainiest fucking day in Indiana history. Thought it would’ve stopped by now.” His voice trails off in this dejected sort of way that you rarely hear from Eddie. 

You’re lips form a tight line and you bring your fingers up to his nape to scratch under a thick mop of curls. “It’ll let up bub.” 

He nods, eyes trained ahead. 

You literally scream when the headlights glare against a campsite sign. Eddie smiles so hard you’d bet his cheeks hurt. An unimpressed teenager mans the check-in booth which you pull up to. She slides the window open to abruptly tell you they closed ten minutes ago, not allowing you to reply before it slams shut. Eddie raps on the glass, pointing to a crisp twenty-dollar bill which she accepts, offering a parking pass and spot number in return. 

The van is parked and you jump out, delighted that the rain has let up some. It’s sprinkling and clouds block any hint of stars, but you couldn’t care less. Eddie grabs the tent first, recruiting you to help stomp the stakes into the ground. He fumbles with the flaps, scratching his neck trying to understand where the door is supposed to be when the rain picks up again. You scramble to finish setting up, throwing bags, food, a radio, and whatever else easily accessible into the tent. It isn’t until you’re both inside, soaked to the bone, that you realize how cramped it is. 

“This is definitely not a two-person tent,” Eddie chuckles, hunched over like a wilting flower, knees digging into yours. His curls are slick and shiny in the lantern glow. 

You flick a mosquito off his arm and grin, “It’s cozy for sure.” 

He flops on the twin-sized inflatable mattress you’d previously used as an umbrella. You wriggle up beside him, clothes drenched and clinging to every curve. 

“I mean think about it, this size would go for, what, a grand in New York? They’d call it an urban studio apartment with bright ceilings and textured floors,” you say magically.

His laugh bleeds into a dramatic groan as he slings an arm over his face. You leave a wake of kisses from his elbow over to his wrist until he’s peeling it away to hold you. Your cheeks are warm against his palms as he says, “I’m sorry we didn’t get to see the meteor shower.”

You lift an eyebrow, “What meteor shower?”

He covers your face, snorting, “Shut up, you knew. You aren’t a good liar.” 

You crack a smile, peeling his fingers away one by one until you can see him again. 

“But really,” he says, seriously. “We are soaked and cold and we didn’t even get to make s'mores!” 

You drop your head to his chest, “You’re right. I don’t think I’ll survive without s'mores.”

His hand finds your crown, his lips too. “I’m serious!” 

“So am I,” you mumble into his tee. 

You are content to lay there in each other’s warmth for a while despite the chills worming up your spine but Eddie breaks the stillness, “Come on. Get up. We need to change.” 

You lift your head, “Wait!” You poke at his chest, “I need to tell you something.” 

He hums, brown eyes heavy as they search yours. 

“I love you,” you say earnestly. 

“Sap!” He pushes you off, crawling over to his JanSport to fish for dry clothes. He chucks you a pair and you waste no time stripping off the sticky fabric. Before long, the lantern is off and you're wrapped in the single dry blanket, shuffling back into him for more warmth. He pecks your shoulder and mutters, “I love you too,” before you drift off. 

You aren’t sure what time it is when you wake but Eddie is breathing hot air onto your neck, curls itching you in a way that makes you pull away. His arm slinks under the covers as you sit up. No light leaks through the tent so it must not be time to get up, you decide. You feel far from sleep, however. It’s cold and somehow sticky. The pant leg pinched up your calf gets tugged down, only to realize the fabric is damp. 

Eddie must feel you shuffling because he starts mumbling and groping around your pillow. His hand claws at your sleeve in an attempt to suck you back in. He whines sleepily when you don’t budge. 

“Eddie,” you whisper, sliding a hand up the tent’s coarse walls. 

“What,” his voice catches, soft against his pillow and hoarse with sleep. 

“I think,” you swipe at the floor until your fingertips graze a freezing puddle. “There’s a hole in the tent or something.” You blink rapidly trying to see the damage. 

He cranes up with a hum, elbowing you as he scratches his face. 

“The floor is wet.” 

“Where?” 

You wrap your fingers around his in the darkness, guiding them past your body to skim the floor.

“Shit,” he sighs. 

You prod around, shoving away non-lantern-shaped or textured items. 

