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ghost-proofbaby · 12 days

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

"NIGHT TIME RELIGION"

EXTRA CONTENT- "BEYOND THE HOURS"

→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader → warnings: strong language, upside down does not exist, minors dni → wc: 2.3k+ → a/n: just a simple, sweet glimpse into what our favorite idiots' nighttime routine is like. probably got a little too poetic with it, as always <3

enjoy the main story's masterlist here

“You fell asleep again.”

It’s not a question, just a mere observation. Eddie doesn’t even put any emphasis on the key word there, that it had happened again, as he glances up on you sprawled out on his couch.

“Nuh uh,” you childishly rebuke, ironically squeezing your eyes shut tighter as you let your cheek nuzzle deeper into the page of the textbook you’d been taking notes on, “I’m… I’m wide awake.”

Every word painfully slurs with your next, voice mostly muffled. If he hadn’t been so close to you from where he was sitting on the floor, he probably wouldn’t have been able to make out what you’d just murmured.

It only makes him laugh softly as he focuses back on whatever piece of equipment he’d brought into the apartment that belongs to his bike, “Sure you are, sweetheart.”

The coffee table is spread with hand towels and paper towels alike as Eddie fiddles with the hunk of metal. You hadn’t even prodded him about what it was he was fiddling with; you were too busy, knee deep in your studies as you’d made yourself comfortable in his living room.

It was a normal routine now – something cozy, something domestic. Instead of being holed up in your dorm these days, you found yourself occupying apartment 2C far more frequently than you’d ever admit to anyone else. Half the time, the two of you didn’t even have plans. It wasn’t about elaborate date nights or purposeful hangouts anymore; these days, the two of you simply enjoyed one another’s presence. It was enough to just know he was there with you, in the same room, as the two of you were occupied with your own individual tasks. Sometimes, he would be reading a book as you wrote your essays. Sometimes, he’d steal your laptop to shop for new bike parts and accessories online as you caught up on your favorite TV shows. There had been plenty of phone calls with Nancy in which Eddie had let you simply rest your head in his lap, hands mindlessly carding through the scalp of your hair as he tried to offer assistance to his best friend’s daily troubles and rambles.

It was nice, and it was normal, and it was something the rest of the world would have to pry from your cold, dead hands.

The apartment could have easily become something akin to a prison after the bet, but it hadn’t. Instead, somehow and someway, you and Eddie had turned it into a proper sanctuary.

You no longer spent lectures daydreaming about returning to your dorm; your mind much preferred longing to return to Eddie’s room, to picture falling face down in his bed, where the pillow on the right side had begun to smell of your shampoo rather than his cologne.

“It’s getting late,” he sighs when he hears you go silent again. He’s not annoyed by any means. If he had it his way, he’d probably curl up on the couch with you for the rest of the night, content to fall asleep to the view of your face smoothing out in peaceful rest. But he knows if he leaves you be, you’ll wake up with an aching back and an attitude that makes even Harrington cower. He puts down his project for the night, wiping his hands on a damp paper towel before he reaches blindly behind himself to give you a few taps on your rear, “C’mon, we need to get ready for bed.”

You swat his hand away, and it only makes him grin, “It’s not that late. Plus, I’m comfy.”

“It’s half past eleven, baby.”

And oh, do you shoot straight up at that.

Your eyes are finally wide open as you look at him wildly, face struck with confusion, “Excuse me?”

“I said, it’s half past ele-”

“When the Hell did it get so late?” you fumble with yourself as he slowly gets up, making a show out of stretching all his limbs. You don’t even grow distracted when his arms reach well over his head and tug up his shirt, exposing that sliver of stomach that would normally entice you, “I swear to God, it wasn’t even ten like…. Ten minutes ago.”

“Ten waking minutes ago, maybe,” he teases, holding a hand out for you, “Time flies when you’re napping instead of studying.”

It’s hard for him to not smile so softly down at you right now, even as he watches the defeat take hold. Your entire outfit is compiled of his clothes, yet another t-shirt you’d snagged from him along with a pair of sweatpants that he can’t even remember the last time he’d worn them. Your hair is messy, falling out of the convenient style you’d fashioned in it hours before when you’d declared you needed to focus. Your shoulders sag, the corners of your mouth inch downward, and all he really cares about right now is getting you in bed so he can wrap himself up around you.

Your eyes dart between his outstretched hand and your textbook, still open on a page that you’d embarrassingly drooled on, “I know we joked about celebrating when I aced my finals, but can we still get milkshakes when I absolutely flunk them?”

The way you manage to melt his heart is impeccable. He doesn’t even have it in him to be snarky, or to make another menacing jokes, “Of course we can.”

That seems to make your decision. You finally reach out and take his hand, clearly trying to be dramatic as you pull on him with the entirety of your weight, almost as though your end goal was for him to actually end up beside you on the couch rather than to be standing beside him.

