a/n: wrote this while rewatching hotd so its HEAVILY influenced by ser criston and alicent, except its actually a good dynamic. also is it obvious i finally actually figured out how to use an em dash???? i feel like im abusing them atp. first time in 2 years that i wrote a kissing scene and it took me an hour. kill me now!
words: 3.6k
The air in your father’s throne room stilled the second the doors opened, as if the palace itself could sense the arrival of someone who didn’t seem to belong here in the world of polite ceremonies or fancy galas.
When the large wooden doors finally creaked open, your father, on his high throne, tensed. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the room, slow and purposeful, the sound of the stone floor meeting the armored sabatons.
A knight entered. Broad-shouldered, shiny armor gleaming under the chandelier, he looked the epitome of confidence—walking right up to the throne your father sat on, sinking to one knee in front of it. His head dipped slightly as he removed his helm.
“Your Grace,” he spoke, his voice gravelly. “You summoned me?”
Your father’s stern gaze met the knight’s unwavering one, and all the murmuring coming from your father’s loyal advisors was silenced.
Jason’s gaze flickered from your father to you, for just a millisecond, almost unnoticeable, before he turned back to your father when he spoke.
“Ser Jason,” your father said, his voice commanding. “I relieve you of your duties in the King’s Guard. I require your service to safeguard my daughter, the princess. See that she is protected at all times. You answer solely to me and her.”
You froze. Of course your father would tell you this while you’re surrounded by all the members of the court—I suppose he did always prefer commands over discussions.
“Father,” you started, stepping forward to protest. You tried to remain polite, you really did, but your voice betrayed your tension. “With all my respect, this is absolutely unnecessary.”
Several court members flinched at your boldness. Your father merely blinked. “Is it?”
You gestured toward Jason, who stood there like a statue as he was trained. “I have spent years of my life without a constant shadow at my heel, and there have not been recent events to make you doubt my safety. I do not require a guard.”
Your father exhaled through his nose, as if he was already fed up with your protests. “Times are changing,” he said, his voice that same authoritative one. “Threats from bordering kingdoms persist and grow bolder. You may not realise the possible danger we are in, but I do.”
“I am not a child for you and your guard to hover over,” you continued to protest. “Nor am I some kind of fragile relic to be guarded.”
“The matter is settled, my daughter. Ser Jason will guard you day and night, whether you agree with it or not.” He dismissed you, acting as your king now rather than a father.
And so it happened.
As you left the throne room, the same wooden doors Jason had entered through closing behind you, you let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.
You didn’t even make it three steps down the dimly lit hallway before the soft thud of a knight’s armored footsteps echoed from behind you.
You didn’t turn around.
Didn’t slow.
Simply sighed in annoyance, for what felt like the thousandth time that day.
“You needn’t hover,” you spoke, still not turning to face the guard. “I can find my way to my chambers.”
“Of course,” Jason replied, but still kept following you, not giving up so easily.
You stopped abruptly, and he stopped exactly one pace behind you. Close enough to be able to sense that he’s there, but far enough to remain proper.
Finally, you turned, taking in his face. “I said, quit following me. Didn’t my father tell you to obey him and me?”
He blinked slowly. “He ordered me to follow and not listen to your protests, as he called them silly. I am merely obeying.” He said, a small twitch in the corner of his mouth.
Oh, you just knew he was going to be insufferable.
You, once again, turned around and continued walking, his steps still trailing steadily behind you, irritating you to your core. “Do you truly intend to follow me everywhere?” you asked, without pausing your steps.
“Yes.”
“That’s awesome, wow,” you said sarcastically. “But I do not require guarding, as I have said multiple times in the span of what, four minutes? Does my desire to not be shadowed every minute of every day just not matter anymore?”
His gaze softened—barely. “I assure you they do, my lady. Just not right now.”
“Fine. You can guard me or whatever you do. But don’t expect obedience from me, Ser Jason.”
“I wouldn’t dare, my lady.” He spoke, giving in to the smirk he was fighting so desperately just a minute ago.
The ballroom was lit with candlelight bouncing off the marble floors, the bard’s music playing. Princes and dukes laughed, ladies gossiped, and the room looked festive with all the different colours of dresses.
You were bored to death.
Feasts had never been your thing, but this one was exceptionally dull. You stood near the edge of the ballroom, sipping wine from your silver goblet, looking over the dancing crowd. At your right, Jason stood guard—helmet off to blend into the crowd, although the shiny silver armor didn’t help with that either. He stood straight, his gaze flickering over all the people in the room.
He hadn’t left his post once.
Which, of course, meant he witnessed every single rejection you handed to the various lords and princes who tried to ask you to dance.
“Your Grace,” another prince said, after he approached you. “Might I have the honour of a dance, with you?”
“I appreciate the offer, my lord, but I am rather tired.” You managed a polite smile. It was a simple lie—you were just so uninterested in every single lord present.
The lord tried to argue, opening his mouth to do so. But Jason shifted from beside you. Just slightly, just a single step. But enough for the prince to reconsider arguing, and return to the centre of the room.
“I think you scared him,” you laughed quietly, so the lord didn’t hear you from afar.
“Good,” Jason answered. “He was persistent.”
“You do realise you only have to guard me, not scare away all the nobility? Only a little more and my father will fire you for ruining all my chances of ever marrying, if I haven’t done that yet myself.” You quipped, lifting your goblet to your mouth again.
“I am fully capable of doing both,” he answered, eyes still sweeping the room.
You almost smiled. Really, you wanted to. But all joy you had was extinguished the second you saw another lord approaching.
“My lady,” the lord started, his voice smooth. “It hurts to see you so alone by the wall. Please, let me have this dance.”
You opened your mouth to decline—politely, of course—but the nobleman wasn’t looking at you anymore. Rather, his gaze was on Jason, who remained at your side.
“A guard, Your Grace?” the lord scoffed. “You’re hardly in any danger here.”
Jason didn’t react, but you could feel him tensing up beside you.
“My lord, I am hardly alone. And I am quite enjoying this wall, it’s… elegantly made. I do not require a dance.” You replied, smiling, although you didn’t reject him as politely as your smile was.
The lord scoffed again. A habit of his, it seems. “Surely you don’t mean to dismiss a lord like me that easily—”
“It’s precisely what she means.” Jason finally spoke, his voice low and calm, actually stepping forward this time.
The lord stiffened. “I wasn’t addressing you, knight.”
“And yet,” Jason replied, “you keep looking at me.”
“Very well.” The foreign lord managed to bring out, before walking away, obviously embarrassed and hoping no one around had noticed.
You laughed, actually out loud now. “You’re enjoying this.”
“It’s my duty,” he replied.
“That’s not a good answer.” You smiled. You stared at him for a little too long, your initial irritation at his constant hovering making place for something… different. You quickly moved your gaze towards the crowd, as the music shifted into a waltz.
“Do you wish to join them?” he asked quietly.
You blinked. “No, like I said, I’m tired.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“Well, even if I wanted to dance,” you said, “I don’t think anyone would still want me after I rejected every single one at least once. Gods, I think the only man I haven’t rejected here is you.”
“I don’t dance,” he replied.
“I know, I’m not asking you to.” You smiled. “Would you mind escorting me to my chambers? I don’t like it here.”
Jason’s brows lifted slightly, as if your request surprised him, though he remained composed. “Of course, Your Grace.” He shifted, starting to move towards the door. “Follow me, stay close.”
You didn’t need to be told twice.
The both of you slipped out of the door, into the dark, abandoned hallway of the castle, devoid of servants. The air was cooler than in the ballroom, the only source of heat and light being the candles and torches lining the walls. Finally, there was no music disturbing your thoughts, or lords and princes approaching. Just silence. It felt like it was the first time you breathed since the feast began.
Jason walked one step ahead, exactly as he was trained to, though you could tell by the angle of his head that he was fighting the urge to look back at you. “Do you truly despise feasts that much?” he asked.
“I don’t hate them. I just find them predictable. It’s always the same. It starts off fun, but with every proposal to dance it gets slightly more dull, until I would rather die than be there one minute longer.” You sighed. “At least you’re not like those boring noblemen. You’re different.”
“Different how?” he asked, voice unreadable.
“You don’t try to impress me,” you said plainly. “Or flatter me, or scheme for favours for that matter. You’re just… there. I like that.”
Jason’s pace slowed, until he was walking beside you instead of in front of you. “I serve. It’s my duty to not have any relationships of any kind.”
“Is that all that defines you? Your duty?” you asked, confused. “I don’t get how you knights are almost devoid of emotion, or at least emotions of love or other sorts. I couldn’t do it.”
Jason didn’t answer, but he did keep walking beside you until you reached your chambers. “We’ve arrived,” he said gently.
“Good night, Ser Jason,” you said, one foot already in the door.
He merely nodded, before turning away again as you closed the door behind you.
That night, sleep refused to come.
You lay in your bed—silk sheets, soft pillows, warmth of the burning fire—but still you just couldn’t fall asleep. The feast replayed in your head. Every look Jason had given from beside you, the way he helped reject those noblemen. Gods, you shouldn’t think of him like that. He’s a knight, he doesn’t do relationships, isn’t allowed them.
Eventually, your frustration outweighed your pride.
You got out of bed, throwing on a velvet green robe, and slipping your feet into soft slippers, before quietly pushing the doors of your chambers open and slipping out. The hallway was even darker than it was in the evening, some of the candles put out.
And there he was.
Exactly where you expected him to be.
Jason stood a few feet away from your door, helmet tucked beneath his arm, head bowed down as if he was lost in thought.
You froze, unsure if you should speak at all, but he had noticed the sound of your breath. Of course. He lifted his head, turning to look at you. “My lady?” His voice was low, raspy from not being used. “Are you—do you require anything?”
You swallowed. “I can’t sleep.” You were really doing this now.
Jason straightened immediately. “Do you need me to get the healers? Your mother, maybe? Or—”
“No,” you interrupted. “Just… you.”
He stilled.
The hallway went even quieter, if that was possible. His eyes searched your face—not with the same boldness as earlier at the feast, but gentler, almost hesitant.
“Just… come.” You said, moving toward your door again.
Jason hesitated, not sure if he should do it. A while later, after thinking, he stepped in behind you. He closed the door behind him, careful not to make a sound. “What do you need?”
“I find I sleep better when someone’s there. Habit from when my mother used to come before I went to bed, I suppose.” You said quietly, sitting down on your bed. “Come here.”
He hesitated once again, not sure if he should come as you told him to. Eventually, he obeyed, only standing a few steps away now. He was always keeping the distance he had been taught to always keep.
“You’re always so… stiff, I guess,” you murmured, looking at a spot on the wall, lost in thought. “Even now, when I technically relieved you of your duties.”
“I’m never off duty,” he said, though his voice was more hesitant than it should be.
“You know that’s not true.”
He didn’t deny it. He knew he wasn’t always on duty, but sometimes he preferred to think he was. It made it easier to avoid certain temptations.
Before he could realise it, you had stood up and walked until you were at his back, unfastening the white cloak, the thing that separated him from normal knights. The Royal Guard white cloak. You tossed the pristine cloak on the floor of your bedroom, having no respect for the symbolism it held to him. How it represented the vows he made years ago, the cleanliness of the cloak representing how he’d never even been tempted to break his vows. But now, he was rethinking all of it.
You hadn’t even touched him—only the cloak. But he stilled the moment he felt your hands unfastening it and dropping it to the wooden floor. He wasn’t tense, like he usually was. Just trying very hard not to move. The soft thud of the cloak hitting the floor echoed through the room.
“Princess…” he started, his voice barely audible and rough. It wasn’t just a word; it was a plea, maybe even a warning.
You stepped around him, back in front of him now but way closer than before. Without the cloak, he looked less untouchable. More human, or even vulnerable.
“It’s just a cloak,” you whispered.
“It’s not,” he whispered back, but he knew you’d never understand what it meant to him, what it represented. That cloak was every vow or promise he had ever made—to your father, to you, to himself. And you tossed it aside like it was what it really is. Just a cloak.
“Look at me,” you whispered again, willing him to look at you rather than right in front of him, looking over you.
Jason did. Slowly. Reluctantly. Helplessly.
The candlelight flickered across his features, softening his features and the scar on his cheek. It even almost made his eyes look warm. He looked younger, although you thought he couldn’t be older than twenty-four.
You lifted your hand, letting a finger run over the scar. “Why won’t you look at me properly, Jason?” you murmured, softer than he’d ever seen you.
He swallowed, afraid to tell the truth but feeling like he had to do so. “Because I am afraid if I do,” he muttered, “I might forget everything I am and am supposed to remember.”
“And what is it that you’re supposed to remember?” Your chest tightened slightly.
“That I am a Royal Guard. And you’re my lady, the one I have to protect,” he started. “That this goes against every single vow I ever made to your father. I would be betraying him.”
You let your hand fall from his cheek, though you didn’t step away. The air felt thicker than before. “Jason, you’re acting as if I am asking you to abandon your post and flee away with me at first light,” you murmured. “I am not doing that. I merely enjoy your company.”
He inhaled sharply, the sound almost pained, trying to keep himself together. “You’re asking me to cross a line,” he replied, each word as honest as he could manage, “a line I have never even dared to tread close to. A line I have spent my entire life being told not to cross.”
You studied his face, the tension it held. He was being completely honest—it was obvious—but you still felt you could never truly understand. “If this were merely about crossing that line,” you said quietly, “you would’ve left the moment I touched your cloak. You could’ve stepped away, but you didn’t.”
“Tell me this,” you continued. “Why were you outside my door? No one ordered you to, you have no duties at night. There were no guests left inside the castle, no dangers. You could’ve gone to rest hours ago.”
He hesitated, not sure if he should answer that question honestly. “I… worry.”
“As a guard?” you pressed, wanting—no, needing—an answer.
His silence was devastating, a confession lingered at his tongue—one he didn’t dare to speak.
So you bridged the last few inches between you, closing the gap almost entirely. Your fingertips brushed the cold metal of his chestplate, lingering there. “If I ask you to stay tonight,” you whispered, “not as a knight sworn to protect me—but as the man who stayed at my door long after his duties were over… would you stay?”
His breath hitched. He knew he shouldn’t—he wanted to tell you no. But something in him couldn’t. “You,” he started, his voice rough, “are going to ruin my life.”
“Only if you let me,” you said, smiling now.
Jason didn’t move, again.
He stood there, contemplating everything for the fourth time now, staring at you as if you had changed his world—or at least the way he saw it. The gap between you two suddenly seemed even smaller, but he wouldn’t let himself do anything about it. His fists remained balled at his sides, but his jaw was no longer clenched as tight as before.
“Don’t smile at me like that,” he murmured, looking down at the floor. “Makes it harder.”
You tilted your head slightly, confused about what he meant. “Makes what harder?”
“I don’t know… to walk away,” he replied quietly.
You could feel your heartbeat climb, feeling it beat against your ribs hard enough that you feared he could hear it from a distance. Slowly, you raised your hand, resting it lightly on the side of his neck. His breath hitched, but he didn’t back away. If anything, he leaned into your touch.
“Then don’t walk away,” you whispered.
A war was going on inside Jason’s head. A part of him wanted to give in to this, to forget all the vows he ever made. Another part was telling him not to ruin everything he had worked for. But he could feel your hand on his skin, your breath against his lips, and the part that didn’t want to ruin everything was slowly giving up.
“My lady…” he breathed, sounding conflicted.
You didn’t speak. You just stepped closer. Close enough for your robe to brush against his armor, close enough that he had to look at your mouth to avoid looking at your eyes. You could see him raising his gaze from the floor to your eyes, and you looked back. Those eyes—oh, those eyes. The vivid green colour, their intensity. They had you weak in the knees.
With a quiet exhale that sounded more like a sigh, he closed the last few inches between you. He pressed his lips to yours, hesitant and soft at first. Your hand slid up his armor to eventually rest on his jaw, deepening the kiss. As soon as you did this, his movements became rougher and more desperate, as if he had been waiting for this all along. The kiss felt like the kind you read about in the famous poems—the yearning, forbidden kind.
When Jason finally pulled back—barely—he rested his forehead against yours. His eyes were closed, his breath unsteady, and his voice a mere whisper against your lips.
“...What have I done?”
His question lingered in the air—fragile, as if he’d spent years burying it.
You didn’t answer it. You couldn’t. You couldn’t imagine you’d done something wrong when he was still looking like that—forehead pressed against yours, gaze lowered, breath quickened as if he’d just run a mile.
“Jason,” you started, sighing, “you can’t undo what happened. Neither can I. And also, I don’t want to.”
