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ghost-proofbaby · 11 months

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

HOUR EIGHTEEN

in which eddie shows you deftones, texts are missed and calls are answered, and lines are crossed once more for good measure.

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

→ warnings: strong language, light dry humping?, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ wc: 4k+

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

18:00 ─────────────ㅇ── 24:00

Steve-O: rise and shine, campers! time to get back at it with these wellness checks. gonna need some proof you two are still alive.

HOUR EIGHTEEN - 9:00 AM

Eddie’s eyes narrow in concentration at your phone as his thumbs fly across the screen, navigating the Spotify app with ease to find the Deftones song he specifically wants. He doesn’t do as you had and go to their artist page – he searches with purpose, in no mood to scroll through albums to find the song he’s looking for.

“I still don’t understand how you can type so fast,” you mumble, watching with fascination that you try to tamper down with faux boredom, “Even I can’t type that fast, and I own the damn thing.”

He doesn’t even glance up as he scrolls along the screen, finding the song and clicking on it, “I’m just good with my fingers.”

There it goes. The air from your lungs, once again vacating the premises as he freezes beside you.

It isn’t fair. An internal whine that nearly works itself up your throat and out your mouth, making you want to stomp your feet like a child. You hadn’t even recovered from the casual drop of baby yet. And now he’s going to just say that?

“Oh, God, I-” he’s looking up finally, eyes wide and stuttering with embarrassment, “Fuck, I swear to God, I did not mean that as an innuendo.”

You open your mouth. You close it. You repeat the process. You’re fucking speechless and it’s a little bit embarrassing.

“I’m serious!” he persists when you don’t reply, and only stare at him in continued shock, “Seriously! I- Fuck, I was referring to with my job. At the autoshop. I’m- Fuck,” he cuts his explanation off, dragging a hand over his face and falling back into the couch, “Kill me. Kill me now, please – and be sure to make it quick and painless, pretty please.”

You finally laugh. It’s a bit choked, a bit strangled, but it instantly has Eddie lowering his hand.

“I think if we were going to kill each other, Munson, it would have happened hours ago,” you try to tease him, but something about the sentiment comes out far softer than you intended. Like it’s not a joke. Like, in your own odd way, you’re trying to whisper a truth to him – everything has changed for me now.

“Probably,” he sighs, relaxing a bit and leaning back beside you as he looks to the phone once more and clicks on a song, “Proba-fucking-ly.”

For the first two songs, there is a distance to be kept between the two of you. You peek at the screen and catch the titles – Cherry Waves and Sextape – and make a mental categorization of which one you enjoy more. You nearly audibly snort at Sextape, but manage to keep your immature humor to yourself. You prefer Cherry Waves, anyways.

The songs that follow become a bit of a blur. Because for the first two, the distance existed. You can focus on the guitar and the vocals and the bass drum and everything except the man sitting beside you. But then song three comes on.

Fucking song three. You don’t catch the name, but it might be your favorite yet. Or you might be biased.

Because it’s during this third song that something changes. Eddie is no longer content in just leaning back beside you, in letting you consume the new music in a sort of solitude that was impressive to achieve when not actually alone. You first notice his restlessness in the bounce of his knee, shaking beside yours as he finally puts the phone down on the coffee table rather than balanced on his thigh. You don’t comment on it, you let it slide. You faux indifference. But then, the flexing of his hand starts.

It’s odd. Sure, plenty of people mess with their hands in relation to nerves, but you’ve never seen it happen like that before. The slow stretch of him pushing his fingers to their limits before retracting them, bending his knuckles as he tucks the tips in. The veins along the top of his hand popping exceptionally.

“I’m just good with my fingers.”

I fucking bet he is.

You curse yourself for the warmth that burns in the pit of your stomach. Focus. You should be focusing on the music, on taking in what he’s sharing with you.

Not on his hands. Specifically his fingers, and how good they’d feel-

Fucking stop it. Cut it out. No.

It takes an ungodly amount of willpower for you to look away, but you manage it. Unfortunately, what you don’t manage to do is ignore the bouncing of his leg. You don’t manage to extinguish that burning that he’s begun in you — a fire started from his kindle.