If your goal is the former, you fail miserably. He doesn’t budge beneath your drag, only leaning forward to grab your other hand and properly haul you off the couch.

“Oof,” you huff out as you collide with his chest from the force, letting your face smash into him and making no move to pull back, “Can’t you just carry me to bed? Is that an option?”

He almost says yes. Almost.

“We won’t even make it down the hall,” he chuckles, taking slow steps back, guiding you right along with him, “I may or may not have also dozed off at some point. Jury’s still out on that one.”

“Is it?”

You’re hardly lifting your feet, shuffling your way along, letting him walk you deceiving to the bathroom rather than the bedroom. He has no idea if you’ll be capable of doing your full skincare routine, but at the very least, he has to get you to brush your teeth. If he didn’t, he’d never hear the end of it.

“It is indeed,” he finally stops walking backwards, deciding it might become more dangerous rather than just dragging you along, “Probably won’t get a ruling until morning, so we might as well brush our teeth now, doll.”

He’s trying to sweeten the deal. Coaxing you with adoring pet names to keep you in motion.

“Ugh, effort,” you crunch your nose as you say it, and it’s clearly more for show than anything now. You’re fully conscious, capable of getting yourself to the bathroom sink where both your toothbrushes now sit side-by-side in a glass cup, but you don’t let go of his hand just yet.

His palm is warm, and right now, all you really wanna do is curl up in that heat.

Eventually, though, you let go. The two of you stand in the mirror as you go through the motions of wetting your toothbrushes, applying the toothpaste – all the boring, mundane actions that are more habit than conscious choices. But interspersed in the habits you’ve gathered over your years of life are new ones, minimal but vital after the amount of time spent together. Proof of the way this nighttime routine had become something of a religion between the two of you, something to be offered and to be shared rather than simply going through the motions.

The way Eddie carefully rolls the end of the toothpaste tube before passing it to you, simply so it’s easier for you to get your share of it. The way you leave the water running after you’ve wet your own brush just so Eddie can also do so. All the sneaky glances caught in the mirror as the corners of your mouths foam up. Every ridiculous face, every nimble bump of your hip to his, the way he sticks out his very white tongue at you before he spits out into the basin – new things that have all become the normal, but still settle warmth in your chest.

Things that water a garden of vinery and blooms that no longer only belong within the confine of your bones, but his as well.

A shared garden of memories and comfort. Growing, flourishing, nurturing one another.

You lean down to spit right before him, and when you take a second too long, he tugs on a strand of your hair, trying to move you. And even as tired as you are, you find it within yourself to be a little shit as he so lovingly mumbles out around his toothbrush, lingering until he’s bumping you with his hip with purpose.

Passing the floss back and forth (or more like you shoving the floss into his hands before he can try to argue against it), using the same paper cup to sip mouthwash out of – something so bland that you used to do it alone, now something to enjoy with him.

You kind of love it. You kind of love him.

“Should I wash my face?” you question, leaning in closer to the mirror and poking at your cheeks, checking your skin for any blemishes you can find.

Eddie only moves behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and making the entire ordeal far more difficult as his chin rests on your shoulder, “Not if you don’t feel like it. Besides, it’s gonna make your nose cold, and then you’re gonna press it all over my damn neck and-”

You cut him off with a joking glare, reaching up to flick at his nose, but he’s quick to pull his face out of your reach. Smiling widely, showing off those fresh and minty pearly whites.

“If my cold nose bothers you that much, I could just stay on my side of the bed tonight,” you scowl, even though you were already taking his advice and calling it a night, twisting out of his hold to flick the lightswitch and exit the bathroom.

He’s still stronger as he keeps his arms in place, only twisting himself around to face the door frame right with you, whining in your ear, “No.”

He drags out the ‘o’, his voice slowly growing more quiet the longer he draws out the vowel. At some point, it’s less than Eddie has ended the protest, and more that he’s just run out of breath.

His arms only leave your waist for the two of you to get dressed in proper pajamas. Well, what you both consider proper pajamas.

You, left in only his shirt and underwear, and Eddie simply in his boxers.

There’s no more sarcastic comments or lazy banter, although you certainly expect it. You’re almost holding your breath for it, right up until Eddie’s lifting his comforter and eagerly motioning for you to climb into bed first. Not one smartass remark about ladies first that could easily backfire on him as you shoved him into the bed before you.

No, he waits until the two of you are lying on your sides, facing one another, not quite touching when his face breaks into a radiant smile.

“What?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him, overly suspicious of his random burst of happiness.

“You call it your side of the bed.”

At first, you don’t get it, “What?”

“You called it your side of the bed,” he repeats with the utmost emphasis, finally throwing his hand out in search of your own, pulling it up to eye-level so he can toy slowly with each of your knuckles.