“My lady, you don’t understand—I’m not supposed to, I shouldn’t have—” he whispered, his voice cracking at the edges.
“But you did. There’s no time for regret now,” you said, a hand coming up to his jaw. “You can do that later, if you must.”
His brows drew together in a pained manner, as if the thought itself was hurting him. With your words, something within him broke. His hand came up to your waist, and he pulled you toward him for another kiss.
This time, Jason didn’t hesitate. Not even a little bit. The kiss was far more hungry, and way deeper than the first one. His other hand found the small of your back, resting there as the one that was previously on your waist raised up to your jaw.
You gasped when he finally broke away again, looking up at him once more.
“I can’t take it back anymore now, can I?” Jason said.
a/n: i love this but also i hate this so yeah... hope u guys like it tho 😭 will probs be making more parts bc i loved writing it even if it didnt come out perffff!!
@ASTR4LISS - dont repost, on this platform or others ۶ৎ
i deeply appreciate likes, reblogs and comments, so please do!! 💌
“Oh she’s cute.” Robin points over to a table near the bar.
Steve follows her finger and the blonde in the pink pleated skirt is, in fact, very cute. “You should go talk to her.”
Robin gives him a look, “Literally everything about her screams ‘straight’ so no thanks,” she takes a sip of her cocktail, “Don’t feel like getting humiliated today.”
Steve rolls his eyes, “I doubt she’d humiliate you but suit yourself.” He stands and fluffs up his hair a little, “If you won’t, I sure as hell will.”
Before his friend can protest, Steve’s strutting over to the girl’s table. She looks up at him when he stops and leans slightly against the chair opposite from hers.
“Hi!” she greets before he can say anything. Her whole face lights up as she smiles. She’s definitely cute, but not exactly what Steve had in mind for the night.
“Hey,” Steve flashes his own smile, “I was just telling my friend how cute you are and wanted to know if I could maybe buy you a drink?”
Her face goes pink, but her smile falters slightly and a small frown forms. “Oh that’s so nice of you, but I’m actually a lesbian,” she seems genuinely upset at having to break this news to him. “I’m really sorry, you seem lovely.”
Steve’s eyes widen slightly, but his smile remains, “Oh, god, sorry I should have asked,” he laughs, “That’s totally my bad.”
She shakes her head and leans forward in her seat, “Not at all, sweetheart!” there’s a slight southern accent slipping through and her smile is back. “You couldn’t have known, I know I don’t exactly look the part.”
“Well, since I’m already here,” Steve smirks, glancing over his shoulder to where he can see Robin watching the scene unfold. Her eyes snap away once she realizes he’s looking at her. “My friend over there is single and also extremely gay.”
Chrissy looks over and her smile turns coy, “Now she’s cute,” her eyes snap back to Steve. “She’s the one who told you to come over?”
“The opposite, actually. She thought you were straight so, I came over instead.” Steve explains.
Chrissy nods, glances over her shoulder and then stands. “Well, I’ll just have to go over there then.”
Steve smiles, “I’m Steve, by the way.”
“Chrissy.” The blonde extends her hand and Steve shakes it. “Thank you for letting me know the girl I’ve been eyeing is queer.”
Steve gives her a two-finger salute and goes to walk away, but she grabs his wrist to stop him.
“Do you like men, by any chance?” Chrissy asks, her smile alluding to something.
“Is it that obvious?” Steve laughs.
She gives him a once-over, “The tight shirt sort of gave you away.”
“Fair enough. Why do you ask?”
Chrissy points over to a curly-haired guy covered in tattoos, who’s ordering at the bar, “You should go talk to my friend, Eddie, he’s been blabbing about the hot jock in the polo since you walked in.”
Steve swallows, he’d seen the guy when they walked in, but hadn’t allowed himself to look. He was the kind of hot and scary Steve usually avoided due to their usual disdain for preppy guys like Steve. But surely if he kept Chrissy around, he couldn’t be all bad.
“I don’t exactly seem like his type.” Steve points out, giving Chrissy a nervous glance.
She laughs, “Oh please, pretty boy with big eyes and a great body? You’re everyone’s type.”
“Not yours.”
“Trust me honey, if you were a masc lesbian I’d be all over you right about now.” Chrissy winks and Steve can feel his face heating up.
“I don’t want to bother him…”
Chrissy rolls her eyes, “Just use the same line you used on me, he doesn’t bite.” she pauses, “Unless you ask really nicely.”
Yeah she isn’t exactly easing his nerves with these little jabs.
“He looks like he carries a knife.” Steve’s just stalling at this point.
“I know he seems kinda mean and scary, but he’s really just a big ol’ softie, trust me,” she pats his shoulder, picks up her drink and starts walking towards Robin, “Now I’ve got a pretty lady to talk to, so get! Go make a move on the scary metalhead, Steve!”
Steve watches her go, his amusement growing at the sight of Robin’s panic when Chrissy plops down at their table.
Mustering up the courage to walk to the bar, he turns but immediately bumps into someone. The person manages to steady their drink and somehow prevent Steve from falling on his ass, grabbing him around the waist.
“Shit sorry!” Steve finds his footing, only to nearly lose it again when he looks up to find his face a few inches away from the aforementioned friend of Chrissy’s.
Eddie smiles, squeezes Steve’s waist once before releasing him, “Don’t sweat it, sweetheart.”
Steve’s face must have been bloodshot at that point. Two people had called him sweetheart within the span of a few minutes. At this rate his brain was going to malfunction entirely.
Eddie studies him for a second, his eyes twinkling, before looking over to the now unoccupied table. He frowns, looking around the bar.
“She’s over there.” Steve points to where the two girls are deep in conversation.
Eddie’s eyes look from Steve to Chrissy and back again. “Were you heading back there?”
“Uh, no, actually,” Steve clears his throat. Why was it so hot all of the sudden? “I was told to go talk to the scary metalhead?”
Eddie’s grin returned, showing off his dimples. Steve was allowing himself to stare at the man now, and god was he stunning.
“Scary? That’s rich coming from the girl who literally carries a knife with her.” Eddie sits down at the table and looks at Steve expectantly, “I don’t bite,” he gestures for him to sit, so he does.
“Apparently you do if I ask nicely,” Steve says, then feels his face heat up again when he hears what he said.
Eddie laughs, loud and beautiful, “God, she really knows how to play wingman, huh?”
summary: when aemond and his son travel to attend alicent’s engagement party, aemond asks you to come along. you expect a quiet, lovely time. you do not expect the family feuding, in-fighting, and truths that will be revealed.
In truth, Aemond should never have hired you.
It was a mistake he’d realized just slightly too late - as you’d sat at that table across from him, lips wind-chapped and a scarf fluttering about your neck, a lovely flush staining your cheeks; as you’d met Aenys for the first time, early morning light catching in errant strands of your hair, your voice low and colored with a soft, tentative smile; as he’d wondered and watched and slowly, by degrees, fallen into something as warm and wavering as love.
“You’ll like her,” Helaena had promised, and there’d been an undercurrent to those words, the dreamy push-pull of a tide that might drag him under.
“Hel -“ he’d intoned. It was a proposition that had unsettled him, left him slightly startled in spite of all its sense. Whoever this girl was - who’d nannied so delightfully and dutifully for Helaena and the twins - surely she was not someone who would ingratiate herself into Aemond’s home - with its quiet and routine, it’s coolness and it’s calm.
“Aenys will like her. She was a wonder with the twins. And she's been such a wonderful friend to me.” Helaena had trailed off, her far-away gaze wandering up and away to the cloudy sky. “In a way, she reminds me of you.”
Aemond raised a brow.
Whatever Aenys needed - whatever he needed - certainly it was not anyone like himself.
But he’d swallowed his dubiousness, his doubt, had allowed Helaena to write the girl’s number in pink glitter pen on the curve of his hand and -
He had not expected you.
Had not expected the sudden stirring of his heart.
But it was there all the same - a dull, distant thrumming in his veins and in his blood, a starry swell of something that he could not decipher, could not name, bursting through the dark.
Aenys had taken to you rather quickly. Had brightened and livened since you’d come to work with them. Gone were his gloomy spells, his moody, moping afternoons, his sullenness and his quiet. He greeted Aemond loudly, cheerfully, when he arrived home from work, presented him with clumsy crayon drawings and paint pressed handprints and always, always a smile.
He wondered, sometimes, whether you had treated the twins like this: as gently and genially as if they were your own blood. Thought, quickly, with a pang, that he didn’t want to know.
Because he was paying you.
Because he and his son and their life, their home and their routine and even their dog - they were merely a job.
It didn’t matter how his breath caught in his throat when you’d glance over your shoulder at him, offer a shy, surreptitious smile; did not matter how his heart slowed and stopped when he heard your voice, drifting from Aenys’ room, a light amidst the storm, a calling and a comfort, as you read him his bedtime stories, murmured goodnight before you slipped out the door; did not matter how violently, how viscerally he’d reacted the first time you’d looked at him, Aenys in your lap, and said, “Look, Daddy’s home!”, the word burning beneath his skin. No, none of it mattered, in truth.
Because this was your job and whatever Aemond did, certainly he could not risk the loss of you.
He reminds himself of the fact again and again and again.
Aenys always drifted off into a fathomless, dozing slumber before you’d finished your reading of whatever book he’d insisted upon that bedtime, and tonight was no exception.
His soft breaths, the hushed closing of the book, fluttering of pages; lamp switched off and room swept into darkness, the warm, burnt-yellow glow of the hallway; a brush of a kiss on his forehead, a murmured goodnight. Your evenings always go like this: your closing the door, swaying down the hallway, tired and calling out to the taxicab, cheek pressed against the cool, dewy window and gazing up at the star strewn sky. You leave quickly, quietly, see Aemond for the mere moment that it takes to walk downstairs, an uncertain silence always lingering between you, words stifled, unspoken.
It doesn’t quite happen like that, tonight.
Aemond still stands, waiting for you in the hallway. There’s still the fleeting touch of his hand at the small of your back as he opens the front door, you feel it even through the wool of your coat.
He pauses, as he turns to lock the door - unwilling to leave his son vulnerable for even the minute that it takes to walk to the lobby and back - his hand still and his jaw tight.
“My mother,” he says, suddenly, “is having an engagement party, the week after next.”
Uncertain, you nod.
He’d never spoken to you about his mother. You knew her only from the impersonal stare of hallway photos, from lengthy phone conversations with Aemond that you only barely heard one-side of.
Finally, Aemond draws away from the door, slips the key into his front pocket.
“It’s along the coast. I’d planned to take Aenys with me, to make a sort of weekend trip of it, and I’d wondered whether or not you’d like to come.”
A brief, blooming silence.
Aemond had never directed so many words towards you, had never seemed so unsteady, words stumbling and unsure.
“You’d be compensated for the extra time, of course,” he continues, quickly. “And any and all incurred expenses would be covered. You needn’t say yes, if it’s an imposition at all. I’m well aware that if falls over your weekend, and that nowhere in our contract does it mention any sort of travel, but -“
He does not meet your eye. Instead, seems intent to stare blankly at the black and white checkered tile, interspersed every now and again with a golden knot of a monogram.
“I’d be happy to,” you say, and though the words are soft he hears them all the same, his head snapping sharply up.
He gazes at you with a look that you cannot discern, fail to untangle with trembling, uncertain fingers, feel through to your bones.
“Good,” he says, and nods, just the once.
You know little of the Targaryens as a whole.
You’d known the name, of course, long before you’d known Helaena, knew the spun-silver hair and the vague purple eyes and understood that the word was synonymous with wealth, with money and history and a legacy that ran blood-deep.
Helaena had spoken little of her family, and Aemond even less; leaving you with an odd, fragmented grasp of the family at large.
What you know of them seems incongruous when held beside your dealings with Aemond and Hel, with the clumsy, cheerful photos that had cluttered Helaena’s halls, with the suggestion of a smile that pressed at Aemond’s mouth when he spoke of his mother, with the FaceTime calls (disjointed, blurry, volume always too loud and motion lagging) between Aenys and his grandmother.
“I’ve told Aemond to be on his best behavior,” Helaena had told you over the phone the night before, speaker held firm between your cheek and shoulder as you zipped closed your suitcase.
“Best behavior -“ you’d repeated, and you hadn’t quite understood what it meant.
Because Aemond was sure, steady, endlessly composed and effortlessly unperturbed, a jagged rock that you could stumble into, cut yourself against but in the face of it all would never budge. You’d seen no flares of temper, no fits of bad mood, had presumed that such things were out of reach for him, in all his measured coolness.
You are, however, beginning to understand what she might’ve meant.
The Aemond seated across the car from you now is hardly the man you’d come to know: his jaw strung and his hands white-knuckled, his foot restless in its rhythmic tapping, gaze narrowed on the carpeted floor.
Every now and again Aenys would call his name - “Daddy!”, an outstretched hand proffering a plastic dinosaur or one of his pretzel snacks - and he would glance up, assume the warm, easy smile you were so used to, till Aenys’ attention had faded away to something else and again he would gather his fists, tap his foot, stare resolutely at the floor.
“Do you know who else is going?” You ask, carefully, quietly, once the constant shuddering of the car has lulled Aenys into a sound and sure nap, leaving the car devoid of all sound.
Aemond nods, the edges of his mouth turning into a frown so subtle it might’ve been mistaken for a trick of light. “It’s just a family thing, really. It’ll be my mother and Cole, Aegon, Helaena and the kids, of course.” A terse beat of silence. “My half-sister, and her children, as well.”
“Oh.” You’re hesitant to venture any farther, to dredge up memories that you’re sure already haunt him, linger in the scar-tissue strewn across his skin.
Helaena had only ever once spoken of the loss of Aemond’s eye, though the incident that had incurred it had been roundly speculated upon in lengthy twitter threads, in the faded magazine print of gossip columns.
“An accident,” she’d said, voice soft and fingers trembling. “They couldn’t save the eye.”
And though all sources and streams of speculation were unsure of the exact order of events, of the finer, messier details, all of them agreed upon this: that it was one of the children of Aemond’s half-sister who had been at fault.
A terrible, bloody thing.
A doomed mischance, a badly delt hand, horrid turn of fate.
Your gaze lingers on Aemond’s eye - the one perpetually covered by the black swathe of an eyepatch, which he was reluctant to let even his son see.
His good eye flickers up and - breath caught, heart thrumming - he catches you looking.
Once again he frowns, and there is no catch of light, no fleeting flicker to chase it away. He frowns and you feel the movement of it - inescapable, indelible - in the center of your heart.
It’s well over an hour before the car finally slows, turns down an endless stretch of gravel road. Trees loom to either side, and beyond them stretches a wind-swept swathe of yellowed grass; you can see the ocean, just behind the house, a hymn of crashing waves and salt-licked breeze.
“Are we here?” You ask, fingertips pressed to the cool window, glancing over at Aemond.
He nods, moving forward slightly - the movement sending his knees softly brushing against yours. “My mother’s house,” he says, words clouded against the glass. They’re tinged with a sort of guarded sweetness that usually only affects his tone when speaking about Aenys - the duck of a chin, a careful smile.
“And you grew up here?”
He shakes his head. “No. This was my mother’s home before she married my father and moved out to the city. We only came here over the summer, when school was out and we could stay for weeks.”
He spoke little of his childhood, and you gathered that his particular memories of it must be strikingly bittersweet, a prelude and a premonition of what was to come.
“Should we wake him?” You nod over at Aenys, still soundly asleep, his sippy cup clutched tightly in one sticky hand.
Aemond nods. He moves to stand, as the car lurches to a stop, reaching at once for the car seat and the cup.
“We’re here,” he murmurs, fingers swift and sure and he unbuckles the seat-belt and Aenys begins to stir. “Grandmother’s house. Would you like to greet her?”
Aenys nods, the gesture drowsed and still sleep-addled.
“Good,” Aemond says, lifting the boy from the car seat with ease.
“You’ve got him?” You ask, a heedful hand at Aenys’ back, though you know he does.
Aemond nods; his son's head over his shoulder, held fast with just one arm, and reaches for the door.
You’re rushed through with the chill, borne in from the sea, air crisp and brackish and rife with wind, the thick scent of rain. Above you a cloud-strewn sky.
The house is imposingly large, quietly grand: all clapboard siding and stark peaks of gables, a house crowded about on all sides by yellowed, swaying trees. A woman stands on the front porch - a woman you’ve seen every now and again through the blurred glare of a camera-lens. Though she looks nothing alike the rest of her ilk - rusted red hair, fathomless brown eyes, a face that was rounder, and sweeter than her children’s - you’d know her anywhere.
