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ghost-proofbaby · 1 year

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

HOUR NINE

when you and eddie can't sleep, he has a bright idea. but only after he's lit a fire in your mind through a bathroom door. also, steve finally finds out what he said that night.

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

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, allusions to male masturbation, minors dni

→ wc: 6.9k+

→ a/n: oops my bad. this chapter is dedicated to @jo-harrington i know it's not exactly what you'd joked about but... i did it. solo eddie for the win.

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

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9:00 ─────ㅇ──────────── 24:00

DINGUS received a message from BIRDIE.

BIRDIE: i found out what you said.

HOUR NINE - 12:00 AM

When Eddie gets out of the bed, it wakes you up.

In all fairness, you were sleeping lightly to begin with. It had only been about twenty minutes since his quiet confession, an apology that hovered in the air between you two, lingering and plastering itself to the ceiling. He was sorry for everything. And the optimist in you couldn’t help but count what exactly everything entailed rather than sheeps. You were certain it included the events of the night so far, but did it include Steve’s party? Did it include the cruelty exchanged the night this bet was made? Did it encompass the passing in time in which he’d tucked himself away from you after first meetings, letting a sheet of ice separate you?

You’d fallen asleep halfway through the swirlings of ‘Did it…?’s, hardly realizing you’d left Eddie hanging after he’d whispered goodnight to you. You both knew you’d be waking up soon enough to send updates, or possibly receive a call from one of your friends. You both needed to utilize the time for rest – you were utilizing this time to rest.

Until Eddie got up. Until you realized Eddie wasn’t sleeping, and now suddenly, you couldn’t even keep your eyes closed for more than ten seconds at a time.

You listened to his footsteps as he left the room, as he crossed the hall and he shut the bathroom door behind him. When you did open your eyes, you focused intensely on the light pouring out beneath the small crack at the bottom of the door, waiting with bated breath for any sign of a shadow without luck.

Five minutes. You’re awake enough to count the five minutes without any further noise or sign of him returning to the bed.

You really shouldn’t be so nosey. He’s just using the bathroom in his own apartment. He’s probably just taking a piss, or more, and you hold no right to time him. But without him in the bed, there’s a cold you hadn’t expected. You hadn’t even been pressed up against him, the pillow wall still intact, and yet, his warmth had clearly reached you and kept you comfortable.

Maybe it wasn’t just his warmth. Maybe it was just his presence that made the room light up, swirling with something to wrap yourself up in rather than the chill of loneliness.

The decision is made by your body first, brain second. By the time your thoughts have caught up to the choice that yes, you need to check on Eddie, your bare feet are already meeting his carpet. It takes mere seconds for you to cross the room, cross the hall. You raise your fist to knock and then–

You stop.

A sound completely stops you, freezes you mid-action.

A whimper.

Your stomach clenches. It wasn’t a whimper of pain.

You’ve managed to cross countless lines with Eddie, both tonight and the entirety of knowing each other. You’d blatantly ignored boundaries he set in stone just as he did to you. The two of you had never functioned off of respect.

It’s what you remind yourself when you take a step closer to the door, when you lean to press your ear against the wood.

You nearly jump back when you catch onto the sounds coming from within the bathroom.

Oh, yeah. He’s fucking jacking off.

You’re familiar with that sound, hearing it both mocked in school and in pornos. The unmistakable sound of a fist gliding over flesh. Just as suspected, the whimper Eddie had let out on the other side of the door was by no means a sign of pain or distress – it was out of pleasure.

You tell yourself that you’re only keeping your ear pressed to the door to fully load yourself with artillery to tease him with once the time comes. You tell yourself it’s a necessary evil, that you don’t enjoy it. You completely ignore the way your own thighs are beginning to press together when the sound speeds up.

“Oh my- fuckin’ Jesus Chri- my God.”

Let it be known that you’ve never tried to picture what Eddie’s voice sounds like during sex. You’ve never fantasized about how many octaves his tone might drop, how breathy he might get from desperation, how his words might curl upwards with whines on the tailends. No, you’ve never thought about those things late at night. when you’re alone and have a hand between your thighs. You don’t have those thoughts about the guy you claim to hate. You don’t have the best goddamn orgasms of your life by picturing your hand replaced with his, the way the metal of his rings would nudge against your entrance.