Impulsive. Impulsive, and a little stupid, and endlessly daring. That’s what it is when you finally reach out a hand to land on his knee midsong.

The shaking immediately ceases, and you take over the soothing motions as you let your thumb initially rub in arcs against the side of his thigh. With each strum of the guitar that rings out, you let your thumb complete its semicircle motion. With each pounding of drums, you give a gentle squeeze. He doesn’t say a word about it, and neither do you. Especially when he drops his hand over yours, wiggling his fingers between yours with the failure of a casual grace. You try not to smile as you flip your hand and let him properly intertwine them.

Flexing, but this time, it’s to squeeze your palm to his. You still think about those goddamn fingers.

“So, what do you think so far?” Eddie asks after he clears his throat.

“They’re good,” you nod, finding yourself shuffling subconsciously closer to him now that he’s gripping onto your hand, “Really good.”

“I’m just good with my fingers.”

You know that he’s more than just good. Just like Deftones, you’d dare say he’s really good.

The song switches, and both of you have scooted close enough to one another that your thighs press together. Shoulder to shoulder, sharing enough space to feel his breath on the side of your bare neck.

His grip on your hand tightens.

You want the opposite. You suddenly want his hand to detach from yours and to find home on your cheeks, hands on either side of your face before he’s pulling you into him, throwing caution and formality to the wind. You two have already crossed that line; why was it so hard to take that leap once more?

The song is still playing. You don’t recognize the tinny guitars that are on the loop of repeating the same notes, an echo effect of sorts layered over them.

It’s just the guitar. And suddenly, the rasps of Eddie’s breaths are something your acutely aware of. Like he’s closer, like he’s letting his head tilt even closer to you. You feel that heat transferring between your biceps that are smashed together, not even thin layers of t-shirt or the sleeve of the crew neck able to stop it.

It all happens suddenly.

The guitar pauses and Eddie’s hand loosens in yours. Your heart races, and you realize you’re preparing yourself for what he’s doing before he’s even sprung into action.

Kiss me, the sigh you let out whispers.

It’s answered by the song, and by Eddie. A combination of the two that you can’t differentiate.

The silence in the song is cut off by whimpers. One from the lead singer on the track, one from Eddie. Both breathy, both shakey, both whispering of the loss of control.

“Fuck it.”

Two words. He says those two words again as his warning before he lets go of your hand and is reaching up, shifting your two bodies impossibly quick as his hands do exactly as you had craved. One on each cheek, and then he does it.

He kisses you.

It is neither kind nor gentle, despite the allusion that it might have been from the way he cradles your cheeks. The callouses on his fingers scrape your cheeks, you can feel every crack in his bottom lip as it slots between your own. It’s easy and quick work, the way your mouths can mold together so effortlessly. Tongues that were once so sharp as they’d spit venomous words at once another now meet and pass over teeth, blurring the lines of where you end and he begins — of where hatred ended and this began.

Whatever it is, whatever it will be for these last few hours, whatever it will be once the clock runs out, you’re grateful. You, your vinery, your civility — they all scream their prayers of thanks as his hands drop from your cheeks and find your hips. You don’t even process that he’s tugging you onto his lap or that you’re letting him until it’s happened. Your thighs bracket his own hips, and he gives you no time before he’s pressing your full weight into him, hands clawing at you, desperate to keep you close.

You can’t even hear the song anymore over the roar of your own heart.

“Baby,” he murmurs against your mouth, and you realize now what the price is.

The price is your sanity. The price is a loss of control, and letting him consume you whole. A small price in the grand scheme of it all.

“I-“ you start a sentence that you have no idea of what the ending would be, but he interrupts with his mouth. The teeth your tongue had once met bite down on your lip and you swear you taste blood, swear you see crimson as he sighs out again into your open mouth.

His hands guide your hips against his. A steady rhythm, and with only a few passes, you can feel him harden against you. Your pace picks up of your own doing, the friction of your panties and his pajama pants nudging your clit and leaving you breathless.

What the fuck are we doing?