And behind her: Helaena, the twins, a willowy woman with Maegor at her hip.
Jaehaerys and Jaehaera cry out your name as they fall upon you, their voices high and sure and singing within you as you reach down to tousle their hair, to grasp their hands. Seeing them again feels like an odd swell of summer; the warmth of their touch, the brightness of their smiles, all of it, all of it rushing back to you in a shock of cloying delight.
“My sweet boys.” At the edge of your vision you see Alicent take Aenys from Aemond’s arms, grasping tightly at the back of his head, a kiss to his cheek.
“And I’ve heard so much about you.”
You’re startled to find her gaze settled down on you, a flock of crows on the lawn that might frighten up and away into the sky at any provocation.
You stand, meet her half-armed embrace.
“You’ve no idea how fond my children are of you,” she says, her hand lingering at your arm, a touch that tethers as much as it comforts you. You do not see Aemond in her features, but the ghost of him is there in the plainness of her eyes, the ghost of an expression that lurks about her mouth.
The few times he’d spoken of his family, it had been of his mother.
“I’m rather fond of them, as well.”
It’s a half-truth. A near lie.
You do not miss the way her eye strays to Aemond.
Aemond is good at anger.
Has held it and hidden it in his heart since he was a boy. In all the years that have passed since the night he’d lost his eye - a stormy sky above him, hand pressed to his cheek and sand thick in his mouth, the sea murmuring at the edges of it all - he’s never strayed far from it.
Though it’s quieted in the years since he’d welcomed his son, has burnt down to a smattering of embers in the hearth, still it’s there, always ready to be fanned into furious flame.
He feels it, now, steadily burning outwards, into his veins, just behind his teeth.
He can’t recall the last time he’d been forced face-to-face with Rhaenyra and her sons, can’t recall anything but mutinous, malicious whispers that had clung to the barest mention of her name in the years after she’d taken her father’s company.
“Are you all right?” Aemond nearly starts at the sound of your voice, the flutter of your touch at his wrist.
He nods, the movement too jerky, too sharp.
How badly he’d like to stay in the quiet alcove of the upstairs with you, take you and Aenys to his old bedroom and dig through old toys, photographs, dredge up memories of anything other than this -
“Fine. Are you ready? For dinner? Mother says it’s ready.”
You nod slowly, absently, fingers stroking through Aenys’ hair as he clutches at your knee.
“I don’t know anyone besides you and Helaena,” you murmur, a faint pink stealing across your cheeks.
“You also know the children,” he reminds you, a poor attempt at a joke.
You level him with a look that's far less pleased than he’s used to - mouth flattened, brows drawn together.
“You’ll be quite alright. You’re seated far away from Aegon, which is the only thing you should worry yourself about.”
“And the others?”
He sighs. Without meaning to, he’s kept his hand firmly at your elbow as you’ve progressed down the hall; quickly, he draws it away.
“There’s Cole - he’ll be attached to my mother at the hip all night, has barely left her side since the engagement. Rhaenyra looks like Helaena, you’ll know her in an instant. My nephews -“
But you’ve already begun to descend the stairs, the informal dining room - the one which his mother far preferred to use when family was about - coming into view, and with it the shock-white blonde heads of his sister, his brother, Rhaenyra, and her sons -
“Oh,” you say, almost too quietly for him to hear.
He takes a sick sort of fascination in that - how readily apparent it is that his nephews are markedly different, members of the family in name, yes, but not in the ways that counted. No one would ever see them and assume their name, their blood. It was readily apparent at the outset that they didn’t belong, and yet -
“There you are,” his mother says, her eyes flickering between Aemond, Aenys, and you, catching on the interstice between your arms, nearly brushing, a bare-width of space.
“Have you met everyone yet?” She asks, moving forward and twining her arm through yours, leading you cautiously and carefully over to where Rhaenyra stands, talking quietly with Cole.
It feel odd to have you not by his side, for you to be away from Aenys and himself in a crowded room. The thought startles him, prickles like ice in his veins and frost-bite at his lungs.
“Best behavior tonight, brother.”
He glances over at Helaena, hands full with Maegor and a faint blue stain across the hem of her shirt. “Aegon has already tried to pick a fight with Jace.”
Aemond hums, low in his throat.
“Not in front of the children,” her voice drops lower, a scratch of syllables that he wishes didn’t ring quite so true. “Not in front of her.”
Aemond clenches his jaw.
The dinner had not -
It had not gone well.
Had ended with an insult - too low, Aemond knows, even for him - with a hit - Jace’s fist against his cheek, a dull bloom of impact that Aemond hadn’t felt against his jaw quite so much as he’d felt it in his chest - with a shove and a clatter and silverware against the floor, his mother’s furtive shouts, and - worst, worst, worst - Aenys’ high-pitched, red-cheeked scream.
The sound of it had stopped Aemond in his tracks, had sent his blood running cold and heart into his throat.
He hadn’t meant -
But it did not matter.
It was done and his son’s face was streaked with tears, and you - you were unable to meet his gaze.
He’d put Aenys to bed himself, a hundred apologies and hatred caught in a tremor in his lungs.
“I’m just fine, see -“ Holding his hand to his cheek - the strike had not left so much as a bruise. “Everything is just fine.”
In the morning he’d explain to him how inexcusable it all was, would implore him to never act in such a way, but tonight it was all he could do to assuage his son’s fears, to sit with him till he’d fallen asleep and he could dim the lights, could make his way fear-stricken down the hall, to your room.
He wondered whether you’d answer the door.
Whether you might quit on the spot, leave the house in a rush of darkness and leave his life, Aenys’ life, forever.
If you did he would be the only one to blame.
Is, it seems, always the sole one to blame.
He’d never received an apology for the loss of his eye; had never received any regrets for the way his father had treated him, had cast him and Helaena and Aegon and Daeron aside again and again in favor of Rhaenyra; he’d never heard an even half-hearted attempt at amends after Rhaenyra stole the company from Aegon, from him, to pass it down and out of the Targaryen name.
Yes, Aemond knows anger. Has lived with anger and has loved anger and -
Tonight he will have to let it go.
A soft knock at the door. A murmur of your name.
You know from the voice alone who it is - that drawn and even tone, listing upwards at the end - but still you find yourself flushed when you open the door and see him.
The gentle light from the hallway breaking over his shoulders, falling in fractals to the floor. His elbow against the doorframe, his head bent and eye downcast. The sight of him robs you of any and all previous thought, leaves you stranded in that pulse of hope within your heart.
“Aemond -“ you breathe, the word falling from you before you can stop it.
Slowly, he looks up.
“I’d hoped I could have a word with you,” he says, words so dim you strain your hear them. He seems frightened, as though you might refuse him, close the door with a resounding slam and leave him stranded in the hall.
Wordlessly, you nod, take a step back and into your room.
He closes the door behind him.
For a moment silence dwells between you, steals the air from your lungs and the warmth from your blood. He’s not even a foot away, so close you could reach out and grasp him.
“I wanted to apologize,” he says, measuredly, the words well-worn, a rehearsal finally run. “For my behavior tonight. I should never have raised my voice, much less in front of you, and Aenys. It was inappropriate, and I would understand if you wish to take your leave. I couldn’t fault you. I just -“ a grasping for words, his cheeks stained a faint, fire-kissed pink. “I just don’t want you to be frightened of me.”
You feel your heart seize.
“Aemond,” you say again.
Since you opened the door it’s the only word you’ve been able to utter. The only thought that has fluttered within your reach.
“I could never be frightened of you.”
Even in the low light of the room, you can see him swallow, draw in a ragged breath.
“You didn’t frighten me. Tonight - it wasn’t -“
The light from the fire catches in odd flashes against his hair, his jaw, paints him a warm, faded glow that lulls you and lures you.
You banish the impulse to reach out and stroke his cheek, cast it out and away into some dark and endless depth of yourself, where it could never again raise its unruly head.
“I know you, Aemond. I’ve seen you with your dog, with your son. In all the time I’ve worked for you I’ve never seen you raise your voice to either, never seen you so much as bat an eye when one of them breaks something or spills something or -“
The truth of what you want to say lingers just out of your grasp; it’s the same truth that had trembles on your lips before, out in the yard, that you loved him, that you loved Aenys, that you’d forgiven him a thousand times over, could never fear him, no -
Not when you saw, every now and again, the way that he looked at you.
A softening of the eyes. An unguarded, bare look that always heightened all of your foolish hopes.
“Lucerys is the one - the one who took my eye,” he says, slowly, dragging the toe of his shoe along the carpet. “We were boys, and it was an accident, but -“
You reach for his hand.
It’s warm and sure and he does not pull away, no, not even as he continues on, his gaze far-off, caught in a memory.
“My father gave us all pocket knives, one year, for Christmas. We were…not as careful with them as we should’ve been. And there was one night - not too far from here, at their grandparents, when we all got into a fight, Jace and Luke and I.”
The edge of his smile is sharp, rueful.
“I’d called them names. Told them they weren’t really Targaryens, weren’t really members of the family, no, certainly couldn’t be with that hair.”
He laughs, just once, the sound hollow and devoid of any mirth.
“And we fought. Like boys do. Or - like boys who’ve grown to hate each other do. There were two of them and I was all by myself and at one point -“ his fingers slightly outstretched, as though he could reach out and touch this younger, reckless version of himself, the red of the carpet blooming like blood beneath them. “I picked up a rock. It had all escalated too far by then, and we were boys, there was no consequence that seemed real, but -“ A slow, resolute shake of his head. “Luke had his knife, and he swung - I think without really looking, just a desperate, aimless swing.”
Tentatively, he touches the edge of the scar slipping beneath the eyepatch.
“I don’t know what I expected, but he was never punished. Not even made to apologize to me. My father always, always favored Rhaenyra, always liked them just a little bit better, and -“
You’re horror-struck, horrified, lost in the ghost of that swing, Aemond’s scream, the blood-tinged tragedy of it all.
“Is it -“ you begin to ask, the words falling from you unbidden.
At last Aemond meets your gaze, answers your question with a somber shake of his head. “The eye is gone entirely. By the time we’d made it to the hospital it was already too late.”
You wonder if he’d looked like Aenys, as a boy, if he’d been as soft spoken and even tempered and kind.
“Aemond, I’m sorry.”
His eye bores into you at those words. A look that is unspoken, but that you understand all the same passing between you - all of your blood longing towards his, his grip tightening on your hand, a divining of the stars and a cosmic fluke and -
You stand there together, in the dark and silence.
You do not let go of his hand.
you’re the only girl i’ve seen for a long time that actually did look like something blooming (tender is the night, f. scott fitzgerald)
Danes attack Wincombe Abbey and a young novice crosses paths with a group of mercenaries and their Baby Monk // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist
Osferth x Original Female Character
Warnings: bit of violence and death, suggestive themes if you squint, there will eventually be smut
Words: 4000
A/n: not me starting another series oops but i can't resist the baby monk
Today saw the first snowfall of the year. A few flakes landed on Bridget’s sleeves as she sauntered past the hard and frosted soil of the vegetable garden, past the pigsty and towards the stream that circled Wincombe Abbey. She swung an empty pitcher back and forth as she hummed the least melancholy hymn she could think of.
They had guests currently. Lady Aethelflaed of Mercia had arrived two days ago, bringing with her a group of guards who were camping at outside the Abbey. Bridget had been tempted to walk past the men on her errand, but the Abbess was already in a foul mood and she didn’t fancy testing her temper. Not unless it was for something interesting.
She had spent her morning as she always did. Prayers first. Her knees were never not bruised by the flagstone floor of the chapel, but with winter settling in they were numb too. Then she saw to the goats and the pigs. Then she helped in the kitchen. Finally, she got to eat in the hall with her Sisters. Bread with some winter preserves and slices of cured ham.
When she got to the stream, she placed the pitcher by her feet. With a final glance over her shoulder to the solitary stone building of the Abbey, she hopped across the water on a sparse path of rocks and made for the line of trees ahead of her.
The woods were the only place she felt like a living person and not simply a novice in a habit.
Bridget couldn’t stand how quiet life the Abbey could be. The Abbess, a stern but fair woman, told her it was because she was restless and unappreciative, but perhaps she was simply not well suited to mindfulness and prayer. Sometimes she could find things to laugh about with the younger girls, but then the Abbess would scold her for her “impiety”.
Once she was amongst the trees she tugged at her habit. In the summer she might take it off, but it offered some extra warmth in the colder months.
Her preferred weapon was where she left it, leaning against the trunk of a young oak tree. A broken bit of a branch, small enough for her to wield and heavy enough to hit against the trees.
She twirled it through her hands, just as her brother used to show her. From the few memories she had, she remembered he could do all sorts of impressive tricks with his sword. He could spin it and slice it through the air in controlled and precise movements.
It had been a decade since she had seen her brother, but she tried to keep his teachings with her, swinging branches at tree trunks, imagining she was a great warrior, like David slaying Goliath. Technically David had slayed Goliath with a rock and a sling, a detail the Abbess insisted was important. Bridget could invent a thousand reasons why, but she didn’t care to.
Especially when she was younger, she liked to imagine herself as a warrior when she was tasked with cutting wood or slaughtering and butchering the pigs. They were both hard work, but she was always willing to do it, if only to have an excuse to be destructive for once. She found it could be quite cathartic.
After a particularly harsh blow against a tree that cracked the branch almost in two, she froze. She heard horses. She hoped they would move on, but she made out a few figures in the distance, figures who appeared to have spotted her and were moving closer.
She dropped the branch and fixed her habit, to find a lock of her hair hovering over her forehead. She tucked it back in as the faces of the riders came into view.
There were five who rode at the front, four men and a woman with pale, blonde hair and strange markings on her face. A larger group, no more than twenty, hung back a little.
“A nun,” one of the men called. He rode in front of the group, their leader, she supposed.
“There we are then, you’ll feel right at home, Baby Monk,” another said. He had a gruff voice and an Irish accent. One of the other men laughed. The woman didn’t react at all.
“Is the Abbey nearby?” The leader asked.
Bridget frowned. He had an accent she could not place. “You are Danish?” She looked amongst the rest of their group, and they each seemed to find her accusation amusing.
“What is my religion to you, girl?”
“I would like to know if you would seek to do us harm.”
He raised a brow. “And you believe the best measure of a man to be the gods he follows?”
“I believe the best measure of a man is his intentions,” she said, meeting his eye and determined to keep her expression stoic.
But apparently he was pleased with her response. “You and I are similar in this respect,” he said, loosening the grip of his reins. “We seek the Lady Aethelflaed.”
“Would you seek to do her harm?”
“Only the good kind,” the Irishman mumbled with a smirk.
The leader rolled his eyes. “She and I are friends. I have come to offer her my protection.”
Bridget looked into the eyes of each of their group, the leader, the Irishman, the one who from his hair also looked to be a Dane, and the younger man riding at the back of the group. The woman had an unsettling gaze, she was the only one Bridget felt she felt compelled to look away from. The Abbess would call the markings on her face the markings of a heathen.
“There is a bridge over the stream,” she said, pointing through the trees. “Cross there. There will be room for your horses in the stables.”
She watched the men move away, each of them offering thankful smiles. She concealed her own, and headed back the way she came, across the stream and to the abbey with the empty pitcher.
Lady Aethelflaed welcomed them warmly and named their leader as Lord Uhtred. After it was agreed that they were decidedly not Danes (not the kind who would attack an Abbey anyhow), they settled in the hall, where Bridget and the nuns brought them bowls of stew and bread.
She expected them to eat like the Mercian guards, wolfing down bread and stew like they hadn’t seen food in days, but Lord Uhtred and his men thanked her graciously as she placed bowls on the table and went round to ladle out more stew for them.
Until she came to the man sitting at the end of the table, beside Lady Aethelflaed. He was the youngest of the group, with wide blue eyes and a sharp jaw. He kept to himself, slightly hunched over his stew.
She was rather fascinated by his robes and the small silver cross around his neck. If he had a slightly worse haircut he would look like a monk. But that was ridiculous, why would a monk be travelling with a group of mercenaries?
She approached him and waited for him to notice her. He looked up at her a smiled vaguely.
She indicated to the pot she was carrying.
“Please,” he muttered, holding out his bowl.
She dished a few spoonfuls for him and he smiled again, a little wider this time. She smiled back.
She wondered where he might be from, why he served a Dane if he wore a cross, how far their group had travelled and how many tales they might have.
“May I ask your name?” He asked.
She had been so distracted trying to think of something to say that his question took her by surprise.
“Oh… Bridget,” she said. “And you?”
“I am Osferth,” he said. He was very softly spoken, she thought. There was something so gentle and subdued about him.