You don’t. You don’t.

But something about the way he’s stuttering, sounding like a stereotypical porno in the way his voice is breaking, clearly close to finishing, has you pressing your thighs together tightly. It has your necks and cheeks flushing brilliant red as your chest heaves, recklessly trying to expand against the door you have pressed yourself against entirely now.

“Fuck.”

It’s muffled, led into by a heavy panting you can hear, even through the door, before being broken off by a long moan.

Maybe you would give yourself the best goddamn orgasm you’d ever had again once this was over. And maybe that would be the soundtrack.

You have to stumble back from the door, your entire body tight with frustration now as you back up away from the invasion of privacy you had taken part in. You don’t even have a chance to tell yourself it’s fine, because somewhere in your fumble to get away, your knuckles meet the door in an eerie resemblance of a knock, on accident.

You can’t play it off. If you heard it, he heard it.

“Uh, Eddie?” you nervously call out, cursing the way the words came out more like squeaks than tired syllables, “Everything okay in there?”

You can hear his panic, between sudden shuffling, the slamming of the faucet turning on, the curses beneath his breath before he suddenly calls out, “Y-Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine! Just stubbed my toe!”

“Okay…” you trail off, still breathing heavily, trying to return your heart rate to normal, “I, uh- okay. Just checking. Sorry.”

You scurry, quite literally scurry, back into his bedroom.

You shouldn’t have listened. You shouldn’t have eavesdropped, because now, this was all so, so much worse. Every fleeting detail of his living space passed by you, and all you could hear was a repeat of his harsh fuck he’d clearly let out on accident. When you’d found his playboys, it was all fun and games. He was a guy, and you knew what he did with those magazines, but you’d never been a door away from him doing that.

You’re not a very imaginative person, but you’re still trying to picture how his hand wrapped around his dick might look, what his dick in general looks like, when he exits the bathroom and finds you sitting there.

He looks even more embarrassed than you.

Your apology is on the tip of your tongue, an impulsive I’m sorry is stuck between your teeth. But saying those words is admitting to knowing he didn’t really stub his toe. It would be admitting to eavesdropping.

You’d be taking this night to the grave to you.

“How’s your toe?” you question instead, curling your hands into fists and forcing a weak smile.

You’re a shit pretender.

“Fine,” he breathes out, the edges of his bangs wet, probably with sweat, and his eyes wide in fear, “It’s, uh, fine. Sore.”

It’s okay, though, because he’s a shit pretender, too.

He makes no move to sit down, and you almost laugh at the palpable tension and awkwardness in the room. Both of your chests are still heaving, both of your cheeks are still burning, and both of you are flooded with distrust by your words.

“I can’t sleep,” you break the silence with the worst possible conversation starter. If the roles were reversed, if Eddie said this to you, you’d just shrug in response.

Eddie isn’t you, though, thankfully, “You just were.”

“And now I’m not.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t.”

Some habits die hard. Even in the new waves of Eddie’s apology, even as you two entered uncharted territory of unspoken civility, there was still bickering to be had.

“This argument is just waking me up more,” you sigh, leaning back on your palms behind you, “I’m definitely not getting any more rest.”

Eddie’s eyes trail over you, head to toe, and your breathing stops completely, “Well, yeah, not wearing jeans. Did you bring anything comfortable to wear?”

Did he just check me out?

That starts a fire within your brain. The blush isn’t even a product of him making you flustered anymore, it’s the physical billboard to alert everyone of the flames that will surely consume you within the hour. A warning to Eddie, that if he doesn’t stop, you’ll be nothing more than a pile of ash caught between his carpet’s fibers.

You’ve gotten lost in your thoughts until he’s snapping his fingers in front of your face, not too close but near enough to get your attention.

Which hand did he use?

You choke at the smokey thought, making him worry before you cough out a, “Sorry?”

“Clothes. Did you bring any?” he questions as he looks down at you in concern, “Maybe some pajamas, or just something comfortable?”

You don’t understand how it got to this point. How you’re the one so flustered, so embarrassed, when he was the one touching himself in the bathroom. Why are you the one with a fire blazing behind your skull, and why are you the one having to admit that no, you didn’t bring any clothes?