You should stop it. You should mind the delicate balance you two have been trying to achieve since you first crossed this line.

You only push down harder on him, only bite down on his lip as he had yours. This time, blood might have honestly been drawn — the hiss that escapes him says it all.

“You’re going to be the fucking death of me,” he chastises you between kisses, “You want to know what was fucking wrong earlier? You. You are driving me insane, you are driving me straight into the fucking grave.”

Oh.

The way he had leapt up. His nervous energy. The way he had put as much space between the two of you as possible.

“I affect you that much?”

It is not a confident question — you completely pull away from him, leaning back as you breathe it out, hands finding home on his shoulders as you survey him.

He’s being honest.

His pupils are wide but those brown, doe eyes have softened as they meet your gaze. His chest is heaving, his lips are already bruising pink as they fall apart so casually.

He’s being honest.

You affect him, you’re doing this to him — he’s caught up in flames, no sign of salt water in sight.

“You always do,” he says, “Always have. Probably always will.”

Your grip on his shoulders tighten.

I could never hate you.

How blind you had been. How absolutely, blissfully unaware you had been functioning all these months.

A hand trails from its grip on his shoulders, fingers slipping over his bare collar bone, “What do you mea-“

You don’t get to finish the question or dig any deeper into the revelation. The music both of you had long since abandoned has been replaced by the ringing of your phone.

Eddie’s eyes immediately pinch shut, face twisting with irritation. You can’t tell if he’s more annoyed at the interruption due to whatever breakthrough you two were on the precipice of, or because he’s still painfully hard beneath you. But he quickly wraps one arm around your waist, tugging your torso flush to his as he leans forward quickly and reaches out to grab your phone.

“Oh, what the fuck,” he huffs once his eyes are open again and he’s looking at your phone screen.

Your face has been pressed into the crook of his neck due to the current position and way he’s tightly holding you to him. You have no clue who it is, but you have five decent guesses to throw out.

He answers for you. Sharply and bitterly, he snaps out a, “What do you want, Harrington?”

Steve. One of the five guesses. Go figure.

“Yes, we’re fucking alive,” Eddie holds no patience for your friend, all the softness he’d held for you gone save for the stroke of his thumb against the bare small of your back, “We were-“

A pause. You wonder for a second if he is going to admit it. If right here, right now, he would confess to your friends what has happened. How he could never hate you, how you drive him insane, how by nothing changing that everything has changed.

“Sleeping.”

An answer to your question. You hate your disappointment, and bite it down with vengeance.

You can faintly hear Steve’s voice over the phone, not quite as trilling or pitched as Nancy’s or Robin’s. Eddie’s annoyance still rolls off of him in waves, and you imagine that you’d catch him rolling his eyes along with his little huffs of air if you were to finally lift your head from his neck. But you’re selfish, and his arm is still around you waist as it presses you tight to his chest, so you indulge yourself. You dig your nose deeper against the junction of his neck, you take in his lingering cologne and let the stray curls tickle your cheeks.

You should have known he wouldn’t admit it.

“Okay, okay,” Eddie grumbles into the phone, barely getting out the repetitive word before his breath hitches as you pucker your lips against the skin you’ve been burrowing into. It’s only a chaste kiss, but it has its desired effect, “Okay, Harrington. We’ll send a fucking photo. You done?”

Then it hits you. A fun game, a distraction from your disappoint and a way to crawl under his skin all in one. You fight hard not to let a smile spread at the risk of him feeling it against his neck as you take a deep breath in through your nose, noticing the way his shoulder nearly reflexively lifts slightly as if it tickles, because you’re puckering your lips again.

The second chaste kiss is testing the waters. He doesn’t react. And so you go forth with your plan, mouth falling open, teeth grazing his jugular.

He reacts microscopically. His chest halts movement.

It’s not enough for you.

So you suck. Hard. Puckered lips and a vendetta to prove, you let your teeth bite at the skin that sucks into your mouth.

That does the trick.