“Here,” Eddie clicks his lighter. It sparks a few times before lighting, casting skewed shadows against the walls. He yawns, gesturing at the lantern with closed lids. You click it on, dangling it over the gap beside the mattress—golden light glimmers against the water. Eddie climbs over you to view it, hair swaying as he shifts. Your heavy eyes travel up in tandem to catch the steady drip from the roof. A small, fraying line splits the fabric. He pushes a thumb against the next forming bead. His tongue slips back in his mouth to clear his throat, “I’ve got duct tape in the van but I don’t think it’ll stick to this.” He scratches the canvas, “‘specially not in the rain.” 

You nod, observing as his brain churns. His gaze flicks to his wrist watch and then he’s folding over his legs in a cat-like stretch. Hunched over, he says, “It’s too early for this. Let’s just go sleep in the van.” He hums as if to ask, “How does that sound?”

You trace the curve of his spine as he stretches, “‘kay.” Neither of you move. Rain pelts the tarp rhythmically. 

“Come on,” he sighs deeply before pushing up to unzip the tent. Stray raindrops blow inside, a couple catching your hand where it bunches clothes together. You sweep whatever is near into his bag, passing Eddie his sneakers. You don’t bother lacing yours. 

He throws his denim jacket over your shoulders before you race out, shoes squelching against the mud. Your heel dips into a puddle as you plant your hands against the slick sliding door. Eddie jams the keys in the lock with rehearsed practice, climbing in and pressing buttons until the rest of the locks click. You rapidly pull the metal handle, nearly eating shit as your foot slides. 

Eddie jumps back out. “Piece of shit door,” he grumbles and bumps your hip, pushing with you until the door lurches open. When he clears it, you slam it behind him. The backpack and his jacket are discarded onto the floor before you climb over the center console after him. He starts the car, cranking the temperature knobs until warm air blows from the vents. 

As soon as your eyes meet, you crumble into giggles. Any bit of sleepiness left has vanished. His hair is flattened with moisture and his cheeks rosy from the cold. You curl your nail under a black strand stuck to his chin.

“Needed a shower anyway,” Eddie shakes his hair out like a dog, spraying you in the face. 

You yell and shield yourself with your sleeves. 

He licks a stray droplet off his lip then leans over the seats searching. Eddie gets up and squirms between them, kicking the water bottle in the cup holder. You slip your shoes off, pushing them under the seat to avoid tracking any more mud. 

Your palms hover flat against the heat for a while. It’s quiet per Eddie standards so you glance behind your seat. In the dim car light, your boyfriend shuffles through his backpack. He’s chewing on his lip as he tips it over to dump the contents out, mostly clothes. His eyes widen when he finds you staring. 

“Find me something to wear?” You ask. 

He nods after a moment, still watching you like a child with their hand in the cookie jar. You turn back around hesitantly. 

You busy yourself with reading the campsite pamphlet you’d been given at the entrance. But the grinding of the slider door has you whipping your head back around. Eddie’s halfway outside, shouting, “One sec’!” The door shuts abruptly leaving you alone in the van. You climb into the back, cupping your hands against the foggy glass. Your boyfriend has his jacket slung across his back as he crouches into the tent. A couple of minutes pass and he’s running back. You pull the door open for him and he thanks you as he hops in. 

“What?” You question. 

He flashes a tight-lipped smile, “Forgot this.” He holds out his lighter in one hand, placing his jacket on the floor neatly with the other. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’ve got like three in the glovebox, Eddie.” 

“This one’s my favorite.” The lighter is lime green, adorned with a fading smiley face drawn in sharpie, thanks to you. He scratches his neck sheepishly. You don’t know whether to believe him since he’s never shown a preference for lighters before now but he seems genuinely embarrassed that you’ve found out. 

“Oh,” you settle with, choosing to let it go, lest you embarrass the poor boy further.  

You dissolve into separate chores in the back of the van. He smears the puddle by the door with his already wet t-shirt and you hunt for another pair of his pajama pants for yourself. Dry clothes are dwindling, having soaked two pairs each already. But you manage to find new bottoms and a fresh shirt for Eddie. He’s slipping it over his head, crisscrossed on the floor in only his boxers. You circle the small space, plucking any soggy clothes off the floor to hang dry on a camping chair that had been left in the van. As you scoop up Eddie’s jacket something rolls out onto the floor. You kneel to pick up a small, black box with your free hand. You scratch curiously at the velvet, wavering to hand it off to Eddie. Gears turn in your head as you glance up at your boyfriend who stares at you from the floor a few feet away. Your expression mirrors his, mouth agape, eyebrows raised. 