Your silence is all he needs before he turns to walk to his dresser.

“Eddie, wait, no-” you start to protest but he’s already holding out a black pair of sweats, a similar style to the ones he’s wearing.

“Here. I don’t know how well they’ll fit but…” he shrugs, almost shyly, before thrusting the clothing towards you with more intense purpose, “They’ve gotta be more comfortable than jeans.”

“I-I-” I can’t. I can’t wear your clothes because I’m already thinking about your dick, and which hand you masturbate with, and how you’d sound hovering over me as you grind your hips into mine, and- “Thank you.”

You take the damn pair of sweatpants, you swallow your pride, you continue to wade in his ocean. Maybe it’s all a game to him and he’s trying to break you (it’s working).

He continues to stand there awkwardly until you finally narrow your eyes, and take a single finger, waving it in circles to motion for him to turn around.

“What?” he asks, looking at your finger with wide eyes, still watching the circles it draws in the air.

“Turn around, idiot,” you try to laugh lightheartedly, but it comes out strained.

You’re still thinking about him inappropriately. You’re still intoxicated by the idea of the sounds you can pull from him with the right moves, the right kisses. But you can’t, you know you can’t.

You know he doesn’t think of you in that way. This feeling, unfortunately, is not mutual.

He’s clumsy in the way he turns, even covering his eyes with his wide palm despite it being unnecessary. You notice the way he almost raises his left hand before he hesitates and chooses the right one instead.

And now you’re convinced you have an answer to one of your burning questions. He uses his left hand, and instead of putting out some of the damaging flames within your mind, it fans them. You’ll definitely be nothing but a charred mess by the end of this night.

You try not to take long, quickly yanking off your jeans and tossing them beside you before you work the sweats on quickly. Eddie has them a few sizes too big for himself, and it works out in your favor.

You hate to admit it, but he was right – they’re comfier than your jeans by far.

“Okay, you can look again,” you mumble as you bend down to grab your discarded jeans, working on turning them back outside right and folding them neatly.

The turn to face you once more is even clumsier than his turn away from you, his hand dropping and slapping his thigh unceremoniously as he takes you in, “They… You… They, uh, fit. Good.”

What was once cute tension and easily dismissed uneasiness is becoming too much. He’s still nervous, you’re still burning, and the room is too stifling when filled with both awkward emotions and swirling wisps of smoke that are thickening.

So you do something about it. You choose to be the brave one and say something, “You’re being awkward.”

He immediately scoffs, still stiff in his actions, “Excuse me?”

“You’re. Being. Awkward,” you enunciate each word with heavy emphasis, keeping up a faux mask of indifference as you turn for the bed, setting your jeans down on the floor by the nightstand before you climb back into the side you’d previously occupied.

“I’m being awkward?” he’s following, taking the path from the end of the bed as he already has several times, leaving the wall of pillows intact, “You’re being awkward.”

“That is such a childish response,” you tease him as you see him begin to warm up once again. The bathroom incident is forgotten, stomachs unclenched and jaws slacking as the two of you rearrange beneath the comforter. Both of you are careful not to disturb the pillows that weigh down the center of it. You convince yourself for a second his returning warmth comes from being closer to you, from being close enough to feel the heat of your flames. Or perhaps he has a forest fire of his own transcending his own neurons, and maybe the feeling is more mutual than you’d believed.

If you never mention it out loud, he can never deny it, and you can continue to live in this newfound delusion and comforting fantasy.

You both still lie on your backs, mirroring each other with hands folded politely atop your stomachs and eyes glued to the popcorn pattern of his ceiling. It’s quiet. It’s nice. The only thing you can hear is his crashing waves and your crackling frames. You’re wading with your head above water still, not quite fully submerging yet, terrified that once you take the final plunge into him, the flames will be drowned out. Once he drags you under, he’ll settle the heat and the fever that has begun to haunt you, and you don’t know if what will be left in its place will be better or worse. You don’t know if you’re equipped to handle that unknown yet.

“You remember how you asked about my motorcycle earlier?”

His soft tone cuts through the white noise of it all. Every wave, every flame, every metaphor falls quiet for him. It’s suddenly just you, and just him.

“Yeah?” you roll your head to the side, daring to look at him. He’s already staring at you.