“Is it not?” you’re whispering like two children at a sleepover, your feet finally drifting to toe at his calves. If they’re too cold for his liking, you don’t know. He doesn’t flinch or complain, only spreads his legs ever so slightly so there’s a space left for you to fill as you intertwine limbs.

“It is,” he confirms, nodding a little, finally slotting his fingers between your own, “Just nice to hear you say it out loud.”

And suddenly, you get it.

It’s your side of the bed. It’s your toothbrush resting beside his. Your textbooks and laptops are still on his couch, you have a sticky note with a reminder for yourself to buy more milk put up on the fridge, there’s now a space for your shoes at the front door right beside his daily boots – slowly but surely, you’ve whittled out spaces for yourself here, with him.

Even when you’re not here in this apartment with him, your presence remains. Someone could walk in, and they still see traces of you. You exist here, constantly, right along with Eddie.

“Yeah,” you whisper back, finally scooching closer. He immediately shifts so that you can cuddle into his side, your head resting against his chest and your ear pressed to listen to his thrumming heartbeat. A perfectly carved out space for you even here, between this sheets, against his skin, “It’s nice to say out loud.”

Not a routine, but a religion. Something to worship in the quiet hours between the sound of quiet snores and a noisy coffee maker you already have plans to replace as a Christmas gift to Eddie. An apartment turned altar, with offerings from both of you, to all that has and could become.

You whisper your final prayer, just as you do every night, even when you think Eddie might already be fast asleep, “G’night, Eddie. I love you.”

He’s not already asleep.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

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#ghost is bad at endings for one shots can you tell #ghost's stories #twenty four hours #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #beyond the hours #not edited and you can tell but we persevere

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drunkenskunk · 20 days

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Did you name your mech after an old Texas soda that you can only find in Texas and like two other states near it????

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_Red_(soft_drink)

As it happens: no! There are two reasons for the name.

Reason 1: Watsonian

The "official" name (or at least as much as anyone remembers) is R4GE MACHINE, because the serial number starts with R4, and it is a GMS Everest. However, "Big Red" is what everyone calls the mech, because it is big and chunky for a size 1, and it is covered in a billion different shades of red paint. The reason it's so big and chunky is because it used to be a Sagarmatha when it was built midway through the Hercynian Crisis, and, due to necessity, had to be downgraded to a smaller chassis after the Union Civil War.

(I need to update these sprites. I never got around to coloring them properly, except for the one red pixel for the optics, and I still need to add the Hunchback boombox on the right shoulder that houses the Leviathan heavy assault cannon.)

There is also a COMP/CON unit within the mech that calls itself RED. It's been online for the entire length of the mechs existence, and has embedded itself so thoroughly in the system hardware that it is impossible to get rid of it, no matter how many parts are replaced. The "personality" of this COMP/CON can be summarized "What if BT-7274, but he just kept losing pilots after Lastimosa?"

<<PROTOCOL 3: PROTECT THE PILOT>>

It is currently unknown - both in universe and otherwise - if there is any genuine paracausal tech hidden somewhere in the guts of Big Red, and that's why the COMP/CON is Like That... or maybe this is just what happens to what should be a non-sapient computer program when you keep it online for close to 500 years.

Reason 2: Doylist

Red is an old character of mine that I adapted into a mech for this Lancer game. Sort of. The mech has become something significantly different than the original character, because the reason for the COMP/CON's aggression is a version of robot PTSD: he has lost so many pilots over the years, and is determined not to lose another.

The original Red, however, is... well, take a look.

Red - at least, the original iteration of the character - was something I made when I was a very angry teenager. And I think it shows.

Red is like if the chaos god Khorne and the eldar's Kaela Mensha Kaine from Warhammer hatefucked and had an equally hateful baby. Red is a creature of unfiltered aggression. It is destructive rage manifest. It hates everything and everyone, and will not be satisfied until everything it hates is gone. Which is everything. The is no reason or justification or meaning for this hatred, and nothing to explain why it butchers and kills and destroys and murders its way across the stars; it simply IS.

And it cannot be contained.

That wedge-shaped hunk of metal on its head is not armor: it is all that remains of the last prison built in a desperate effort to stop its rampage. Red could get rid of the hunk of metal obscuring its vision at any time, but deliberately chooses to keep it in place as a cruel mockery of any and all who stand against it.

Two different starting points, two radically different stories, two different "individuals," but still technically the same character. At least, as far as I'm concerned.

I do this kind of thing all the time. Or... y'know, I did, back when my hands worked regularly. I make a character, turn them into a base template "starting point," and then slowly rework them into a new iteration, to fit whatever purpose I need to suit whatever setting I put them in.

So no, Big Red is not named after a soda lol

#drunk skunk answers #Lancer #Lancer RPG #In Golden Flame #vex wasn't lying that one sure is plumed in golden flame #GMS Everest #watsonian vs doylist

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