“Are you a monk, Osferth?” She asked.
He glanced down at the cross hanging from his neck. “I was, I left my order to serve Lord Uhtred.”
“And now you are, what, a mercenary?”
Osferth chuckled to himself and shook his head lightly. “I am not much of a fighter just yet.”
“But you have a sword, and your friends are warriors.”
“I am still learning. In the meantime I can only practice and pray to God for courage and strength.”
She felt a light feeling in her chest she was sure she hadn’t felt in years. That’s what she prayed for too, even when the nuns told her she should be praying for patience and forgiveness.
“How did you—”
“Bridget.” The Abbess called, glaring at her from across the table.
Bridget nodded her head to Osferth, a farewell, she supposed, and headed back to the kitchen. One of the girls followed behind her, with a now empty pitcher of ale.
“The Irishman is handsome,” Bridget whispered into her ear once they were through the doors.
The other girl’s mouth fell open.
“What? Surely it is not a sin to look?”
The next morning, the Abbess ensured Bridget stayed in the kitchen. “So you might not be so easily distracted,” she warned, leaving her to peel and slice an endless amount of vegetables.
The Abbess seemed rather distressed at hosting Lord Uhtred and his men. “Ravenous permanently,” she grumbled, marching in through the kitchen with the remains of their breakfast. “They are eating into our winter stores.”
“So why let them stay?” Bridget muttered, dragging the edge of her knife over the skin of a few carrots.
“Because it is our place to show kindness,” the Abbess insisted through her teeth. She emptied the plate into a bucket by Bridget’s feet. “Take that out to the pigs.”
Bridget made no verbal protest. She placed the knife down and left through a small door that led out to the side of the Abbey, just as she had done the previous day. The skin of her cheeks stung when it met the icy morning air. The snow was heavier today. She blinked a few flakes out of her eyes and marched quickly towards the pigsty.
She made sure to scratch them behind the ears, poor things, left out in the cold.
She made her way around the building, to the front doors of the Abbey, and blinked.
And blinked again.
No, there was defineately an army of Danes lined up on the other side of the bridge.
“Good morning, nun!” One cried from atop a grey horse.
“Who are you?” Bridget demanded, but her voice came out a little more broken than intended.
The man chuckled and nodded to the bridge.
They had three hostages, each with a knife being held to their throats.
But with the order from their leader, the first hostage’s throat was sliced open, his body carelessly left to fall to the floor.
Bridget couldn’t bring herself to scream and choked out a broken sort of gasp.
They made no demands, made no moves towards her, and there was no indication they intended to kill the other two hostages. Not yet.
She slowly stalked towards the doors, unable to keep her eyes away from the danger.
“We will wait!” The man on the horse called, “for Aethelflaed!”
She ran to the kitchen first.
“To the hall!” She cried, moving to shut the windows.
The others all stared at her for a moment.
“Now!”
“What is the meaning of this?” The Abbess asked, bolting the door to the gardens as the others fled the kitchen.
“Danes,” Bridget breathed. She hadn’t realised her lack of breath or the restless feeling creeping under her skin.
The Abbess’s skin turned pale. She placed her hand on Bridget’s shoulder and ushered her towards the hall.
The nuns and novices had raised alarm amongst the men. Half of them were already reaching for their weapons.
Bridget and the Abbess slammed the doors of the hall with an ominous thud.
“What is it?” Lord Uhtred demanded.
“Danes. Outside.”
Every man was on his feet in an instant, and the sound of unsheathed swords rang through the hall.
“How many Danes?” The Irishman asked.
Bridget faltered. She hadn’t thought to count them. “More than twenty. Less than fifty.”
A few men moved towards the doors and the windows, but Lord Uhtred ordered them to hold for the time being.
He turned to Bridget. “Do you know what they want?”
“He asked for Lady Aethelflaed.”
“But they may not know we are here,” he said to his men.
“They know someone is here,” Osferth’s voice came. He was still sat at the table and had not drawn his sword.
“But they have hostages,” Bridget said. “They killed one man and they have two more.”
“We remain inside, and we remain silent,” Uhtred ordered, coming towards Bridget and the Abbess. “They must believe you are unprotected,” he said.
He looked between them for a moment, and turned back to Bridget. “Would you speak with them?”
Her heart must have stopped for a moment. “What?”
“We cannot save the hostages, but you can save the lives of the men and women here.”
“And Aethelflaed,” Osferth added.
“You must deny she is here; convince them you have nothing to offer.”
Her restlessness was starting to feel like fear, but she understood Lord Uhtred’s plan, and she could not say why, but she was inclined to trust him.
Until the Abbess interjected. “No!”
Bridget’s heart sank a little. “Abbess, I can do it—”
“No, child, this is my house. This will be my responsibility.” She turned to Lord Uhtred. “I will do it.”
Bridget followed Uhtred and some of the other men into the entrance hall. She stood by one of the windows, out of sight of the Danes, occasionally stealing glances of the Abbess as she stepped out to attempt a negotiation.
“We know him,” a voice muttered beside her. She looked up to see Osferth’s jaw hovering over her. “His name is Haesten.”
The Abbess made her plea for mercy.
In turn, a second man had his throat slit.
“Deny her presence again and a third man dies. And I will burn down your nunnery, and everyone in it.”
Bridget placed her hand on her throat. She could feel her heart pulsing.
A hand gently came onto her shoulder, but Osferth said nothing. His hands were larger than she realised. It wasn’t exactly calming, but she liked it.
True to the words of the Dane, the third man was slain, and when the Abbess reached for an axe she was met with a spear to her chest.
Bridget flinched into Osferth’s chest, keeping her hands over her eyes.
“Aethelflaed!” Haesten cried. “How many more men and women must die to save your bony arse?”
“To the hall,” Osferth said, taking one of her hands in his.
When she glanced once more out the window, Haesten and his men were moving past the bodies of the hostages and the Abbess, towards the doors.
Bridget, Osferth and Aethelflaed gathered the nuns and novices to the back of the hall, while Uhtred and his men lined up behind the doors with shields, spears and swords.
“Will you not fight?” Bridget asked Osferth.
“I told you, I am not much of a warrior,” he said solemnly, as he and Lady Aethelflaed positioned themselves before the others.
Bridget frowned, but tried to distract herself by whispering assurances to some of the younger girls.
When the doors finally burst open she felt utterly helpless. The fighting was kept by the doors and the entrance hall, while Osferth and Lady Aethelflaed watched with their swords drawn.
And when two of the Danes broke through the line protecting the door, they moved together. Lady Aethelflaed fought better than the monk, she thought.
She watched as a third man fought through, overwhelming Osferth while Aethelflaed was still preoccupied.
Bridget couldn’t stop herself. She darted towards the table and grabbed a knife. She supposed the man could have easily turned to her and lodged his axe in her chest, but he didn’t get a chance to even look at her before she rammed the knife into his neck, sending a spray of blood through the air.
The rest of the room was a haze. Something warm and wet landed on and dripped down her cheek.
Suddenly she felt two hands against her shoulders. She blinked.
Osferth’s blue eyes were glaring at her. “That was foolish,” he said.
Three men lay dead on the floor. Swords continued to clash in the entrance hall but Haesten and his men were retreating.
Osferth and Aethelflaed moved out to join Uhtred, while some of the nuns came to wipe the blood from Bridget’s face.
She told them of the Danes and the Abbess’ death. Some of the girls cried, some prayed. She came to clutch her own cross around her neck. But her hands would not stop shaking and her heart would not rest.
She killed a man. Really, it hadn’t been much harder than slaughtering a pig, but at least it felt a little more justified.
If the Abbess were not dead, she would have screamed at her, told her she was ungodly, no better than a cold-blooded murderer, or any of the Danes who ravaged villages and stole from innocent Mercians.
They stayed huddled in the hall until dusk, when Lord Uhtred seemed to finally come to a resolution.
The woman with the markings on her face, Skade, was a seer, and Haesten agreed to take her in Aethelflaed’s place.
Bridget watched the exchange from the doors to the main hall, and a shiver slipped down her spine when Skade turned to Uhtred with a dark look in her eyes.
“You are cursed once more, Uhtred of Bebbanburg.”
Bridget had hardly slept that night. She lay eyes closed, still in her robes and the white headscarf she wore under her habit, listening to the gentle snores of the girls in the beds around her and aware of the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.
The moment she heard the first whistle of birdsong at dawn, she was up. She pulled on a pair of boots and looked around her bed. But it occurred to her she owned nothing, save for her little silver cross.
She hurried through the abbey, past the open doors of the hall, now empty.
The men were outside, securing their saddles and mounting their horses.
She spotted Lord Uhtred as he was helping Lady Aethelflaed pack her own mount.
Osferth was by his horse, talking to the Irishman.
“Lord Uhtred!” Bridget called over the noise of the horses.
He turned to her with a small smile. “Fear not, we have not emptied your food stores—”
“I want to come with you,” she said.
She had the attention of the others now.
Uhtred chuckled to himself. “I already have a stray monk, I have no need for a little novice.”
Bridget’s skin still felt strange where it had been stained with blood. “I fought better than him.”
“Not a particularly high standard,” the Irishman joked. Osferth’s head sunk, but he was smirking too.
“So you killed one man and now you offer yourself as a warrior?” Uhtred asked.
Her breath caught in her throat as she finally realised the ridiculousness of her proposition. She could swing a branch, cut firewood and bury a knife into an unsuspecting man, but that would hardly help her in a true battle.
“With practice, perhaps?” She said, pressing her nails into her palm. “But I have some skills as a healer also. I’ve assisted the Abbess with all sorts of ailments, no doubt you encounter your fair share of injuries?”
“She’s got spirit, Uhtred, at least give her that,” Aethelflaed said.
“Please,” Bridget said, “give me the chance and I will prove myself to you.”
They each shared a few pointed glances.
“I admire your determination, but I cannot bring a girl onto the battlefield against armies of Danes. I cannot guarantee your protection and I cannot even offer you a horse.”
“Lord? She can ride with me,” Osferth said quietly. “With your permission of course. I can look out her.”
Uhtred raised his eyebrows. “Very well.”
Bridget felt herself smile, wide and showing off her top row of teeth. It felt uncomfortable but she didn’t try to stop herself.
The others were already starting to move off as she approached Osferth as he stroked the nose of his horse.
“Have you ridden before?” He asked.
“No.”
“You’ll sit behind me; I’ll help you up.”
Bridget nodded.
She watched as he placed his left foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over to the other side. “Easy,” he insisted, holding out his hand to her. “Don’t be afraid to use your strength.”
She followed his movements as best she could, but her skirt wouldn’t allow her to bring her leg to the other side of the saddle. She fell back onto her feet with a disgruntled huff.
“Other foot then, and slot both legs onto one side of the saddle.” He held out his hand again. “Ready?”
“Wait.” Bridget looked back to the space around her. The stream, the woods, the doors to the place that had never really felt like home. She reached for her headscarf and pulled it off her head, letting it fall to the ground. She didn’t suppose she would have any use for it now. Her hair fell down her back in a messy braid.
She looked back up at Osferth, between his hand, his eyes, and briefly to the curve of his upper lip. She held his hand tightly and hauled herself up onto the horse, her arms and legs trembling slightly at the effort.
Once the horse was settled Osferth gave it a gentle kick and they began to move. Bridget latched onto his shoulders as they began to sway with the movement.
“What if I fall off?” She asked, suddenly horrified at the prospect.
“You won’t fall off,” Osferth said, “use your thighs.”
“What?”
“Grip with your thighs,” he said.
She did so instinctively. Something about it felt… strange.
They cantered to catch up with the group and Bridget gripped Osferth’s shoulders a little tighter. Until he took one of her hands and placed it on his waist, so she wouldn’t impede on his arms. She muttered an apology and unsurely placed her other hand around him.
A few days ago she hadn’t so much as spoken to a man in years, except an incident where a nearby farmer had broken his leg, and even then she only wordlessly assisted the Abbess to bandage his limb.
Now she had her arms around a man’s torso, close enough to feel his warmth from under his winter cloak as her body rocked against his back.
“You’re frozen,” Osferth said, briefly brushing his thumb over her hand.
“It’s winter.”
“Did you not have anything warmer to wear?”
“We don’t attach ourselves to material items,” she said in a mockingly wistful voice.
He huffed a small laugh and pulled the horse to a stop before swinging his leg around the its head, landing on the ground in one smooth movement.
He undid the clasp on his cloak and held it up to her.
“Thank you,” she said, wrapping it around her shoulders, “but I don’t want you to get cold.”
He mounted again, a little awkwardly with Bridget already in the saddle. “Hold it around me. We can keep each other warm.”
She shuffled closer into him. Osferth brought one hand off the reins and pulled the corner of the cloak around his arm as Bridget settled against his back, resting her head at the base of his neck.
Thank God he couldn’t see her as her cheeks started to burn against the cold and the snow.
(1950s AU) A housewife reaches breaking point and seeks medical advice at her husband's request // Main Masterlist
Aemond x nameless female character
Warnings: 18+, smut, period typical sexism, dub-con,
Words: 5400
A/n: inspired by this ask on @lightningandfireinmybones 's blog, shout out to @b-vvitched for the prompt, I couldn't stop thinking about it :) Also available to read on AO3.
She reads over the gold painted letters on the door to make sure she has the right room.
Dr A. Targaryen
General Practitioner
She brings her hand up to the door, hesitating for a moment before she softly taps her knuckles against the wood, thrice.
She holds her breath, unsure if a moment passes or a minute.
His voice comes soft and distant from the other side. “Enter.”
The room is simply four white walls, a dark wood desk and cabinets and an examination table with black leather upholstery. The harsh afternoon sun and a slight breeze bleed in from the open windows, floating through thin, white curtains. It’s surprisingly serene but still plain and inoffensive.
Dr Targaryen– Aemond as he insists as he shakes her hand– has harsh blue eyes, the left framed by a long scar slicing down his face, a pointed nose, curved lips, a sharp jaw and pale blond hair, stylishly gelled like some movie star. Something about him is unsettling despite the small smile and the impeccable manners as he offers her a seat in the green leather chair on the other side of his desk.
She contracts her hand slightly once he lets go of her. His grip had been rather firm.
He opens a brown leather notebook and flicks through a clipboard on the desk, frowning and tapping a pen against it as he goes over some paperwork and basic information she had given the nurse, as instructed.
She holds her hands together in her lap and winces at how damp her palms are. She’s sure it’s just the weather, and smooths them over her pale blue, rayon skirt. She checks her nails while she’s at it too. She had painted them red the night before, but they are already starting to chip from where she’d started her day with washing the dishes and doing a deep clean of the kitchen.
“You said your husband recommended you seek medical advice, is that right?” he asks, his head tilted down and his eyes meeting hers, expecting a prompt answer, she realises.
She swallows through the scratchy feeling in her throat, wishing she had accepted the receptionist’s offer of water. “Yes, that’s right.”
His eyes move over the page again and he gives a cryptic “hmm.”
The specifics often change but lately she’s realised that each day of her life feels the same. Wake up before her husband, make his coffee and his breakfast, make sure he wants for nothing and see him off to work. Help the mother-in-law with her shopping and her laundry. Bake a cake for the village fundraiser and drop it off at the the Church. Make polite conversation with the vicar and the other women helping out, compliment their babies, ask about the older children. Try not to cry when she’s bombarded with the dreaded question. “How soon can we expect little ones from you?”
Two weeks ago her husband had come home from work and found her on the sofa, staring into space, too tired to even reach for a book or a magazine. Everything had seemed to be going wrong for her that day, evidenced by the broken washing machine, the broken heel on her shoe, the cuts and blisters on her feet, the shopping left unceremoniously on the kitchen counter. She was absolutely exhausted, but when his dinner wasn't ready and waiting for him, her husband hit the roof.
Something snapped. Before she knew it, she was screaming, eyes hot and streaming with tears as she choked on her own sobs. She had never been so loud in her life. She can hardly even remember what she said.
Her husband’s voice screams inside her head. “Emotional… irrational… hysterical…”
“And you went to the nurse first?” Aemond asks.
“Yes.”
He looks back at the notes. “What did she tell you?”
She shifts in her chair. It should all be right there in front of him, why does she have to say it?
She takes a deep breath, as subtly as she can. “She suggested it could be a hormonal imbalance, or a symptom of…”
Aemond raises a brow, expectantly.
She feels a warmth rushing to her cheeks “... monthly courses,” she says quietly.
“And have you had issues with those?” he asks.
“They can be irregular.”
He hums again and writes something in his notebook.