In the dark, you can make out a ghost of a smile as he says, “Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I like to take it out for drives.”

“Oh?” You’re tempted to twist your body to fully face him, to prop yourself up on your elbow and give him your undivided attention. You don’t.

“Yeah. I guess it’s why I prefer it over a normal car, or even a van like I had in high school,” his eyes are clouding over with thoughtfulness, with nostalgia. You can picture it fairly clearly; he seems like the type that would drive around an ominous van just to scare a town shitless. “It’s a pain in the ass because now I can’t lug around my own equipment for gigs, but there’s this parking garage that the bike can fit through the closed gates of-”

“Hold on, I’m sorry – gigs?” you take an extra second to process it, but you’re sure he just insinuated he’s in a band.

He’s giddy, those eyes lighting up in the darkness. You can see the dimples, you can see constellations exposing themself amongst his pupils, “Oh, yeah. I’m… I’m in a band.”

“How did I never know this?”

You both know the answer. Because before tonight, there was a clear division between you and Eddie for your friends. Before tonight, you two had never really gotten to know each other, save for the first night. You don’t know if your supposed enemy is in a band.

He doesn’t say that, though. And neither do you. Instead, he just whispers, “I don’t know.”

You can’t let the obvious go unsaid. You’d defeated the awkwardness, and you could handle your own brain being on fire from his match strikes, but this?

You couldn’t handle the heaviness of the past year in the room with you two.

“I’m sorry, too, by the way,” you should look away, look to the ceiling as he had when he said those words to you, but you don’t. You finally do as you wanted; you turn onto your side, fully facing him, bringing your hands to be folding between the pillow and your cheek, “I’m sorry for… everything.”

Everything. You wonder if it punches a hole in his chest, too. You wonder if you move like an ocean in his eyes, if your waves are beckoning him within those four syllables.

Now that the constellations in his eyes have been exposed, they refuse to vanish from your sight. He mimics your position, his hand tucked beneath his pillow.

When he doesn’t say anything, you have to fill the silence, just as you always do, “It doesn’t mean we have to be, like, friends or anything. I just… We were both jerks in the past. And you said sorry first, but- I’m not just saying it because you said it! I swear. You just deserve to hear that I’m sorry too. I regret it all, too.”

He nods subtly, licking his lips, “I mean, I don’t regret it all.”

Oh God, is he about to fuck it all up again?

“What do you mean?” your voice is impossibly small, a phantom of a whisper, clutched in fear and anticipation.

Please don’t fuck it all up again. I don’t think I can handle losing you twice.

“I mean… I… It was fun sometimes, wasn’t it?” he looks nervous now, blinking rapidly as if he’s fighting looking away from you, “You’re the only person who’s ever really given me a taste of my own medicine. Everyone else teases me, yeah, maybe banters from time to time, but you? I like the ‘no-bullshit’ policy you apply to me. Keeps me in line.”

A sigh of relief. A weight off both your shoulders, a heaviness that vacates the room.

“Fun?” your tone is confident, teasing even, once more, “What about me throwing a glass at your head was fun?”

“I said sometimes, not all the time,” he laughs, as if the memory of one of the worst nights between the two of you was just a fond tale between friends. Maybe that’s what you two were becoming – friends.

A brain on fire. Two lungs twisted in vines rejuvenating. He’s beginning to consume all of you, effortlessly, and you question if that’s what friendship is.

His laughter dies down, and you sigh, breathing despite the greenery and the smoke, “I get what you mean. There was a month there that just sort of felt like it was our thing. Just banter, or whatever.”

“Is it not our thing, still?” he raises an eyebrow, “I mean, clearly, we still argue. I think the day you don’t argue with me will be the day pigs fuckin’ fly, or whatever they say.”

“Whatever you say,” you banter back with ease, putting on a face of complete agreement. “Do you need me to check the news for you? See if little Porky grew wings?”

“Oh, shut up.”

You’re both cackling as he reaches down to the wall of pillows, grabbing one at random, leaving a gap as he flings it softly in your direction. It hits your chest and you fall dramatically onto your back, wrapping your arms around the fluff of it while still giggling.

The giggles linger as you pinch the corner of the pillow between your fingertips, rubbing as you glance down at the gap now in the wall.