“I—”

“Is this?“ You say simultaneously. 

Your limbs are locked in place, mouth dry as you try to string together a coherent question. Suddenly the heat pouring from the vents is too hot. You might as well catch fire with how your cheeks burn. 

He deflates in front of you, shoulders sagging and chin drooping in one motion. 

You shove the box into his hands as if that will fix it. 

He furrows his brows and looks away, “Shit.” 

You are about to offer to pretend you haven’t seen it when he continues.

“This whole trip has really gone to shit, huh?” He shakes his head, throwing a hand out defeatedly, “I mean– I had this whole perfect plan and I was trying so hard not to fuck it up. The shower and the fucking rain. Hell, Steve, even Wayne warned me to do it right and I– I just.” He scoffs, head tipping back against the door. “I almost lost it.” 

It’s then that it dawns on you that Eddie Munson, your boyfriend, intended to propose to you on this trip. That he plans to marry and spend the rest of his life with you. 

“–want you to think that I don’t care enough—“

“Eddie,” you whisper.

“–and I wanted you to know how seri—“

“Eddie!” Your on the dirty floor of his van, knees digging into his as you push the box further into his chest, “Fucking ask me already.”

He melts under your stare, breath shuddering hesitantly despite your growing smile. “I– Will you—“

You're already nodding at the first word. “Yes, you idiot.” You’ve lunged into his chest, smiling uncontrollably into his neck. 

He chuckles nervously into your temple, slowly wrapping an arm around you. But he pulls back, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately. 

His eyes dance around your face, lingering on the spot below your ear he likes to kiss. He presses his nose there instead, giggling like a little kid. “I can’t believe you said yes,” he whispers breathily, more to himself than you. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” You squeeze him, eyebrows furrowed. 

“I dunno, I just thought,” he trails off. 

“Eddie,” you peel him off your skin, waiting until he looks at you. “This is perfect.” You knead your nose and eyes before anything escapes. “I don’t care if it rained or if we didn’t see the meteors or about fucking s’mores for Christ’s sake!” You smack him lightly in the chest, smiling hard. 

His eyes are glassy and he swallows hard. “You haven’t even seen the ring yet,” his voice shakes when he says it.

“There could be a paper ring in there for all I care.” 

He grins, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Should’ve told me that before I bought something.”

You laugh wetly and he brings the box up to your hands to open together. Rings are not something you and Eddie had discussed much if at all and yet somehow he managed to find just what you envisioned. 

The tears finally fall as you say, “It’s gorgeous, Eds.” 

He chases them away with kisses, cupping your cheek to pull you closer. 

When you're momentarily done studying the jewelry you press your lips to his. He’s reluctant to pull away, diving in for a second, then a third, like you’ll change your mind if he lets you go. 

“Here,” his hands are shaking as he plucks the ring from its cushion and cradles your hand. The ring slips on easily, a tad too big, but “Wayne knows someone who can tighten it.”

You nod, grinning wildly at your hand. He’s watching you with a similar wobbly expression when you glance up. You remain a tangled pile of soppy limbs on the metal floor until your back aches. He’s pulling you up and clicking off the lights before crawling up front. 

“I don’t know how you expect me to fall asleep now,” you whisper giddily, cheek pressed to the reclined passenger seat. 

From across you, he says, “I don’t think I can either.” He watches you fondly as you twist the ring around your finger. He’s thinking about how stupid he was to worry so much about what Wayne and Steve fucking Harrington of all people warned him about. That he knows he’s never felt so strongly about someone before and that he’d be crazy to let you slip away. 

Your gasp breaks his stream of consciousness. You’ve sat up, pointing through the windshield. “Look!”

“What?” he’s ducking his head, flipping up the sun visor, and glancing from you to the glass, trying to track your line of sight. Then he finds it, a long arc of light breaking through the clouds. It’s faint, fading in and out of the darkness as it streams from one end of the sky to the other. It passes, and you both observe for more, wide-eyed and stiff like dolls. 

“Look at that,” you blink deliriously, slumping back into the seat. 

“Did you get the universe in on this or something when I wasn’t looking?” He’s baffled, chuckling to himself. 

“Maybe it’s a sign,” you smirk. 

He nods, leaning over to peck the corner of your lip. “Didn’t need one. Knew you were it from day one.” He slinks back into his seat, leaving you a blushing ball of flames.