She clenches her fist around her skirt and notices the soft ticking of the clock on the wall over the desk. It’s not too obtrusive, and the rhythm gives her something to focus on while neither of them are speaking.
Aemond shifts back in his chair, crossing a leg over the other, absentmindedly pressing the lid of his pen to his lips like he’s trying to solve a crossword in the morning paper. “What exactly was your husband’s main concern?”
There comes a familiar feeling, an emptiness in her chest like her body might concave, and a swelling in her eyes. She bites down on her lip to dispel the urge to cry.
Everyone around her loves to comment on how happy she is, how blessed she is to have such a happy marriage and a loving husband.
“He says I’ve been too emotional.”
“Emotional in what way?”
She tells him about the outburst two weeks ago, expecting him to tut and shake his head and chide her for her behaviour. Instead he watches her and listens.
“He says he doesn’t know what else to do with me. He says he does everything he can to make me happy, but that it’ll never be enough for me,” she says.
“And does he make you happy?” he asks.
Her answer hitches in her throat. The obvious response would be of course. He does what any good husband does, works, brings home a salary, sweet talks her mother and smokes cigars with her father when they visit every other Sunday.
Happiness seems to be an external factor, something people comment on and praise her. When other people say she is happy she wears it with pride, like a medal or a precious piece of jewellery.
She loves her husband, as well as any self respecting woman does. She reminds herself that’s the whole reason why she’s here.
At her silence Aemond smiles to himself and begins to write. She follows how his fingertips grip the pen and how the tendons in his hands flex.
“Wait!” she says, shuffling forward in her seat.
He pauses and looks at her like he did before, with his chin tilted down.
“No– I meant to say yes. Yes, he makes me happy.”
His eyes move around her face and briefly down, over the pearl charm hanging from her neck, her white blouse and her hands bunched in her blue skirt. She releases them when she realises he’s looking and rests them on the arms of the chair instead.
This feels like a test, one in which every word and gesture will be put to scrutiny, earning either a curious “hmm” or a scratching of the pen against the paper. She wonders which is worse.
“How long have you been married?” he asks.
“A year in July.”
“No children?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
His question leaves a tight feeling in her chest and in her gut.
Aemond sets the pen down on the desk without making a sound. “Sorry, I know these questions can be obtrusive. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but it would be useful to know what I’m working with.”
That’s an odd way to phrase it, she thinks.
“No it’s alright,” she says, her fingers moving anxiously over each other. “It’s not for lack of trying. We… try a few times a week. Usually on the weekends or when he’s not tired– he’s often tired after work.”
“And how is it?”
“Oh, um–” without thinking her hands move back into her lap and she starts to pick at the red nail polish. “He says there’s something wrong with me.”
Aemond tilts his head. “Wrong with you?”
She squeezes her thighs together at the familiar memory of her husband’s downright painful attempts to make love to her. He practically has to force his way inside of her and she can never stand it for more than a few thrusts before she pushes him off.
He was understanding for the first few months, but she can tell it’s starting to irritate him now. She doesn’t understand why it doesn’t work, what she could possibly be doing wrong.
“Does he prepare you?”
She looks up with a knitted brow. “Prepare me?”
He tuts and mutters something that sounds like “poor thing,” before scrawling another quick note.
Then he stands, rolling up the sleeves of his white coat and the black shirt underneath. “I want to check a few things,” he says, cocking his head towards the examination table on the other side of the room.
She follows dutifully, propping her hands against the leather upholstery and pushing herself up to sit on it. Her black heels don’t reach the floor. She crosses them at the ankle and lets them swing a little.
Once Aemond has washed his hands he approaches her. He’s tall, she realises as he stands before her. His hips are level with her knees and the edge of the table and while he’s not quite close enough to touch her, her legs twitch at the proximity.
She tries to avert her gaze from the somewhat intense expression in his eyes as he simply looks at her. Her eyes don’t stop moving, looking past his shoulder or down at her sides, but there’s not anything interesting to look at.
She focuses on the steady ticking of the clock, counting ten long seconds before she realises she’s holding her breath.
When she finally releases she finds herself focusing instead on the gentle sounds of Aemond’s breath through his nose, the smell of his hair gel, musky aftershave and the lingering scent of smoke.
Warm fingertips brush against her jaw as he brings her to look at him. She can feel the slight roughness of the pads of his fingers, but he’s gentle when he touches her, almost cautious.
He leans in a little closer until he’s touching her knees. She doesn’t let herself react but her heart is drumming furiously, more so when his thumb strokes over her cheek. He moves back and forth, grazing the corner of her mouth, before he swipes it over her lower lip.
She relaxes her mouth as he presses and tugs on the soft flesh. It’s somehow both terrifying and oddly reassuring.
And then he settles, pressing both of her lips into a slight pout while his fingertips rest against her jaw and the top of her neck.
“Open your mouth for me,” he says.
She stares back at him with wide eyes. Had she heard that correctly?
The corners of his mouth curl politely, waiting for her compliance.
So she does as he asks.
With his fingers holding her chin, Aemond inches his thumb into her mouth, settling on her tongue. His skin tastes clean and faintly medicinal from the amber soap.
“You can close your mouth,” he says.
She keeps her eyes on his as she closes her lips around him, careful not to touch him with her teeth.
He hums again, low and contentedly. “Good girl.”
She shudders at the sudden weightlessness in her belly.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
She gives him a small nod.
"Good," he utters, "just breathe."
She loses count of the seconds on the clock as he simply settles inside of her. She does as he says, breathing deeply through her nose, looking up at him through her eyelashes, trying to read if he's pleased or not.
When he starts to withdraw and she instinctively drags her tongue along his thumb. She looks down at his hand, the imprint of her mauve lipstick on his skin, the glistening digit and the small line of spit that trails from her mouth, which he wipes away with his fingers.
“How did that feel?” he asks.
She thinks for a moment. “Good.”
He glances down and her eyes follow, to the fabric of her skirt. When she stands it falls to her shin, but seated, the hem rides up to just below her knees. He places a wide hand on her left knee, their skin separated only by a thin layer of nylon stockings.
“These outbursts of yours,” he mutters, “are they a regular occurrence?”
“Not really,” she says.
“What do you think caused it?”
She presses her teeth together and looks away from him to think. “Lots of things I suppose. It all piles up.”
“How did it feel, to shout at your husband?”
She huffs a laugh at the instinct that appears in her head, it’s not something she should ever admit, but there’s something about Aemond’s eyes and the feeling of his hands that make her want to tell him the truth,
“I liked it, I was just so…” she shakes her head looking for the right word, but she supposes there’s a simpler explanation. “I was so angry, angrier than I’ve ever been in my life.”
“What were you angry at?” Aemond asks, his thumb starting to stroke against her thigh.
Would it be too much to list every aspect of her life that irritates her?
She hates a lot of things. She hates tidying the house just for it to get messy again. She hates it when her new shoes dig into her skin and make her bleed. She hates that she seems incapable of interacting with another person without suffering their scrutiny. She hates it when people tell her that her life is perfect.
Everything races around in her head, screaming and shouting at her until the noise becomes silent, just a throbbing pain in her head.
“Just… everything,” she groans, rubbing her fingertips against her temple. “I don’t understand it, everyone says our life together is so perfect, but I don’t feel perfect.”
His hand moves away from her and she looks up at the absence.
Aemond takes a slow breath. “Are you familiar with hysteria?”
Her heart sinks and he seems to see it in her face.
He purses his lips for a moment before he explains, “it’s essentially an excess of ill-managed emotions. It can lead to irrational behaviour and quite severe distress.”
She’s heard of the condition before, sparse stories here and there of men who had no choice but to seek proper treatment for their wives when they are too emotional… irrational… hysterical.
She’s not like those women, surely, and her husband knows that, right?
“Is that what's wrong with me?” she asks.
His mouth quirks. “Quite possibly.”
“But I’ve heard of women with this condition before. I’ve heard what their husbands do to them, I—” she can feel her eyes beginning to well with hot, stinging tears. “That’s not going to happen to me, is it?”
She hangs her head, dread pooling in her belly, until his hands cup the sides of her face. Aemond brings her gaze up into his eyes.
“Don’t send me away,” she whispers, blinking the tears from her eyes so they roll down her cheeks. “Please, there must be something you can do–”
“There there, pet,” he says, tracing his thumbs along her teartracks, “everything is going to be alright, hmm? We can sort you out.”
She nods at his reassurance and the feeling of his hands against her skin. It must be entirely improper to be so close to another man, even more so when she starts to realise just how much she likes it, a sweet sort of unease. Perhaps that’s just his nature, perhaps he’s just good at this part of his job.
For a moment he presses his lips together in a strange way, like he’s holding something back. “There is one treatment I’m keen to suggest,” he says.
“What treatment?” she asks.
He tilts his head slightly. “Hysteria is an instability of emotion. You need a release.”
“Like when I shouted at my husband?”
He smiles at that. “It felt good, didn’t it?”
She nods.
“We can undergo controlled releases,” he says, “you’ll be much happier for it.”
She takes a sharp breath when one of his hands moves down from her cheek to rest casually at her waist.
“I can start the treatment today, if you’d like?”
His face is close to hers now, She feels every flutter of his breath, the heat of his body separated by inches of empty space.
“Yes please,” she says quietly, like she might disturb the peacefulness in the room if she speaks any louder. “If it’s not too much trouble?”
“Don’t worry, pet, we’ve still got plenty of time left,” he says, stepping away. “Take your skirt off, and lie back.”
Suddenly her skin feels tight. “My skirt?”
“If you don’t mind?” he says over his shoulder as he walks towards his desk. “It just makes things a little easier, maybe the blouse too.”
She hops down from the table, heels clicking against the floor. While Aemond’s pen scratches against paper, she turns her back and starts to pick at the buttons on the top of her blouse. She pulls it over her head and folds it, setting it down on the table, where her head will go. Then she pulls down the zip on her skirt and lets it fall around her. For the slightly mortifying prospect of standing there in her stockings and undergarments, the breeze from the window washes over the bare skin of her arms and torso. It’s quite nice, a welcome relief.
She waits with her heels close together and her hands clasped in front of her. Aemond has his back to her and she watches the way the sunlight catches in the silvery streaks of his hair. He tears a sheet from the pad of prescription papers and leaves it on his desk before he moves to the sink to wash his hands. It’s methodical, like before, well rehearsed and memorised for efficiency. Does he even have to think about what he’s doing, she wonders?
Once his hands are dried he reaches into a drawer under his desk. He keeps his eyes on the small object in his hands as he walks towards her.
She straightens her back and puts her hands on the table behind her, testing her weight so she can shuffle on top of it.
Aemond looks up and she pauses.
His eyes dart up and down her body. “Shoes and stockings off too.”
Blood rushes to her cheeks but she complies, reaching down to undo the small buckles on each shoe. Once they’re under the table she stands straight and curls her thumbs around her stockings.
She looks up to Aemond. He gives her a small nod.
She starts to pull the thin material down her legs, so thin it should hardly make a difference. She shivers as the breeze meets a new part of her body. She straightens again, dutifully awaiting her next instruction.
The corners of Aemond’s mouth curl. “Perfect,” he mutters.
He steps closer to her, until she can make out the object in his hands. It’s a coppery colour, gleaming like metal, and no smaller than a tube of lipstick. He slips it into his coat pocket.
She follows Aemond’s hand as he reaches out and runs a slender finger under the strap of her brassiere. “I think we’ll keep this on,” he says.
She nods, though she doesn’t really know why.
A hum sounds in his throat and his eyes look over her face. “Lie back.”
She does as he says and fiddles with her hands, unsure of where to put them until she decides to keep them by her sides. Anticipation sets her nerves alight. She listens to every breath, each taunting footstep as Aemond comes to stand at the foot of the bed.
He moves slowly so as not to agitate her, but her whole body tenses when his hands clasp around her ankles. It’s obvious he’s trying to be gentle, but even when softly spoken his voice leaves a restless feeling in her gut. “Shh, try to relax, and just let me…” he lifts her legs up along her body until her knees are by her hips. His hands go to her thighs next and she lets out a short whimper of surprise when he pulls her closer to him.
“There we go,” he muses to himself, one hand on her thigh while he gently rests the other on her navel, over the hem of her panties.
Her hands are restless, fists clenching and nails digging into her palms.
Aemond looks down at her with a hint of concern. “You can tell me if you want to stop, at any point.”
“No it’s alright,” she breathes, suppressing the urge to arch her back.
His brows raise as he looks down, grazing his fingertips over her skin. Each movement has her breath hitching or her body squirming, no matter how hard she tries to relax, just as he’d instructed.
He brings both hands to her knees, closing them together before he reaches for her panties and slides them from her legs. She doesn’t see where he drops them. Her hands come into fists again as he gradually spreads her legs.
She’s not sure what to expect or how this is supposed to help her control her emotions, but she tries to concentrate on staying still, keeping whatever dignity she has left.
“Look at that,” Aemond hums, circling his thumbs against her inner thighs, “you’re already getting wet.”
She can feel it, the warmth pooling between her legs. No one has ever told her it’s bad, but it’s one of those things she wonders if she should be ashamed of. She tries to shift but there’s nowhere for her body to go, nowhere she can hide from him.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters, “it’s not bad, is it?”
Aemond frowns. “You mean you don’t…” he trails off as his face melts into an amused sort of sympathy, like he’s piecing together a puzzle. “Bad news for your husband maybe. It means you’re aroused.”
Aroused. She repeats the word to herself a few times.
Surely it is a bad thing to find herself in such a state, only she finds herself turning her attention to Aemond. Her gaze trails shamelessly over the veins and tendons of his hands and forearms as he kneads at her thighs, the curve of his upper lip and the tip of his tongue swiping between his teeth. If only she could read his mind, figure out what he’s thinking behind those pretty blue eyes, what hypothesis he’s playing around with inside his head.
And then he reaches into his pocket. She lifts her head to try and get a better look. The coppery object looks more like an oversized bullet, with a slightly pointed head and a black button at its base. When Aemond presses the button it starts to hum. Even the noise of it sparks a reaction from her. She feels something strange, like a shockwave flashing through her body.
“Relax,” Aemond says, bringing his other hand to her hip. “I don’t want to have to tie you down.”
“No,” she utters, “sorry.” She lets her head fall against the upholstery and stares up at the ceiling, determined not to react.
Until something presses to her centre, humming against her. Pleasure pulses through her, unfamiliar but hot and bright. Her eyes snap shut and her hips try to buck but Aemond’s hand holds her down.
“How does it feel?” he says.
Her first attempt to speak comes out as a broken whimper. “Good,” she manages, stilling her hips from trying to rock against the bullet. “Fuck…”
Something inside of her feels tight, tensing and tensing until she’s sure she can’t take any more. But he keeps it against her, making small, rhythmic movements through her folds, edging her closer to that rising feeling only to relieve her of it.
Her nails start to drag along the leather, clawing at it for purchase. She tries to stay still, to keep her hips steady but something has to give. She turns her head to the side, whimpering and groaning into her shoulder.
“There you go,” Aemond hums, as he finds a truly torturous pattern, slowly swiping upwards from her entrance to the sweet spot of her pearl, only to start over.
“Please,” she whimpers as he tears her away from that feeling again. Blissful tears blur her vision and she feels utterly weightless. “I can’t stand it…”
He lingers the bullet just below her pearl. She’s so close to something. She can feel it.
“Do you want to stop?” Aemond asks.
“No!” she cries.
He starts to move in small circles now and her body feels like it’s burning. “Just take it,” he says, “you can take it, just be a good girl for me, hmm?”
“Yes… yes…” she utters like a dreamy chant.
The button clicks and the vibrations increase. She hardly registers the wanton noises she makes, but she’s all too aware of wet sounds of her arousal and Aemond’s short hums when her hips start to buck again.
“You’re so close, aren’t you?” Aemond says. “Come on, pet, you can do it, you’re almost there…”
She feels the hum of her throat as she groans his name and suddenly the tight feeling snaps. Her whole body releases, just as Aemond promised, and she feels herself come undone. He guides her through it, the bullet whirring against her and his hand steady on her hip.
When he finally withdraws, her limbs don’t feel like her own. She listens to her own breath and feels the rise and fall of her chest as she wills herself into a state of awareness. She props herself onto her elbows and her eyes meet Aemond’s.
He smirks, and looks down again, gently drawing a thumb through her folds.
Her back arches and her breath hitches, though not as intensely as before. She can feel how slick she is now, how easily he moves against her. She eases under his touch and just lets it feel good.