You can see his torso now. The sliver of skin that is his exposed hips, the waistband of his boxers.

“You know, I’ve never met a guy with this many pillows,” you murmur, trying to steer your mind of his hips, his boxers, what’s beneath his boxers-

“I used to only have two. Then one time I brought a girl home, and she left because I only had two pillows.”

You can’t help but let out a snort of your own this time, “What? A one night stand left you high and dry because you didn’t have enough pillows for her fancy?”

“Yep. That’s exactly what happened,” he’s chuckling along with you at the ridiculousness of it all, “The next day I went to the store and bought all of these out of spite. Never saw the girl again, though. I like to think she’d be impressed.”

“Oh,” you’re still laughing, with your entire chest as you subconsciously crush the pillow tighter to your body, “So impressed. You know you’re going to have to tell me all about it now, right? You can’t leave me hanging like that.”

“I’ll tell you another time,”

Another time. It almost goes over your head – the first time either of you have even entertained the thought of hanging out after the twenty four hours have ended. You don’t show him that you notice, and just continue on laughing.

Somewhere amongst your delight, your head falls to the side and catches Eddie in the act.

An act of total, utter softness. His features are melted butter as he stares down at you, seemingly entranced by your laughter and joy in his tale of a failed one night stand. It’s not the kind of look produced from forest fires, or turbulent oceans, or a garden of vines. It’s the kind of look that is a natural disaster all on its own. It’s devastating – something in the two of you immediately breaks, quietly, desperately. There’s no repairing the damage being done; there’s no want for reparations.

The first bloom after a long winter finally sprouts on your vines. It’s bright and brilliant red – like scarlet blood, like hot and flickering flames. It’s watered by salt water, slow and warm and enticing.

You start to believe that even if you plunge beneath his waves, the fire Eddie has lit within you will always remain.

“We should go to sleep,” you whisper, eyes never leaving his. Trying to find the deep blue hidden within honey brown, to find seafoam green amidst wide, black pupils.

“We should,” he agrees.

“Goodnight, Eddie.”

“Goodnight,” he pauses, and then he adds your name, as if he’s testing the taste on his tongue, as if he’s saying it for the first time.

It feels like he’s saying it for the first time.

You look back up at the ceiling but still feel his eyes on you. A couple minutes pass, and neither of your eyes close. Just because you should go to sleep doesn’t mean you will.

“You’re not even trying to sleep, are you?”

You only hum in response, still clutching that pillow, still counting cracks in the ceiling.

“Alright, fuck it.”

Your eyes break to him as he suddenly is leaping off the bed, void of grace as he finally settles on his feet and races to his dresser.

“Um, Eddie?”

He doesn’t look up as he digs into a drawer, pulling out a long sleeved shirt, “Yes, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. A nickname that once filled you with venom now makes your insides twist in the agony of want. You want him to say it again.

“What are you doing?”

The long sleeved shirt flies your way, and he’s walking to grab a set of keys off the top of his dresser, “Getting you something warmer to wear.”

“And… why…” you’re still lost, looking down at the shirt in confusion. It’s black and fairly thick, the neck hole stretched and a haunting white font sketching out the words Corroded Coffin, “Why do I need something warmer to wear? Your apartment isn’t that cold.”

“Because it’s barely March, and it’s cold outside still,” he pauses and grins childishly, practically beaming at you as you continue to wearily eye the article of clothing. Once he realizes you’re still not getting it, he sighs dramatically and makes his way to your side of the bed, holding a hand out to you, “Neither of us can sleep. Let’s go for a drive.”

His palm stares you in the face, an offer of something that should be considered a plain bad idea. There’s a million and one reasons to not go for a drive. And so you tell him exactly that, ready to list them off in rapid fire.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Perfect. Means no one else is on the street.”

“We have to send a photo to the group soon.”

“The place is five minutes away. We can take a photo when we get there.”

“Place? Oh my God, are you actually going to murder me? You’re taking me to a secondary location and that is in stranger danger 101-”

Eddie stresses each syllable of your name as he says it, waving his hand that’s still stuck out for you to grab, “C’mon. There’s always a hundred reasons to not do something. Just… live a little. I promise it’s better than laying in my gross ass bed.”

