.

Dangerously

you've awoken me, but you're choking me, i was so obsessed

gave you all of me, and now honestly i've got nothing left

— charlie puth —

The first time he sees her, she is swaying to the music. Hips thrusting forward, auburn hair tossed to-and-fro, eyes half-lidded, mouth ajar and singing along—she is a vision. There is a crowd surrounding her, the room so tightly confined, such small quarters; yet, she is glowing, and Brick spots her immediately as if he knows her.

Balancing a tepid cup of coffee on his lap, hoping it would null the ever growing, persistent headache that has begun to beat against his temple, he whips out his phone to check the time. 11:32. Damn, it's too late for this, too late to return to the party from across the café.

He left that hole over an hour ago, stumbling half-drunk, half-pissed into the shop and ordered his usual cappuccino, popping four aspirin as though they were tic-tacs. The twenty-or-so waitress had stressed he go home and rest up for the important chemistry test he had in the morning (apparently he's the type of drunk with no filter gagging his mouth), but no, he couldn't lug himself home in his state. He'd probably end up vomiting into a wretched alley and pass out cold before finishing the four-mile-trek. And no, he had no cash for a cab, save for the wadded-up singles he had fished out of his pocket and baited to the cashier for his much-needed coffee.

As he takes a tentative sip of his second shot of caffeine, his eyes miraculously wander back to the apartment building across the way, pupils straining to find something. He doesn't even know what he's looking for, or rather, he's forgotten until said red irises pinpoint through the window, her: dancing, gyrating, spinning vixen who doesn't jive with anyone else, her body a sovereign nation in the mess of sweaty bodies and wandering hands. Brick chokes on a lump of sugar (damn it's so sweet), but his eyes never leave her tangled locks, her thick and drumming thighs, her parted lips that scream danger. Watching her, he finds that the party is looking far more appealing than his pathetic coffee and the loosely strewn napkins, redox equations written in his chicken-scratch.

Fuck it.

It takes the redhead approximately two minutes to fix his collar, wipe the crusted drool under his chin, and wander inside the mayhem that is holding people captive. The door opens and, without warning, a girl without a face, makeup melting down her cheeks, trips into Brick's open arms.

"You have a drink, Mr. Sexy?" she slurs, curly hair sprouting like tentacles from her head and making Brick itch. He could recognize her on the fly. Princess Morbucks. Junior. Little Miss Popular.

"I'm good," he mutters, gently shoving her off into another guy before stepping through the threshold, discreetly searching for his danger is my middle name, I dance with thunder and scream like lightning girl.

Wading through the tidal wave of groping fingers and lurching kids, Brick finally has the nerve to simply shove past them, and tumbles into the living room where she is. Up close, ten-feet-away, she is sinking to the ground, then floating upward, her pelvis revolving in orbiting rounds before she opens her mouth as though to breathe. A heavenly sound, her breath is. She sucks in the warm atmosphere and exhales ice, everyone freezing within close proximity to her. For the world stops and Brick is staring at her, fingers twitching to grab ahold of her tiny body and kiss her until time itself comes undone.

Without wasting another second, Brick gathers his confidence and strides toward her, keeping his dignity in check, smoothing his scraggly, shoulder-length hair behind his ear. He refuses to be an idiot. He may look the part, given how his clothes reek of vodka and how his shirt has come so duly untucked, but he runs the lines through his head (what should he say, fuck it all) and spits together a single coherent sentence.

Once he's within arm's reach, however, Tom Odell bleeds into Logic and the timing is off. The treble clef transforms into a bass, the trumpet hums, the piano drops an octave, and the violin sings vibrato; his girl halts in the middle of her colorful dream, body at a standstill. And then, slowly, ever so slowly, she rocks back and forth, baby hands cradling her chest. Brick watches, amused, slightly bewitched by her movements, and without haste, his mind finally clear of alcoholic haze, he squeezes her shoulder. She doesn't startle. Instead, she breaks 4/4 time and glances at him through thick lashes, pink eyes bearing somewhere far deeper, far more perplexing than Brick expected.

"Have you heard this song before?"

Taking heed of her question, Brick arches his head back, then bows forward to listen, take my mind and take your pain whispering through the speakers.

"He has a lot of grit in his voice," she sighs, resuming the habit of switching her weight from foot to foot.