“O-Okay!” he yelps out in surprise, his hand bruising as he grips you harder. He tries to pull his neck back from you, but his hand only presses you down onto his lap and you feel his dick twitch beneath his thin pants, “Christ, Harrington. We fucking get it. We’ll send a photo. And we won’t sleep another wink, so bite me,“ he pants out as you move to the spot beneath his ear, finding where his jaw connects to his throat, repeating the process and doing exactly as he had told Steve. His hips buck up into you, “Okay, I’m hanging up now, Harrington. Bye.”

You’re grinning wildly against his ear as he tosses your phone carelessly somewhere on the couch — or maybe the floor, you couldn’t tell at this point — before he’s flipping you down onto your back on the couch and hovering over you.

Your head falls back instinctually, leaving your neck open for him to begin an assault of kisses.

“Are-“ A kiss. “You-“ A bite. “Fucking-“ A soothing lathe of tongue over the bite. “Kidding-“ A harsh suck. “Me.”

You writhe beneath him, but he’s pressing his entire weight down onto you, hips slotted between yours and one hand pinning both your wrists to the cushion above as the other stays glued to your waist.

“Did you think that was funny?” he breathes out against you, letting the tip of his nose barely graze over the base of your throat, “Doing that shit while I was trying to talk Harrington down from that damn ledge?”

“Why was he on the ledge to begin with?” you breathily question, trying to move your hands from his grasp, the urge to run your fingers through his curls growing. He only tightens his hold.

“Apparently,” he pauses and presses a quick kiss at the edge of the sweatshirt collar, looking up at you through his bangs and lashes, “He had texted, and we didn’t respond. Photos are back in demand.”

“We’re quite the commodity,” you try to joke, avoiding his gaze. Trying to avoid the softness buried deep inside there, all soft and melted in shades of brown, “We should start charging them.”

“We are charging them, technically,” he snorts, finally letting go of your wrists and leveling his face above yours.

Right. You keep forgetting the promise of a cash prize if you make it out of this alive.

Alive, not unscathed.

You’re already picturing that cash as blood money, some pathetic trophy that won’t even begin to cover the irreversible scars that will be left behind. All the hurt, all the fights, all the realizations — no amount of promised money can erase them.

You start to consider what could erase them, but you stop yourself when you realize that that admittance is too heavy.

He’s here. The weight of him is pressing into you, the smell of him is encasing you, and the stare of his big brown eyes is locking you in. You have him. For a few more hours, you have him.

The wounds can wait. The time to heal and scar over will come later.

“I guess they are, huh?” you laugh when you realize you’ve gone too long without replying.

The stare turns curious. Still melted chocolate, still deathly soft for you, but curious all the same. “Yeah. Yeah, they are.”

You’re about to retreat into your own head and consider what he might do with his share of the cash, but that voice in your mind whispers once more.

He’s here. You have him. Just ask him.

“What are you doing with your money?” you blurt out.

He chuckles and shakes his head, curls falling over his shoulders and creating a curtain as he continues to balance his weight on his forearms settled on each side of your head, still hovering over you.

You should probably comment on that. Make a snide remark about it. Shove him off.

You don’t.

“Is that really want you’d like to talk about right now?”

Right, the weight of his hips as he rolls them gently into you reminds you of what the two of you had been doing before the phone call. The boundaries you’d hopped right over, all the lines you two had been in the process of crossing.

The affect you have on him.

Your stomach twists and suddenly your legs fall open wider to welcome him in, only to wrap them up around his waist. He lets you, lets you pull him right in until your chests are flush to each other. The only thing separating your skin from his is this damn sweatshirt.

“I… Maybe,” you force out just before his lips capture yours. It’s not as urgent as when he’d pulled you in for a kiss to Deftones, but it’s still enough to shatter every bone in your body before melding them all back together into something new, something different.

Something changed.

Eddie smiles, and it’s almost shyly. “Maybe?”

You hum, but it’s cut off, caught in your throat with another roll of Eddie’s hips.

“Okay. Let’s talk about it then, sweetheart.”

Another roll of his hips, and you lift your own to meet the thrust this time, trying to catch him against you in a way for reprieve. You can feel the wet patch gathering on your panties, your thighs clenching onto his hips harder.