You narrow his eyes and challenge him, remembering his words about the way you two still argue. He was right – there may never come a day you don’t feel compelled to go toe to toe with him, whether it’s of ill-intent or not, “Why is your bed gross? Jesus Christ, Eddie-”

He moves suddenly. One moment, he’s just standing there, charming as ever with a daring palm that calls to you like his ocean. The next, he’s impossibly close, placing a hand on either side of you as he leans in dangerously close.

“Change your shirt and meet me in the kitchen in the next five minutes, or I’ll come back in here and take your shirt off myself.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

If he had said those words to you nine hours ago, you would have castrated him. But the low tone of his voice, the brush of his breath over your cheeks, against your ears – you’re putty in his hands now as you nod dumbly.

When he leans back, he even looks shocked in his actions and words. But then he catches that look on your face – the blank stare and wide eyes, the rapid rise and fall of your chest – and a shimmer of cockiness returns.

“Five minutes,” he reminds you, tilting his head as he takes slow steps back and exits the room.

It takes you less than one.

The moment the shirt is on you, you’re encased with a new Eddie smell. The scents of the bed, of the apartment, of him still cling to the fabric, but it now mixes with something of fresh linen, lemon and clean laundry.

As promised, he’s in the kitchen, leather jacket on as he grabs his phone off a charger plugged in at the end of the breakfast bar lined with stools.

“You charge your phone outside of your room?” you ask as you carefully pad in, immediately heading to grab your shoes and slip them on. He’s already got his boots on, laced tightly. They should look comical against the grey sweatpants, but he’s making the entire look work.

“Saw some science magazine say it would help me sleep better,” he mutters as he flips the phone open, probably checking for missed calls or texts.

“That really only applies to smartphones. When did you even plug it in?”

You’re bursting with questions, nervous and eager to avoid what’s to come.

Being on Eddie’s motorcycle. With Eddie. Probably pressed up against Eddie’s back. Probably wrapping your arms around Eddie’s waist.

“When I came to wake you up on the couch,” he nods towards where you’re sitting, snapping the phone shut and shoving it into his pocket, “You ready?”

You wonder for a moment how he’d respond to you snapping back something bratty. How far would you have to push him for him to threaten you like he did in the bedroom again?

You’re not quite recovered enough from the first time, so you don’t press your luck, nodding in response to him.

—

Apparently, by the time you two reach his motorcycle parked on the street, you have recovered enough to press your luck.

He’d grabbed a helmet on the way out the door, and you’d just assumed it was for him. It made sense, considering the one time you’d seen him ride, he’d worn it.

But then, he was suddenly thrusting it in your hand. And the argument ensued.

“I’m not wearing this,” you try to shove it back into his hands, “You’re driving, you wear it.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve taken a dozen hits to the head in my lifetime. I can handle being banged up if something happens, but I’m not risking it with you. Put it the fuck on.”

You almost spit for him to not call you sweetheart, but it soothes something in you. Something made of your flames, something drowning in his ocean. A conundrum, whatever it is, because he’s just irritating you now.

“You could not survive a motorcycle crash without a helmet,” you snap.

“And neither could you.”

“Why don’t you have two helmets then?” you nearly toss the damn thing to the ground and declare that neither of you will wear a helmet.

He finally breaks and takes the helmet back roughly, “Because I don’t normally have a passenger,” he’s rotating the bulky, black shell in his hand, the glass visor for the eyes shining under the street lamps, “Consider yourself lucky. Most aren’t tall enough for this ride.”

You’re about to make an immature sex joke when he takes you off guard, smoothly bringing the helmet up over your head, not even giving you a chance to protest or fight him.

“I hate you.”

The words come out muffled to him, crystal clear to you in the helmet. But he still grins, and you can see it through the tinted glass.

You don’t think you’ll ever be able to miss another appearance of those fucking dimples for the rest of your days.

“Good. Glad to hear nothing’s changed,” he playfully jokes, rounding the motorcycle before he swings a leg over the seat and straddles it. You try not to watch and check your phone instead.

You’re getting kind of sick of imagining Eddie Munson naked. Something you’d never thought you’d have to think about.

12:35 AM. Your phone clearly displays the time, just as a text comes in from Argyle.