“You did so well,” he says, “fuck, the way your cunt twitches when you come…”
She gazes at him with a bewildered kind of awe, at his parted lips, the golden glow of sunlight trailing down his jaw and his neck, and now the dark, almost hungry look in his eyes. She can already feel the desire rising again, the wanting for more.
“There’s something else I want to try,” he says. His thumb slips further down, teasing her entrance. “If you’ll let me?”
She holds her bottom lip between her teeth and nods.
“Good girl,” he hums.
That alone has her trying to roll her hips against him, but then he’s gone. She wants to groan in protest but keeps her mouth shut as she watches him remove his white coat and black shirt, both of which he drapes over his chair. For his seemingly slender frame, he’s surprisingly muscular.
With his back still turned to her she watches his hands move to his trousers. She hears the clinking of his belt buckle and the sound of his fly coming undone. He reaches back into the same drawer, tears something between his teeth and discards a small, white packet on the desk.
As he comes to stand before her once more she can’t help the small smile that graces her lips, unashamedly appreciating the muscles of his torso, his pectorals and the lines of his abdominals, and his now freed cock, already hard, and certainly larger than her husband’s.
He stands before her once again, bringing her knees down so he can slot himself between her legs.
She can already feel herself twitching and her heart racing.
He doesn’t waste much time on preamble. “You’re fucking soaked,” he mutters, lining the his cock to her entrance and taking a hold of her thigh, “be a shame to waste it.”
She expects it to hurt when he pushes inside of her, and for a moment it does. She feels the way he stretches her out with just the tip. He moves slowly, dragging in and out of her, each time pushing in a little more. She can take the pain, at least until it starts to melt away. After a few strokes it feels effortless.
Aemond lets out a sharp grunt as he comes close to bottoming out. “How does it feel?” he asks with a small amount of strain.
It’s a different kind of pleasure, it’s duller and deeper, less frantic but it still burns in the best way.
“Good,” she breathes.
Aemond’s hands take hold of her waist as he increases his pace, dragging her into him to match his thrusts.
The air feels hot and thick now, the ticking of the clock drowned out by laboured panting, breathless moans and the soft sounds of skin meeting skin.
“Fuck you’re tight,” he hisses, sinking his fingertips deeper into her flesh.
“I don’t suppose that’s a medical term?” she says with a dazed grin.
Aemond huffs a laugh but it seems to spur him on, his jaw slack and his brow furrowed in determination.
She wraps her legs around his hips and reaches up for him, but all she manages is to graze her fingertips over his torso. He snatches her wrists, leaning over to pin them on either side of her head as he brutally starts to snap her hips into hers. Like this he fucks her deeper and harder against the leather.
She feels her release building slowly, his cock brushing against a spot that has her eyes watering again.
“Going to come for me?” Aemond grits out, pressing his forehead to hers.
“I want to,” she whimpers, arching her back to get closer to him, “fuck–”
He releases one of her wrists and slips his hand between them, circling her pearl with the pads of his fingers.
He brings his lips to the shell of her ear. “You’re squeezing me so good,” he whispers harshly, “nearly there, nearly there sweetheart…”
Her legs start to shake as her pleasure peaks and her climax washes over her. Every part of her body tenses and moulds itself into him. Aemond doesn’t relent, he keeps fucking her until she’s whining and squirming, until finally he lets out a guttural groan into her neck. His hips still and she feels him throbbing inside of her, spilling himself into the condom.
For a moment she’s content to lie there, no matter how uncomfortable the surface of the bed is. She likes Aemond’s weight on top of her, his breath on her neck, the scent of him, the sweat from his brow against her skin. But they don’t stay like that for long. He pulls away from her and makes quick work of disposing of the condom and tucking himself back into his trousers.
“Nothing wrong in that regard,” he says, reaching for her hand to help her sit up. “If you’re having trouble it’s the fault of your husband. He needs to prepare you before he tries to fuck you.”
She flicks her hair from her neck to relieve some of the heat. “Oh, right.” She can feel herself trembling, but she feels light, like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders.
“How are you feeling now?” he asks, placing a reassuring hold to her arm.
“Good,” she says.
Aemond carefully helps her back into her panties, stockings, shoes, blouse and skirt. He rights her necklace, wipes the dried tears from her cheeks, drags his thumb around her mouth where her lipstick has smudged and helps her down from the bed, keeping a firm hand on her until she nods to let him know she’s alright.
He tears off a prescription paper and hands it to her. She quickly skims over it. He’s not prescribed any medication or recommended a lobotomy, thank God.
“Contraction therapy?” she reads, looking up at him with a raised brow.
“I want to see you twice weekly,” he says, buttoning up his shirt. “Maybe we can go for three times a week, if you feel it would be beneficial.”
She tries her best to hide her smile. “Well I’m sure you know best, doctor.”
General Taglist (comment if you wanna be added): @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy
summary: eddie misses you too much when he’s away, so he comes home again and invites you to join him on tour. the two of you figure some things out, too.
word count: 12.2k
warnings: fluff, some angst (i’m sorry!), childhood friends to lovers, librarian!reader, still idiots in love, and a kiss!!!
a/n: hiii thank you guys so so much for all the love on part 1 of this one!!! i hope u love part 2 (the finale) just as much!!! i really really enjoyed writing these two and hopefully you enjoy it too!!! please let me know what you think <3
♫♩♪♬
It’s about a month later when Eddie has another break from tour.
Rather than hanging around wherever in the world he is for the short time like he normally would on the short breaks, he finds himself booking a flight to Hawkins. Sure, he’ll only be there for about 48 hours, maybe less, but he doesn’t mind.
He really, really wants to see you.
Considering how often he talks to you on the phone now, it’d be tough to surprise you this time, so he doesn’t. Last call, he’d told you he had a couple of days off, with a seed of hope in your chest, you’d asked him what he was going to do, and the happy cheer you made when Eddie told you he was coming home is something he’d never forget.
“Is Wayne picking you up?” You’d asked, knowing Eddie would rather not take a driver if it’s possible.
“He’s gotta work.”
“Why don’t I come get you, then?”
And, well, how could Eddie ever say no to that?
That brings him here, walking along the familiar floor of the Indianapolis International Airport, a beanie tucked on his head despite the weather, a pair of sunglasses over his eyes despite being inside.
He’s lucky that it’s not a busy time at the airport, that people don’t really pay him any attention whenever he’s closer to home. One day, that might change, but he’s glad for now, for the sort of peace it brings.
His suitcase is tugged along behind him, wheels spinning against the tiled floors, his legs are stiff from the flight, his neck has an ache in it from his nap, but the discomfort sort of melts away when he sees you.
Eddie suddenly feels more aware of himself than he ever has around you, the pickup in his heart rate louder than ever. He assumes that’s got something to do with those feelings he’s got for you. Feelings he’s had and only just recognized.
You're standing by your car right outside the doors with the ‘pick up’ sign hanging over them, sweater sleeves long enough to cover your palms and a sign (a flimsy piece of paper, really) with the word ‘loser’ scrawled in sharpie.
“You’re still my loser,” he remembers you saying, that night in his van. That night he kissed you and you kissed him and everything felt exactly right for just a minute.
A soft chuckle leaves his chest as he walks through the doors, and even with his poor disguise on, you know it’s him right away. A pair of black jeans, ripped in the knees, a faded band tee, and messy curls. So clearly Eddie.
You want to say his name as soon as you see him, shout it excitedly and sort of embarrassingly. Instead, you let go of your paper with one hand and wave, bouncing on your feet just a little.
Your best friend, the best boy you’ve ever known, back sooner than you ever could’ve hoped.
A smile splits your cheeks, and a mirrored expression spreads on Eddie’s face, his eyes crinkling behind his sunglasses with the force of it.
When he’s close enough, he drops his suitcase handle and rushes to you, his arms going around your waist and crumpling your piece of paper between your bodies. His hug knocks the air out of you in the best way possible, the smell of his soap and cologne hitting your nose; pine and sandalwood and smoke and something sweet like vanilla.
His hair tickles your nose and you wouldn’t want it any other way. Your arms go around his neck, face tucked against his shoulder.
“Hey, trouble,” he breathes. There’s something like relief there.
“Hi, Eddie,” you say, and it’s quiet enough that he’s the only one that could hear you. He squeezes you even tighter, his hug so crushing you’re standing on your tiptoes to stay in it.
“Thanks for coming.”
You’d go to a lot of places for him, almost anywhere. The Indianapolis International Airport isn’t all that special.
You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, then remember that you’re still in public, that he’s Eddie Munson, and that you’ve been hugging for a long time for something friendly. Clearing your throat, you pull away and tear the edges of your paper between your fingers.
“Yeah, yeah. Get in the car.”
He does, a smile still on his face, though it’s softer now, a little shy. As soon as you pull away from the airport, Eddie tugs off his beanie and sunglasses. He’s often the one driving when you’re together (or, he was when he was always in Hawkins), so he takes this chance to lean his head against the seat and watch you drive.
There’s a small squint in your eyes when you look at some signs, and then he’s thinking about how you’d look in glasses, morning eyes bleary behind the frames. Pretty, he thinks. You hum along to the radio and he’s joining in.
“You’re one-upping me,” you say when he does. “It’s kinda unfair, mister famous singer.”
It’s sort of crazy, how you can say something so simple, so out-of-mind, and it’s enough to wash away any ounce of worry Eddie had that things would be weird now. He guesses you two are too far in now for something like a kiss—the best kiss of his life, probably—to change anything.
Too far into your friendship, of course.
“Stop, we used to sing together all the time,” he says.
“That was before you got a record deal! Now it’s unbalanced!”
“This is the best part of the song, trouble,” Eddie reaches over and twists the volume knob, turning it up, “sing along.”
You’re shaking your head and you’re smiling and just like that you and Eddie are harmonizing on the bridge. It’s pitchy (on your part) and easy (on his) and it’s pretty perfect.
The sun sits lower in the sky by the time you’re in Hawkins, pulling into the trailer park. There’s an orange hue in the sky, fading into pinks and blues.
Wayne’s car still isn’t back from work, and gravel crunches beneath your tires as you park in front of Eddie’s trailer. You look over at him, the time spent in the car talking and singing and soaking in his presence like a plant in sunlight doesn’t feel like enough and it feels like everything at the same time.
“Welcome home, Eddie.”
He glances over at you like he has time and time again on the way, eyes flicking over your features even as you turn to look towards the sunset out the window.
“It’s good to be home.” His eyes are still on you.
-
Eddie tried to wait up for Wayne that night, but he seemed to be working way later than he should’ve been (some things never change) and Eddie was more tired than he thought.
He showered, laid down, and he was out.
He wakes up with hair even messier than usual, his arm stiff from where he’d been using it as a pillow, and indents from the blankets on his bare chest. Telltale signs of a good sleep.
Walking out into the kitchen, that smell of crappy coffee and the sight of his uncle has him smiling, “morning, Wayne.”
“My boy,” his uncle sets down his newspaper to greet him, pushing back and standing up to give him a proper hug, hand slapping his back affectionately. “Back so soon. You missed me that much?”
“Sure,” he says, pulling back and grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “I wanted to say ‘hi’ when you got back yesterday, but I was out.”
“I know,” Wayne chuckles a little, “I checked on ya and found you snoring.”
“I don’t snore!”
“You snore, kid.”
“You have no proof,” Eddie says, sitting across from his uncle the way he has forever. “What kept you out so late, anyway? Car giving you trouble?”
Sinking into his seat a little, Wayne fights a smile, “no, not a car.”
“Wayne Munson! Were you on a date?”
The thought has Eddie grinning. His uncle deserves someone, he deserves to be loved in that way and to be less lonely.
“I’m the parent here,” he says, though it’s clear in the out-of-character shyness that Eddie’s right, “I’m the one who gets to ask questions.”
“I’m happy for you,” Eddie says.
“Shut up and go to the library, I know that’s why you came back.”
Eddie never really stopped to think of the exact thing that pulled him back here so soon. Obviously he wants to see you, he always does, but that hasn’t always been enough to get him home, as awful as that sounds. This time, it’s like he was searching for an opening, any sliver of time so that he could see your face and hear your voice at the same time.
So, yeah, maybe that is ultimately why he came back. And maybe he abandons his coffee mug in favor of getting dressed and driving his van over to the library.
You’re going through your system and finding overdue books, calling people and having to stay sweet even when they’re cold with you. It’s your least favorite task of the job, probably.
Then, the door’s opening and when you glance up to see who it is, it’s exactly who you’re looking for. Eddie, spinning his car keys around his finger, humming softly.
“So, where can I find a book on rock ‘n’ roll?”
“Dork.”
It was only yesterday that he saw you, and still, you’re a total breath of fresh air.
“What, you’re not happy to see me?”
“Of course I am. What are you doing here?”
“Um, hanging out with my best friend. Put me to work, trouble.”
Best friend, best friend, best friend. The words tug at your heart in two ways. One: even though he’s met so many new people, he still considers you his best. Two: you’re only friends.
“Okay, here,” you pat the desk beside you where the phone sits, “you can call my overdue books for me.”
“Sounds good to me.”
He walks around the desk to go behind it with you, pulling over a chair from the closest table and sitting down.
For every phone call you ask him to make, Eddie puts on some sort of voice. A British accent for one, his terrible high pitched old lady voice for another. You’re hiding your giggles behind your hand and you’re definitely not thinking of what your boss might say to you if she found out.
It doesn’t matter, it’ll be worth it to feel this way. Like no time has passed at all, like you and Eddie are kids hiding out in his trailer with the phone book open making prank calls for hours until Wayne had to cut you off. It’s then and now mingling the way they do when you’ve known someone this long.
The door opens again right after Eddie hangs up the last call, right after you’ve looked at each other and burst out laughing because of the reaction he’d gotten on the other line.
“My stomach hurts, Eddie,” you lean back in your chair, and he wipes at his eyes, “stop making me laugh.”
“I can’t help it, I’m just so funny.”
You slap his arm lightly, shaking your head. “So humble, too.”
You sit up when whoever had walked in comes up to the desk, and you find a young boy and a woman who you assume is his mother.
“Go ahead,” she urges him.
Nervously, the boy steps forward, “are you Eddie Munson?” He asks, and it’s then you notice the small Corroded Coffin pin on the strap of his backpack.
Eddie doesn’t really get approached in Hawkins, usually. The people here didn’t really like him for a long time, for the most part, and then they just sort of seemed to accept it. He doesn’t mind one bit, though. He’s lucky above a lot of things.
“Sure am. What’s up, buddy?”
“Could I get an autograph?” The boy asks.
“Totally!” Eddie stands up, grabbing a sharpie and a piece of paper from your desk before walking around it to greet the boy properly.
He kneels down in front of him, gives him a fist bump and wears the kindest smile you’ve ever known. You’re basically a puddle, watching the interaction with fondness melting in your chest.
“Who do I make it out to?” Eddie asks.
The boy looks up at his mom, who nods at him, and he turns back to Eddie, “Frankie.”
“Nice to meet you, Frankie. Sick name.”
Eddie uses his leg to write on the page, scrawling a small message that you can’t make out from where you sit. When he’s done, he looks back at Frankie and hands him the paper.
“There you go, buddy.”
“Thank you!” His smile is so wide, his eyes disbelieving as he shares a look with his mom.
“Thank you,” the woman says. “Sorry to bother you, have a nice day.”
“It’s no bother, no worries,” Eddie tells her, waving at the pair as they leave, “have a good one!”
When he turns back around to face you, you’re smiling all soft and adoringly and he’d sign a million autographs if you’d always look at him that way afterwards.
“What?” He asks, like it wasn’t a big deal.
“That was so cute, Eddie. Did you see his face?”
“What can I say, the people love me.” Eddie shrugs, playing it off. “Think you have some competition for number one fan, trouble.”
Yeah, right. If only he knew about that damn shoebox you have.
“Not a chance, Munson. That spot’s mine.”
-
It feels like you’ve blinked and you’re already driving Eddie back to the airport. Even so, you’re happy knowing that he came home again. It’s like that distance that had painfully wedged itself between you has been growing smaller and smaller, despite him being away.
With every phone call, every laugh, every utterance of the word ‘trouble’ in Eddie’s voice, something welds itself back together, healing over where miles apart had wounded it. Mending like a bone, fractured but never broken.
Beside you, Eddie’s been fidgeting with his rings, twirling them around his fingers as you drive. You’re not sure why, and you haven’t asked, because if he wants to, he’ll tell you and you’ll listen. He’s nervous, that much you know.
Eddie’s been thinking about asking you something for a while, and with how his gut twists when he thinks about not seeing you for months at a time again, he figures it’s worth a shot.