“What ever shall I do with my money?” he pretends to ponder, eyes shooting up to look away from you in faux contemplation.

As he does it, one of his hands wander over your sternum, dancing above the fabric of the borrowed clothes.

“Maybe I’ll buy a new bike,” he muses, the hand wandering lower, tracing a steady line down your abdomen, “Maybe I’ll get myself a new guitar.”

His hand has reached the hem of the sweatshirt, slips beneath it and plays with the edge of your panties.

Your mouth will be your damnation as you snipe back, “Or maybe you can buy yourself a whole collection of playboys, filled with plenty of models who definitely don’t look like someone you claim to hate.”

His hand retracts immediately, and you can’t help but begin to giggle.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you start to gasp out when he lifts away from you, reaching out to grab onto him.

He’s fast, but your hands are quicker. You wrap them around the back of his neck and tug him into you, only for him to continue to lift himself up and bring you with him as well this time.

You resemble a koala, and can only imagine what the scene looks like to an outsider.

“Eddie!” you practically squeal, and can feel the vibrations of his own laughter as he sits up on his knees, you still clinging to him.

His arms wrap around you and you lean back, catching that mischievous glint in his eyes. It breaks through the softness, burns brightly in your chest as your laughter fades into soft breaths that hit his freckled cheeks.

You stare at each other for a moment, a tangle of limbs and unspoken words. His earlier admission isn’t forgotten, the lines crossed all painted in red now.

He’s here. You have him, for now.

You can only imagine the claw marks you will be leaving behind when the clock strikes twenty four hours, and you’re forced to leave him and this behind.

“You, sweetheart,” he finally breaks the silence with gentle smirk, “are a certified boner killer.”

You don’t miss a beat, reaching down between you two, hand cupping his still prominent erection, “You sure about that?”

He only groans in response, and in your following cackles, your hold on him slips.

He could have let you fall back roughly on the couch, especially given his distraction with fighting his ever growing smirk. He could have let you smack your head back on the cushion and let you deal with the dull ache that would have followed. He could have, he could have, he could have.

He doesn’t.

He guides you back with his arms still tight around you. Makes sure that you land softly against the worn plush. Takes his time removing his grip on you before he’s standing up from the couch.

You lay back, so sincerely content as you let out a final breath of a laugh and watch him shake his head in amusement as he turns to leave.

“Where are you going?” if it weren’t for the residual giddiness of the moment, you’d have been embarrassed by the clinginess that had threaded its way into your tone.

“The bathroom,” he answers without hesitation, back facing you as he starts down the short hall.

You call after him, “Okay. Don’t take too long this time!”

Even as his laughter echoes faintly, you know you still have him. For now.

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#twenty four hours #my writing #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #i may have hyped this one up a little too much #next chapter has some action though lol

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jtl-fics · 1 year

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Fluent Freshman - Part 10

He calls his grandma to thank her for everything. She promises him that if anything keeps him from her on Christmas she’ll just make her way over to South Carolina to see him. “Maybe I can give that boy who is bullying you a piece of my mind!” She says and he loves her for it even if the thought of Andrew vs. his 70 year old grandma gives him heart palpitations that have nothing to do with the five hour energy he just slammed when no one was looking.

(He had eaten turkey because Abby had asked if he didn’t like it when he had forgone the white meat being passed around. She looked SAD so he just piled the dark meat onto his plate (at least it has less tryptophan) trip and now he needs to counteract the turkey. He could not afford to be sleepy on the impending car ride.)

He lets her know that everyone likes her pie and Abby had been overjoyed when he informed her that his gran always attaches a recipe card to the bottom for any pie in transit / for public consumption. (This is a woman who has been asked enough that she has the confidence to assume).

He gets off the line and feels the 5 hour energy kick in when Captain Neil appears out of nowhere next to him and he thinks he strains something when he resists the flinch his rapidly beating heart almost forces him into. “What language was that?” He asks.

“Polish.”

“You really do know a lot of languages. Just like your friend said.”

DANGER. DANGER. DANGER.