ARGYLE 😎: picture time, my dudes! say cheese (and send it our way) 📸

“Argyle just texted the chat, asking very politely for the photo,” you announce to Eddie, already holding your phone out so he could read the screen.

He’s kicked up the stand on the bike, balancing it with both feet on the ground, the entire thing leaning with him when he gets closer to read the text before simply saying, “Okay.”

“Okay? We have to take a photo-”

He snatches the phone from you, a terrible habit you needed to start scolding him for. “Well? Don’t just stand there, sweetheart. Get on the bike and smile pretty for the camera.”

It’s impressive how quickly the man who still has a flip phone has learned to navigate your smartphone. He’s already got the camera open, flipped to be front-facing as he waits for you to climb on behind him. But you haven’t moved.

He turns and looks at you over his shoulder, “Something wrong?”

“Nothing,” you squeak from beneath the helmet.

Just the thought of being pressed up against you after I’ve suddenly started fantasizing about you without shame is madly overwhelming. And if I have to wrap my arms around your waist, I might burst into flames outwardly.

“Okay,” he draws out, twisting further to watch you, “Need help, then?”

You don’t honor him with an answer, instead roughly grabbing his shoulders as you swing your own leg over the bike. You try to sit with distance between the two of you, but the curve of the seat won’t allow it, sliding you down until your hips are flush against Eddie.

It’s at this moment it dawns on you that if you are fantasizing about him, if you are indulging in the memory of the bathroom incident, he’ll feel it. You can hide or brush off a blush, you can avert gazes, you can pine just about every way physically without him knowing – you can’t stop him from feeling the heat between your legs as it’s digging into his lower back.

You swallow hard, and you pray that Eddie isn’t in a teasing mood.

“Good?” he asks when you don’t remove your hands from his shoulders.

Even through the fucking helmet you smell his cologne. If you had your phone, you’d be googling images of grandmas like a teenage boy, warding off your unsavory thoughts about the man in front of you.

“Good.”

You have to tilt to the side before you both come into view of the camera. Eddie realizes at the last moment that they can’t see it’s you, and he doesn’t even react as he casually reaches up to flip the window visor up, exposing your wide eyes and rosy cheeks. The photo is taken, your blush evident and his smirk not even close to being hidden.

He doesn’t even consult you before he sends it and passes your phone back, taking to tying back his hair as you fumble to secure the device in your pocket.

You still haven’t dared to wrap your arms around him as you know is proper protocol as a motorcycle passenger. Instead, one hand is still shoved in your pocket, and the other continues to rest on his shoulders.

“Alright,” he says, producing his eyes and putting them in the engine, not yet turning it, “Just put your feet up here,” he takes a hand to each of your calves and lifts, situating your feet on the small pedals designated for a passenger. Your skin burns through the layer of sweats – the flames aren’t just in your head. They’re everywhere now, licking and nipping and leaving your breathless. “And then hold onto me.”

You return your hand to his other shoulder, giving a squeeze on each for emphasis to say you’re ready. He makes no move to start the bike.

“What?” you complain, “I’m holding onto you!”

“If we hit a bump, you’ll go flying.”

When you don’t comply, he’s rolling his shoulders, shrugging off your touch before both hands fly back behind his back and capture your hands on their fall to your lap. His fingers are tight, warm, secure around your wrists as he pulls your arms to wrap around him in the exact way you’ve been avoiding.

It pulls you impossibly close to him. If it weren’t for the helmet, your cheek and nose would be painfully smashed into his shoulder. The heat of him radiates off his back, seeping through the sweatshirt he’d given you.

“There. Now is that really so bad?” His tone is cocky and confident, getting under your skin in a new tactic neither of you had ever broached.

Flirting. He’s flirting. He can feel the tremble in your palms, and he has the nerve to fucking flirt with you.

“Awful,” you quip, having to focus an insane amount to not allow your voice to shake, “I might vomit, it’s so bad.”

“Aw,” he tuts mockingly, hands finally letting go of your arms, clearly pleased when they stay in place as he turns his face to look you in your eyes, “Just aim for the street and not me, okay?”

Fire and flames dance in his eyes, easily reflected from the flush of your cheeks and the falsification of your glare. He’s going to be the death of you.

“I’ll try,” your voice does shake this time. You’re not as brave when he’s making eye contact.