Brick senses it, the grit. He feels the grime, sticking like residue to the words. The rocks are tumbling, are afoot and, all the while, despite the hardness in his voice, she is somehow so soft under his calloused hands. Brick really needs to say something before he simply crushes her to a wall, leaving purple blemishes in his wake of bruising kisses.

"You want something from me, don't you, Brick?"

He nods. He does want something from her, but his request is stubborn and refuses to leave his tongue, the question yanking on a tooth; a cavity will begin to carve inside him.

Her movements, her oh so beautiful movements become mechanical as she turns toward him, "we can't do this again. Not again."

Brick towers over her by at least a foot. In comparison to her, his shoulders are broad and his quads are wed with stunning calves. She used to always joke and say, join the football team, they could bank on a better quarterback than Mitch. And he'd always kiss her on the mouth to muffle their laughter, their lips passing brilliant catches across the planes of their bodies, hands fumbling for purchase on the yards of skin they had yet to explore. They both knew he'd make it, make the team. And when he did, well… look where that got him—trophy after trophy, A+ slipping down a D- slope, parties chugged from kegs, vomiting hangovers and all-nighters one after another, and who knew, but cheerleaders make the most amazing splits between the sheets. The last time she kissed him, it had been her fist against his cheek.

He always knew she'd make a great boxer. She had the hands for it, the strength for it. But every time the thought crosses his mind, Brick shivers at the thought of those hands becoming worn, of becoming rough and blistered and torn, and he can't stand it.

Which is why, as he catches a glimpse of her soft, delicate hands cupping her elbows, her palms smooth and without scars and so her, Brick tugs her close and kisses her harder than he ever has. He feels her beneath his grasp, body turning into putty, but he knows she's resisting, knows she wants out out out now. He doesn't let up. He lets her fight him, but holds her trembling body in his and licks her lip, then says: "let me kiss you one last time."

"Blink-182… how original," she exhales shakily, face pulling away so they can breathe, so the room can come back to them and everything will be as it was, as it should be.

"I miss you, Bloss. I miss you," he wills himself to say. What should be coming out of his mouth next is I'm sorry, please give me another chance because that's what he should say, that's what he needs to say, but instead, roaring thunder eases onto his tongue and he's kissing her again, mouth in mouth, hands grappling for hair, tongue down her throat, body achingly near the closest thing he calls home.

"I need you now. Bloss, I need you so bad," he groans, his plea muffled by his own sloppy, heated kisses.

He feels her mouth pry against his own, but he doesn't let her speak, knowing he won't like it, won't like that it resembles no or we can't or this isn't right because it is right. It's so right. She is the only thing in his life that has been right and he can't lose her now, he can't hear her whisper how wrong it is, how their bodies are committing treason, how this is a sin, and that, no, they cannot be right.

But somehow, she finds her escape and shyly leans back. In her eyes, anger is flashing but also, to his surprise, there is fire. There is fire once again. And grabbing his neck, she forces him close, lips brushing along the shell of his ear.

"This is dangerous."

A tremor ripples down his spine, panting heat and desperate need catching in his throat. Brick forces himself to swallow, her perfume and sultry gaze settling somewhere far deeper than expected. And he knows then, that he truly can't stop himself from wanting this, from wanting her.

"I flirt with danger every now and then… sometimes airing on the side of caution proves a little too safe."

He feels Blossom smile against his lips, their bodies achingly close, her breath warm and tinted with the slight sting of alcohol. Judging from her flushed cheeks, this—whatever this is—is going to end up somewhere neither of them anticipated. But to Brick, whether it starts here or out in an alley or back at his place, it doesn't matter so long as his hands can curl around her hips once again, his knuckles pressing firmly against her lovely curves. He remembers how she felt all those months ago; his hands twitch with muscle memory. He misses playing her, fingers strumming her strings until she sings, palms cupping her body with tension leaking between her keys. This is music, and he misses hearing the fever pitch, screaming into the night, a siren in the distance. Not that it matters; he will have her because this is what they need, for this is how they make up.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

A/N: I honestly don't know what this is. I know it's not really smut, but it's rated M because why not? Actually, I'm kind of disappointed in the lack of good smut fics for the reds on this website. Maybe I'm not looking in the right place...? Anyways, this was my attempt at writing for a random prompt I found on Pinterest.