“Not that many.” DEFLECT DEFLECT DEFLECT “When are we heading out to Columbia?” DAMMIT

Captain Neil blinks but smiles, “We’ll be heading out in a little bit. Abby’s packing us leftovers. Too bad there’s no pie left. Do you think we could make it at the house? Andrew really liked it.” Neil says.

Pie is a safe topic. Pie will not betray him. Also if Andrew wants pie then he can’t kill FF until FF makes it and, perhaps, the pie will buy him a few extra days of mercy from his executioner.

“We can try. The secret ingredient is a grandma’s love though.” He says because it’s on the recipe card. It’s the most important ingredient in the whole pie. It’s what can keep a pie warm across a country. “Gran always says whipped cream can be used as a substitute though.” he says.

Captain Neil blushes.

DAMMIT WHY? WHY BRING UP THE WHIPPED CREAM?

“Well, we’ll have to pick some up from the store.” Captain Neil manages.

FF blanks his face as best he can and nods but gets up his heart beating too fast to remain seated. “I’ll be outside.” He says because he needs to walk around in some circles while he can. The car ride to Columbia is going to be a nightmare in general but especially since he slammed the five hour energy.

Kevin is the reason for the hold-up and the reason that FF gets 80 more laps around the house. He’s reminding them that they can’t stop exercising just because it’s a break gesturing to himself and the 20 minutes of squats that he just did to burn off the pie and then to FF who passes a window for the 10th time since this conversation started “See FF is keeping up with his fitness. Be more like him.”

Wymack eventually drags Kevin out of the house and into his car since they’re spending the break together. He flashes FF a thumbs up as FF passes and FF (unaware as always but great at mimicking social cues) gives him a thumbs up back.

It’s then that they get into the car. FF (as is the way of the world) is sitting bitch with Aaron and Nicky on either side of him.

Captain Neil is up front and starts to play some music. Both Nicky and Aaron are conked out before they even reach the entrance to the interstate. They have also slumped onto FF with Aaron asleep on his shoulder and Nicky drooling into his hair.

“You can just shove them off.” Andrew says.

“It’s fine.” FF says reminiscing about the last time he’d had something like this.

20 minutes later it’s not fine because the five hour energy is definitely kicking in but it would be so rude to move and wake Nicky and Aaron up. Nicky is probably tired because he came to check on FF five different times the night before and kept dragging him away from whatever Saw movie he was taking notes on and Aaron ate a LOT of white meat so he’s filled to the brim with tryptophan.

But he thinks he’s about to vibrate out of his skin.

He closes his eyes to try and breathe through this when.

“Smith said that we can try and recreate his grandma’s pie. We’ll just have to do a grocery run tomorrow.” Captain Neil says in Russian.

“It was good pie.” Andrew returns in the same language.

“He said that the secret ingredient is grandmotherly love.”

“It was on the recipe card. It said for best results be sure to add throughout the baking process.”

“His grandma said whipped cream was a good replacement. That it goes great with the pie.”

Uh-oh

FF knows that tone.

FF has fled across campus, the bus, the dorm room, and (one one notable occasion) the locker room when he has heard that tone coming from Captain Neil.

“Pie isn’t the only thing it will enhance the flavor of.” Andrew says back and FF feels as the car speeds up.

FF wishes that Andrew would just hurry up and crazy murder him already. He’d take the reverse bear trap over this psychological torture. He wants to pull up his phone and read if the Geneva Conventions list this as a war crime.

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#Fluent Freshman AU #Even I couldn't bring myself to write the next hour of Andrew and Neil getting one another excited #Just imagine Fluent Freshman in this car #Body full of five hour energy #Trapped between two sleeping cousins #He can't sleep and he can't move #But he knows EXACTLY what Captain Neil and Andrew are planning to do with some poor unknowing can of whipped cream #Does the fact that he knows Andrew will be preoccupied give him any mental relief?#No it does not #because what if they do sexy stuff to get hyped up for murdering him as a couple activity #He's heard weirder from the two of them at this point #AFTG #AFTG OC #AFTG AU #Andreil #FF - Pt. 10

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