The two of you are playing a dangerous game now. The venom of hatred has leaked out of your words, and what’s replacing it has the capability of breaking both of you far easier. This is no longer a game of who can make the other bleed – it’s no longer a game of you versus him. It’s a game of the two of you versus fate. The world’s worst game of chicken to date.

A natural disaster. A forest fire that eviscerates all common sense. A rowdy ocean that drowns every version of every possibility ever known. Nature taking back what was once hers, an abandoned haunt of a chest that is now back in full bloom against better judgment.

You, him, and fate. You always knew he would be your inevitable downfall. You’d always just assumed it would be a lot more screaming, a lot more fighting, and a lot less fantasizing what his lips would feel like against yours.

He reaches out, and you think for a second, his knuckle will brush your cheek and he’ll whisper that it’s okay for you to just give in, to let Fate have her way.

He doesn’t. He flips down the visor over your eyes, he twists the keys in the ignition, and he calls out loudly over the roar of the engine, “Hold tight, baby!”

Your arms tighten around his waist and you hope the flames that encase you char him all the same.

—

DINGUS: what did i say?

BIRDIE: it’s not bad.

BIRDIE: i promise.

BIRDIE: it’s just not great either.

DINGUS: robin. tell me what i said before i come across the hall to your room and break every the smiths record you own.

BIRDIE: jesus okay! hop off the violent train.

BIRDIE: i’m going to call you and explain because… context. just trust me and answer, okay?

DINGUS: jesus christ. okay.

—

The moment the girls have all left for the bathroom, each guy exchanges a look. Argyle nudges Jonthan, who then kicks Steve under the table, who takes his turn in facing his entire body in Eddie’s direction before tapping the boy on his shoulder.

He looks up immediately, only to be caught in the spotlight of his friends, “Uh… yeah? What’s up?”

“You like her,” Steve deadpans.

“You like her, my dude,” Argyle sing-songs from across the table, “I’m about to start planning a bitching wedding, I swear.”

Eddie freezes up, face scrunching up before he shakes his head violently, “What? No, I just met her-”

“Subtlety isn’t your specialty, Munson,” Jonathan adds in his two cents, “Lost puppy dog eyes are, though. Which you’ve been making at her all night.”

“I have not-”

“You guys think they’re more of a summer wedding couple, or fall? No, no, actually, scratch that – they’re clearly a winter wedding couple, man,” Argyle is teasing, but the warmth of his personality is genuine as he wiggles his brows at Eddie.

A smile finally cracks on the boy’s face.

Fine, maybe he did like her. Maybe he had been plotting subtle ways to get her number before the night ended. Maybe he had already been trying to silently catch Robin’s eyes to get her blessing without words.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve suddenly interrupts, “Tone down the teasing, alright, fellas?”

Eddie curiously turns his head to him, hiding a smirk behind the lip of his glass, “Why? You’ve already got eyes on her, Harrington?”

It was a joke. A stupid, stupid joke. A joke that never should have been made, because Steve was drunk and wasn’t in the business of using a filter once he was this many shots deep.

Eddie knows deep down he didn’t mean harm by the words. He knows that they were the words of a drunk man. But don’t all drunk thoughts have truth to them?

“What? Nah, man. Not anymore, at least. She was never interested. And I just don’t want us getting ahead of ourselves, because if she wouldn’t go for me, why would she go for you? I think we just-”

Eddie stops listening. Steve continues a drunken rant, and if Eddie had been listening closer, he’d hear about Steve’s grand plan to better feel out how she felt about him. He’d hear about how Steve would get Robin involved, maybe Nancy, how they could talk to her.

He’d hear that Steve meant more than those awful words that immediately take up residency in Eddie’s mind. But the damage is done. And just like that, a fate between Eddie and this new girl has been decided. There will be no asking for her number. There will be no giddy late night phone calls or terrible nerves when planning a first date. There won’t be anything – Fate clicks with reluctance as Eddie Munson begrudgingly closes the gates to his heart once more.

“If she wouldn’t go for me, why would she go for you?”

Steve was right. Eddie shouldn’t have gotten ahead of himself.

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#twenty four hours #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson smut #finally able to use that one we've been very brave haven't we #i wrote solo eddie from his pov too lol

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