He wants to have you around when he’s doing what he loves, when he feels like he’s on top of the world. He wants you there and he thinks it might feel better than ever that way.
You drive up to the drop-off spot, pulling over and parking the car. Eddie turns to look at you, and you do the same so that you’re facing each other. He’s got a beanie on again, black with a small pair of dice embroidered on the front. There are dark circles under his eyes, and somehow his tiredness makes them shine even more, like the morning sun reflects differently.
“So,” he starts, dragging out the word. “I have a question for you.”
“Okay, shoot.”
Well, he’s gotta do it now, no matter the nerves or the fear of rejection.
“Will you come on tour with me?”
“What?” Is what comes out of your mouth because you’re not sure that you heard him right. Sure, you’ve seen him live plenty of times, but not at this stage of his career, not alongside him that way.
“I want you to come on tour with us, with me. We’re gonna be in New York for a bit, and you should be there.”
“Wow, Eddie, I- what about the library? Or traveling? I can’t afford-”
“A week,” he cuts you off, hand finding yours on the center console, his fingers weaving their way between yours so easily, like magnets finding each other, like it’s meant to be that way. “Come for a week, and obviously it’s covered, honey.”
You want to say yes, you want to shout it and kiss him again, really. Instead you worry a little. The library would be fine, you’ve yet to take any vacation days, anyway, but what if he regrets bringing you? What if he’s asking you on a whim and he doesn’t mean it?
“You really want me there?” You ask, gaze flicking down to your hand in his. His rings are cool against your skin, but his palm is warm, and when he squeezes, it’s an unspoken reassurance.
“I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t, trouble. I promise.”
“You’re serious?”
You’re still looking at your hands, and that changes when Eddie ducks his head to catch your eye, his gaze is soft and serious all at once, his smile sticky sweet.
“I want you there. If that works for you, I want you there.” His thumb runs a pattern over your hand, back and forth again and again. “If you want to, you’re more than welcome, and I'll take care of it.”
You might not even let him leave if he keeps talking to you like that, delicate and kind with zero trace of doubt. None at all.
“Okay.”
“Okay, you'll come?” His hand is holding yours tighter, like hope spills from Eddie’s body and needs somewhere to go.
“Yeah, I’ll come. I’ll have to check with my boss, but-”
You’re cut off by Eddie’s arms pulling you into a hug. It’s uncomfortable, leaned across the center console, seat belt digging into your stomach, but you wouldn’t dream of pulling away.
“I’m so glad,” he says.
Your face is hidden in his hair, your smile hidden just the same. You’re glad, too.
“You’re gonna be late, Munson.”
He breathes you in again before pulling back, “trying to get rid of me?”
“Trying to make sure you don’t miss your flight.”
“I know. I’ll see you soon?”
He’s unbuckling his seat belt, pushing the door open, but he doesn’t move to get out until you respond.
“Yeah, you will. You’ll have to call me, though. I don’t know where you’ll be.”
“I’ll call you, honey.”
When he gets out and grabs his bags, when he turns to wave at you one more time before going inside, it doesn’t feel so bad this time. Your chest feels whole, your smile still on your face.
I’ll see you soon. It feels much better than a goodbye.
-
True to his word, Eddie covered everything. Your flight, booking the hotel, and more he probably hasn’t told you because he knows that you have a hard time accepting him paying for everything.
You’d even tried to argue it over the phone, and he’s said “too late, babe. It’s already done.”
Now, with a week ahead of you, you’re in New York City of all places, trailing your suitcase behind you as you exit the airport in search of the car Eddie said he’d send for you. Black, tinted windows, guy in a suit standing by it. It’s easy enough to spot when most people around are wearing sweats.
“Hi, you’re here for me, I think?” You say to the man by the car, telling him your name and getting a nod in affirmation.
“I’m Hank, nice to meet you.”
Hank takes your bag for you, even when you assure him you could do it. So, with nothing else to do, you open the back door and slide into the car, door swinging shut behind you. You’d fully expected to be by yourself, and okay with it, too, but you aren’t.
Right there in the backseat with you is Eddie.
You practically tackle him in the seat, surging forward to hug him, leaning across the leather to get to him. You’re not sure what carried you to do it. Maybe it’s the fact that he paid for everything, that he wants you to be here enough to do that. That he wants you here at all.
The wind is sort of knocked out of Eddie when your arms wrap around his neck, your hug crushing in his favorite way. He’s not complaining one bit. He’s so excited to have you here to see this world of his, for you to be able to see something you helped him achieve, whether you know it or not.
So, with a huff pushed from his chest, his arms curl around you, too. Smooth and easy.
“Happy to see me, trouble?”
“I thought you’d be busy,” you say, because his question is already answered with the tiniest squeeze of your grip around him. “And you jerk, you got me first class?”
You draw back into your seat when Hank gets back into the car, unsure of how much he knows or how much he’ll say. Not that you’re ashamed for hugging Eddie, but you’re afraid that he might read things the wrong way and you’ll have to (painfully, achingly) correct him the way you did with Argyle a while ago.
You distract yourself by tugging your seatbelt over and clicking it into place.
“‘Course I did. Had to get the best for you.”
“You didn’t have to,” you say, and looking at Eddie’s face you don’t feel so worried about Hank anymore. You practically forget he’s there. “But thank you.”
“Goin’ soft on me?”
His voice is teasing. He deflects because he can’t exactly tell you that he chose first class, that he covered everything, that he flew you out to him because he’s burying his feelings for you into it all, that it’s easier to do these things without you realizing what it means than it would be to come right out and say it.
He needs more time for that. Time to get brave, to see if you might feel the same. If you might let him kiss you again.
“Maybe I’m just tired. Getting delirious.” You’re really not, but just to be safe you add on a small jest of, “loser.”
Still, your tone betrays you, affection woven into the word.
You share a smile with him, eyes sparkling the way they seem to do when you’re with each other. The glow that only appears when you’re in the presence of someone you like this much, someone you know this well. It says enough.
Turning your head, you look out the window, skyscrapers surrounding you, the skyline flying by as you go. Your mouth drops open a little in awe, the busy streets and towering buildings a far cry from the small town you’re so used to.
While you peer outside, Eddie looks at your face in the reflection of the window, accomplishment blooming in his chest at the widening of your eyes and the look on your face.
Shit, he’s so happy to have you here.
It’s not long until you reach the hotel, the sight of the city enough to occupy you for the drive. Even from the outside, it looks expensive, and you’re about to tell Eddie you can’t let him pay for this again when he stops you, “I already paid for your room, so don’t say anything. Just enjoy it, okay?”
“You’re insane, Munson. Wow.”
He knows you mean it as a compliment; he can pick out the intentions from your voice with ease by now, he thinks.
“Wait until you try out the bed.” Eddie pulls on a beanie he’d had in his pocket, then the sunglasses that had been hanging from the neck of his shirt. “Ready to go in?”
“Hell yes. Need to wash the airport off of me.”
“‘Kay.” Eddie then turns towards your driver, “thanks Hank. And don’t worry about the bag, I’ve got it.”
“Of course, Mr. Munson.”
He opens his door and you follow suit, stepping out of the car and watching as Eddie gets your suitcase from the trunk.
“I can take that,” you offer, reaching for the handle as he walks you towards the entrance.
“Kindly, fuck off, trouble. I got it.”
You hold your hands up in surrender, a little too happy with the way his hand flexes around the handle of your bag, too happy with his insistence to do this simple thing for you.
Even though he doesn’t need to, he stands with you during your check-in process, and he carries your bag over to the elevators and down your hallway, too.
“This is you,” he says, stopping at your room even though you’re the one holding the key.
“How’d you know that?”
“‘Cause I’m right next door,” he says, grinning at you, “I booked it, trouble. We’re neighbors!”
“You’re such a dork.” You’re grinning right back.
-
The crowd’s cheers are piercing. Chants of the band’s name covering every other sound in the venue.
You’re backstage, watching them all warm up in their own ways. Gareth tapping his drumsticks together, Jeff shaking out his hands, Eddie bouncing on his feet. It’s a complete whirlwind of crew setting up, of commanding voices left and right and it’s sort of unbelievable to be standing in the midst of it all.
You move out of the way with an apology when a stagehand moves by you with a guitar. Eddie’s guitar, red and black and the same one he’s been using since he could afford the instrument. The familiarity of it has you smiling.
The memories that guitar must hold, you wonder, the places it’s seen.
With his guitar now over his neck, Eddie turns to you, energy practically rolling off of him, like every shout from the crowd charges him up further.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, stepping close enough to talk into your ear, over the screaming and the bustle of the crew. “So fucking glad.”
“30 seconds until you’re on, guys!” A woman wearing a headset shouts.
Eddie pulls back enough to look at your face, but he stays close, his nose inches from yours, his excitement somehow spilling from him and into you. It’s the sort of infectious feeling you get when it’s obvious someone’s doing what they love, when their passion is palpable.
“Break a leg, Munson.”
“Five seconds!”
“See you on the other side, honey.”
Eddie reaches for your hand, gives it a firm squeeze, and then he’s off, jetting onto the stage behind his bandmates. The crowd roars even lowder, enough to leave your ears ringing but you don’t care. You take it in.
It’s one thing to read about it, to see pictures, to see footage on TV, even. But seeing it for yourself is a whole new kind of crazy.
The size of the audience is a far cry from the shows they used to play at the Hideout, the words to the songs being known and sung just the way Eddie had always dreamed. The pride that swells in your chest is huge, a balloon expanding and expanding only you don’t think it’ll ever pop. There’s always more room to be proud of someone you love.
You stand side stage, exactly where Eddie had told you to. Just far enough that the audience can’t see you, hidden by shadows, but close enough that he can see you.
Eddie hasn’t felt this way at a show for a long time. Not to say he doesn’t love every show, because he does, but sometimes the energy will feel different, better, higher. The crowd is a great one, and even more importantly, you’re here.
You’re here and Eddie flicks his eyes over to you constantly during the show because he just can’t help it. The wide smile on your face makes him want to work harder to keep it there, the way you bop along and mouth the words to his music is something he’ll never forget.
You know the words. Of course, you’d known them to the early songs, when his only performances were in Hawkins and you were at every single one. But even now, albums later, you know the words.
And to top it all off, you’re wearing Corroded Coffin merch, a baggy t-shirt tucked into your jeans. God, he can’t stop fucking looking at you.
Between songs, he goes over to Gareth, and then Jeff, speaking into their ears without a mic so you don’t know what he’s saying. But by the gleam in his eyes, you know he must be up to something.
He walks over to the side of the stage where you stand, trading off his current guitar for his acoustic one, even older and worn than the last. The painted letters reading ‘this machine slays dragons’ scratched and faded by now.
You’d been there when he painted them on, giggling at the lopsided way they turned out, pouting when Eddie smeared paint on your bare arm in retaliation.
He’s gone from playing it in his bedroom in the trailer to playing it for thousands of people.
“Alright guys,” he starts, back at his mic. “We’re gonna slow it down for this next one, that sound okay?”
The response he gets is a wave of cheers.
“Alright, alright. Cool.” He starts strumming, chords you recognize right away. “We’ve got a cover for you tonight. I want to dedicate this song to my best friend. This one’s for you, trouble.”
Your eyes are misty with unshed tears. He’s playing your favorite song, the only one you’d ever learned on guitar because you forced him to teach it to you. Your hands go to your cheeks, warmth bursting through you at his gesture.
And he’d called you ‘trouble.’ Hadn’t used your name because this is something that’s just for you and him. Yours.
Eddie flicks his eyes over to you (again) as he sings, his hands moving with ease on his guitar because he’s known how to play this song for ages. Longer than his own songs, even.
His heart sort of melts at the expression on your face, dripping down his ribs in oozing, pink waves.
Even from where he is, even with the lights beaming down on him, he can see the tears in your eyes, the way your hands hold your face the way they do when you’re overwhelmed. He hopes it’s in a good way, and with the way the words of the song are broken up by a smile on your face, he thinks it is.
After the song, with a quick ‘thank you’ into the mic, Eddie walks offstage, towards you again, to switch his guitar back. Before he puts the other one over his neck, though, he rushes to you.
The arm that isn’t holding his guitar tugs you around your neck into a hug. He’s sweaty and breathing hard, his chest rising and falling where it’s pressed to yours, but you don’t care. You hug him around the waist and squeeze.
“Thank you,” you say, loud enough for only him to hear.
“Thank you, trouble.”
A kiss to the top of your head, and he’s off again.
Eddie’s back at the mic quickly, his guitar in place again. “Alright everyone, back to our regularly scheduled programming.”
-
After the show, Eddie brought you back to the green room with the rest of the band, his fingers wrapping around your wrist as soon as he ran off stage to tug you along with him. Insistent but kind in the way he did it, sure not to pull too tight, turning his head to check on you behind him along the way.
Even when you’re worlds away from his, from the fame and the constant travel and the fans, Eddie makes you feel like you’re a part of it. Like you belong here.
There’s a couch pressed to one of the walls in the green room, chairs set up around it for more seating, a table of snacks and water bottles set up near the door.
Conversations happen all around you, crew members, photographers, big paper writers, but yours is seperate.
After the well-deserved congratulations on a great show, you, Eddie, Gareth, and Jeff found your places on the couch, heads turned towards each other. You’re on the edge, Eddie next to you, his thigh, arm, shoulder, all squished against yours.
It’s nice. The warmth of his skin against yours, the post-show adrenaline that has all three of the boys in a great mood.
After all, Gareth and Jeff were your friends, too. Not in the way Eddie’s your friend, of course. You don’t think anyone could ever come close. Being with all of them reminds you of when you’d watch them practice in Jeff’s garage in high school, sitting sideways in a chair they’d left in there for you, legs kicked up on the armrest.
“What a show,” Gareth says. Eddie’s told you before that a good crowd makes a huge difference, and it’s clear in the way the three of them talk about it, the way they smile and shake their heads at what they’ve accomplished.
“I mean, someone flashed me their tits, so it’s definitely a good night,” Jeff, on the opposite end of the couch from you, sighs happily.
You scrunch your nose.
“Gross, dude.” Eddie leans over Gareth to shove Jeff’s shoulder. “There’s a lady present.”
“Come on! She hung out with us in high school. Peak outcast status.” Jeff defends himself. “She’s hardly a lady to me. No offense.”
“None taken, Jeff.” You lean forward to address him, smiling kindly.
“See? None taken, asshole.” Jeff shoves Eddie back.
By doing so, he’s pushed even closer to you, his weight against you further. Eddie stabilizes himself with a hand on your leg, his palm warm through the fabric of your jeans. He leaves it there even when he sits normally.
“So,” Gareth grabs your attention with your name, “how’s Hawkins? Missing us horribly?”
“Let’s just say, the Hideout is pretty boring now.”
“Good riddance.” Gareth teases, giving Jeff a high five.
You know it’s mostly a joke, but it also isn’t, really. These boys weren’t treated right there. Ridiculed for having passions and hobbies that weren’t so conventional. They’re right to be glad to be away, to be glad to be loved now.
Still, there’s a dull ache at the thought that Eddie feels the same. That Hawkins is too small, too awful for him. That you’re not enough for him, having your life there.
Then, you’re reminded of his hand on your leg, and you shake off your thoughts, covering them with a smile.
“You know,” Jeff, the most lacking of a filter of the group, says, “this guy’s a whole lot happier now that you guys are talking a bunch.” Eddie, he means. You know by the way he ruffles his hair.
Eddie shifts in his seat. He wants to tell Jeff to shut up, to stop because he could say too much, could give away too much. He knows he loves you, and he will tell you, he will. But not like this.
He settles for a glare in Jeff’s direction.
“Oh, I’m not-” you start, flustered at the idea of being any kind of reason for Eddie’s happiness, especially being one that causes a noticeable shift.
“No!” Gareth jumps in, “it’s true. He used to grump around the hotel room and yell at us for having the TV on too loud-”
“I did not yell.”
“-and now he doesn’t care ‘cause he’s on the phone with you, anyways.”
“Right!” Jeff again. “First thing he does when we get to a new hotel is lock himself in his room and call you. It’s soooo cute.” He pitches his voice up for the last bit, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, a faux-innocent smirk on his face.
Eddie thinks he might punch Jeff right now. He thinks that often but he’s actually, really considering it (he’s not really, but still). He sounds like an absolute dork, the way Jeff puts it, even though he’s right. Relying on your voice through the phone to make his nights, counting down the minutes until the next time he can call.
He’s so pathetic over you. So pathetic and so in love he doesn’t know how he didn’t see it before.
He musters an: “okay. Shut up.”
That’s when you look at Eddie, who’s spinning the ring around his thumb on the hand that isn’t on your leg, looking down at his lap all sheepish. There’s a tinge of pink spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears that you can see with the way he’s wearing his hair, a messy bun at the back of his head.
It’s fucking cute. You want to kiss him so bad for it. Instead, you hold the hand that’s on your leg, nudging your shoulder into his.
-
The next day comes and goes. You have the day to yourself to explore New York, wearing in your platform mary janes and doing enough walking to wake up a little sore tomorrow, but it’s great.
You eat brunch by yourself in a quiet cafe, your current read open on the table in front of you. The rest of the day is spent being a full-on tourist, which you’re a little embarrassed about, but it’s a big city, and you definitely aren’t the only tourist around.
Well, the rest of the day minus dinner.
Eddie couldn’t join you because of some press stuff, feature pictures for a magazine, a couple of interviews, a small writing session. Of course, he’d invited you along, but you didn’t want to get in the way, and there were things you wanted to see. It worked out.
Nonetheless, Eddie made sure to meet you for dinner, because there was no way he wasn’t going to do anything with you at all. He’s got about 4 days left, he isn’t going to waste a second.
He’s there before you are, signaling you over before the hostess can offer to seat you, and you send her a smile as you make your way over to Eddie’s table. He’s gotten you both a booth in the far corner, an echo of the table you’ve claimed as yours at Benny’s back in Hawkins.
Eddie trusts this place, it’s private and small enough to have no sign or awning outside. A good place to hide in plane sight.
Despite the reminder, the place is much different than Benny’s. Fancy enough to have you kicking Eddie’s leg under the table at the prices, which he tells you not to look at, tells he’s buying and you don’t have to worry. You still stick to the cheaper side of the menu.
So no, it’s not Benny’s, but Eddie still steals food from your plate, still smudges whipped cream on your nose after convincing you to split some dessert with him.
Over bites of cake he tells you about the song they were working on today—leaving out that he’d written a lot of lyrics about you—and how far they’d gotten.
“It’s not done, but it’s getting there.”
“Does that mean you’ll play it for me?” You ask.
“Mmm, I don’t know.” Eddie taps his chin like he’s contemplating. “You did kick me earlier.”
“Hey! I’ve kicked you before without consequence.”
“You know you’re really not helping your case here, trouble.”
“I’ll hear that song, Munson.”
And it’s left at that, because you will. Eddie can't really say no to you (has he ever been able to?) and he misses playing his songs for you before anyone else. Minus those involved in making it, obviously.
With the bill paid by Eddie, after much stubbornness, the two of you slip out the front doors with twin smiles on your faces, so saccharine it’s insane that the two of you are mostly oblivious to the other’s feelings.
Your smiles fade quickly when a wave of camera flashes go off on either side of the doors, surrounding the entrance to the small restaurant.
There’s a rock in Eddie’s stomach, sinking in dread that you’re with him as this is happening. It’s not what you signed up for and it’s not something you deserve.
“Eddie, over here!”
“Who’s the girl?”
“Is that your girlfriend?”
The shouts come all at once, overwhelming and intimidating and you have no idea what to do. Your hands shake a little, your heartbeat a rapid thumping in your chest.
Eddie’s instincts kick in quickly, though, having been through this many times before. This time, it’s worse. This time, there’s you.
He tosses an arm over your shoulder and rests his hand on the back of your head, gently urging you to look down so that they don’t get your face, his other hand grabbing your arm lightly to take you to the car where Hank waits.
Eddie opens the back door and urges you in first, shielding the entrance to the car as you shuffle across the seat to give him room. He slams the door as soon as his feet are inside, telling Hank to head back to the hotel.
Your chests are rising and falling in tandem, a matching rhythm. Scared, overwhelmed, anxious, and all for different reasons. You, from the completely foreign situation. Eddie, from how badly it could’ve fucked things up.
“Shit.” He breathes, and then his hands are on your face, cupping your cheeks to turn you towards him. “Shit, honey. I’m so sorry. I had no idea they’d- are you okay?”
His touch is grounding, his immediate concern being you and your feelings casting a warmth over your nerves, the sun breaking through the clouds of your mind.
“I’m okay. It just startled me.” You grab his wrists in hopes that your touch can help him, too. “But I’m okay. Don’t be sorry, Eddie. It’s not like you called them there. This isn’t your fault.”
“I didn’t think anyone knew me there.”
“People know you a lot of places, mister rockstar.” You’re trying to ease the atmosphere, but the worried furrow in his brows stays put. “Eddie, I’m okay. I swear.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop with that.” Then, another attempt at brightening things, you try to joke, or maybe you’re thinking out loud. “What if they call us a couple?”
Your voice has a teasing lilt to it, but there’s more underneath it. For once, Eddie can't exactly read what it is.
His thumbs stroke over your cheeks mindlessly, his eyes flicking all over your face. So fucking pretty, he thinks. And so his reply isn’t what you expect, but he can’t help it when you look the way you do and when you’re fighting off his concerns with only a few words.
“Would that be so bad?” He says it more than asks it.
It’s your turn to study him, the endearing blush to his cheeks, the way his bangs fall over his forehead, the way his eyes flick between your own.
“No, I guess not.”
For a split second after you speak, you think he might kiss you again, his face barely inching towards yours, his fingertips easing into your hairline.
And then Hank coughs and Eddie’s hands are gone and yours fall away from him, too.
Eddie clears his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt. Be normal, he urges himself. So, he offers, “how ‘bout I play you that song?”
And when you get back to the hotel, that’s exactly what he does.
-
It’s hours later and you’re still in Eddie’s room. There was the song—the fucking song, played acoustically since that’s all he has in the room, his voice and his guitar and his lyrics—and then a movie paused halfway through so that you could change into pajamas in your room, and then the rest of the movie.
Now, it’s idle chatter, the paparazzi speed bump gone from your minds by now, replaced by a debate on whether or not the movie you just watched was good.
“It was so bad, Eddie. Are you joking?”
“You just don’t have the sophisticated movie knowledge to know good cinema when you see it.”
He’s totally lying. The movie was awful, but Eddie likes to argue with you. He likes the way you scrunch your nose or eyebrows at his stupid jabs, likes the way you’ll smile the entire time because you’re never actually arguing.
“‘Sophisticated movie knowledge,’ he says. Like you haven’t just rewatched the same twelve movies your whole life.”
“And those twelve movies are all amazing!”
“I think to consider yourself sophisticated you’ve gotta watch twenty-five movies. At least.”
“Since when are there rules? Knowledge is knowledge, babe.”
“There are rules since now. We can’t go around letting just anyone say they know movies.”
“Who’s we?”
“Um…”
“Hm?” Eddie urges, a smile growing on his face because he hasn’t had this much fun, hasn’t felt this light, in a long time.
“I don’t know.” You give up, shrugging your shoulders. When a puff of breath leaves Eddie’s mouth, the failed holding back of a laugh, you lean over and shove his shoulder. “Shut up.”
You’re sitting cross-legged in the middle of Eddie’s hotel bed. It’s huge, a king size with like ten pillows and crisp, white blankets. It’s a mess now, the blankets shifted and wrinkled, some pillows tossed on the floor, one on your lap.
“I totally just won that.” Eddie says.
“You did not! That movie fucking sucked, Munson.”
He’s sitting near the end of the bed, half facing you, half facing the TV. After you speak, though, he fully twists towards you, shifting so that he’s leaning on his hands in front of you.
“You wanna say that again?”
“That movie sucked.”
“Okay. That’s it.”
And then he’s on you, his fingers pushing into the soft of your tummy to tickle you because he knows that’s where you’re the most ticklish. This is how he used to win all of the arguments.
“Jerk!” You try to push at his shoulders, words broken by giggles, but he’s relentless. “Get off me!”
“Admit you lost.”
“No.”
“Well, then. Your fault.”
Eddie keeps going until you’re breathless from laughing and attempting to overpower him. As a last resort, you bring your knee up and hit him in the thigh. Being the dramatic he is, Eddie clutches his leg and falls onto the bed like he’s been shot.
“Ow, fuck. How am I gonna perform in these conditions?”
“Oh, stop.” You’re laying beside each other now, your face turned towards Eddie, his up at the ceiling in his fake pain. “I just won, by the way.”
His act falls away after you say it, and you think he’s gonna strike again, tickle you or make another silly counterpoint. Instead, he turns towards you, too, your noses a whisper apart, breath hitting each other's faces.
“I fucking missed you, trouble.”
“Yeah.” Your chest is rising and falling steadily, still recovering from Eddie’s tickles, maybe from his words, too. “Me too.”
Your hair has fanned across your cheek from the movement, and Eddie reaches out to push it away, behind your ear. His fingertips are gentle, featherlight, but they have your face nudging into the touch anyways. Like you couldn’t help it, like it’s an instinct.
And then, in a moment, a simple blink, Eddie’s pushing himself closer, putting his lips on yours. Eddie’s kissing you again.
His hand settles itself fully on your cheek, fingers splayed over your skin, sure to leave behind streaks of gold. Or, at least, you’d think they would. The feeling sparkling in shimmers across your cheek.
Your brain takes a second to catch up, but when it does, you’re already kissing him back, your fingers tucked into his guitar pick necklace to tug him closer. It’s easy, you think, to kiss him. Easy to want this, to move your mouth in rhythm with his.
You’ve only kissed once before, but it’s like you’ve been doing it a lifetime with how right it feels.
Eddie hadn’t even realized he was going to kiss you until he was doing it. His thoughts were all you you you and then his eyes were on your mouth and then he was there, kissing you.
He nudges his knee between your legs, shuffling himself even closer to you without breaking it because he’s afraid that if he pulls away, it’ll be the end and he doesn’t want that. He could kiss you forever, could kiss you until he’s completely sick, until there’s no oxygen left in his lungs because all he can breathe in is you.
Your other hand holds his arm, fingertips just under the sleeve of his t-shirt, his warmth seemingly seeping into you through your hand, spreading down your arm and into your stomach and everywhere.
You really like kissing him. You like it so much.
Eddie’s wondering how he’ll ever let you go home after this, how he’ll be able to say goodbye to you at the airport and go back to touring with his bed empty and nobody to give him shit over a movie. Luckily, he doesn’t have to deal with that now.
No, now it feels like he’s dreaming. Because he’s kissing you and it’s even better than he remembered from last time and he wants to be allowed to do this always.
He leaves it at kissing, this thing too delicate to risk, too long spent building up to this and he wants to enjoy every moment. He’d be content if all he could do is kiss you, because it’s the best thing he’s ever had. You’re the best thing he’s ever had.
It’s long before either of you pull away, a push and pull of your mouths, breaking apart for less than a second before jumping back in. When you do pull away, it’s mutual, both of your breathing coming out in pants, both of your mouths slightly agape, eyes locked on each other’s.
Eddie moves first, pulling you over so that your head is tucked beneath his chin, nose pressed against the neckline of his shirt. He’s got a hand tossed over your waist, palm flat on your back, the other holding the back of your head to him.
You fall into place easily, just like you had when he kissed you. One of your hands is wedged under his neck, the other still on his arm. It’s like you’re a set, two pieces meant to fit together just like this.
“I think I won, trouble.”
“Shut up.”
In the morning, you wake up in a similar position, having fallen asleep with the TV humming in the background and the haze of your kiss still heavy over you both.
Now, however, you’ve shifted a little bit. Eddie’s on his back, but he’d brought you along with him in his sleep. Or, you’d followed. Either way, your head’s rested on his chest, your arm tossed over his stomach where his t-shirt rides up to reveal a patch of skin.
You’re struck with the thought that you’ve shared a bed before, countless times, but never this close. You’ve cuddled before, too, but it’s never felt like this. Intimate, affectionate, more.
You close your eyes and go back to sleep, not quite ready to give this up.
-
When you’d woken up the second time that morning, Eddie was already up, the door to his ensuite shut with light slipping under the doorway. And when he’d walked out with a “good morning, sleepyhead,” it was like everything was normal.
You’d fallen into your routine with him, and now, after not nearly enough time, you’re at the airport again. The last couple of days a blur, your parting ways this morning even more so.
Hank had driven you again, and Eddie made sure to be in the car with you, to squeeze out every second of time left. You’d hugged each other in the back seat, whispered ‘I’ll miss you’s and ‘thank you’s for the week you had.
The ache slipped into you again, the uncertainty of when you’ll see him next, the feeling of missing him that lingers and lingers.
Still, you’d twisted around and waved to the tinted windows of the car with a smile before going inside, knowing he’d be behind them, really hoping he’d be looking.
Of course Eddie was looking. He peered into the glass doors of the airport until your figure was completely out of sight, until Hank had to ask him if he was good to go. He should have kissed you goodbye, he thinks. Should have kissed you and told you how he felt but he has no idea how. Next time, he’ll say it. He has to.
The trek through the airport is boring, and you’re still early by the time you get to your gate. Hoping to pass time, you head into one of the duty-free shops.
That’s when you see it.
There’s a wall of magazines and newspapers, a whole shelf taken up by a picture of Eddie. A picture of you and Eddie. It’s from that night at the restaurant, and you’re lucky that your face can’t be seen, ducked down and covered by shadows and Eddie’s hand.
Surprisingly enough, the picture isn’t what gets to you, it’s what’s written about it. You drift over and flip to the page indicated on the cover to see the ‘full story.’ It feels like a punch to the gut.
‘Metal Heartthrob Eddie Munson was seen leaving a restaurant in New York City with an unknown woman. How could she get his attention, I’m sure you’re wondering. We’d love to know, too. Is Munson the type to settle for a normie? Or is she only a fling? The second option would make the most sense, we think. Keep reading to learn why she doesn’t fit.’
You slam the paper shut, setting it back on the shelf and standing there like an idiot, your hands shaking a little, your heart in your throat.
“Can you believe it?” A woman says to you, pointing at the damn picture. “He could do way better. I’m just saying.”
“Oh. Yeah,” you offer weakly, walking away and finding a seat at your gate.
It stings when you know you shouldn’t let it get to you, but it’s like every insecurity you’ve had has been splashed onto a page for everyone to see. You don’t belong in his world anymore, you aren’t enough to be in it, he doesn’t want you that way.
It’s a disgusting spiral that eats at you as you sit and wait, as you board your flight, even as you find your seat next to a man who’s already asleep. You can't believe the things people feel okay saying about someone else, and even worse, you can’t believe how they wedge themselves under your skin.
You wrap your arms around yourself, peering out the window and trying to convince yourself that whoever wrote it is wrong, that the woman in the store was wrong. But all your mind can conjure is reasons why they’re right.
You aren’t a model, or an actress, or anything of the sort like the other women Eddie’s dated since becoming the star he is. You never will be.
Worst of all, these last few days you really thought he could feel the way you do, even a fraction of it. You thought that he buried feelings he couldn’t say into that kiss, that maybe, maybe he could be in love with you, even just a little bit.
Now, you feel like an idiot for ever letting yourself think that could be true, your eyes blurring with tears of frustration and a hurt that shouldn’t even be there, but cuts deep.
You’re just friends, it’s always been that way. It’s your own damn fault, really, for falling in love with him. Falling in love with the best boy you’ve ever known, with your best friend, with the only person who makes you feel the way he does.
It’s your fault that you let a tear slip down the slope of your cheek as your plane takes off. You wipe it away quickly.
Eddie feels strange as he lays back onto his hotel bed after dropping you off. There’s a cold present in his room now. The evident and devastating lack of your presence, like the chill that washes over a summer day when the sun is swallowed by a gray cloud.
He already wants to call you, but you’re miles in the air by now.
He really should’ve kissed you goodbye.
-
Eddie ends up calling two days after you get home. He wanted to do it sooner, but the whirlwind got to him, and after a week in one place, it was back on the road. He got caught up, but he has the time now, and he’s been eager to use it.
Your number is practically muscle memory by now, dialed without a second thought. He listens to the ringing, fingers pulling at the threads in the rip of his jeans as he waits sitting on his bed. He counts the seconds until you pick up.
Back in Hawkins, it was hard to believe that only a couple of days ago you were in New York City with Eddie, watching him play, having dinner with him, kissing him. Being home, it feels like the whole trip had been a dream.
You fell into your life here quickly, a full day shift at the library, a visit there from Dustin with a stack of overdue books and questions of how Eddie’s doing.
It’s impossible not to think about him, still. So of course you’d pick up the phone on the chance it’d be his voice on the other end.
“Hello?”
Eddie’s head thumps back against the headboard when he hears your voice, “hey, trouble.”
“Eddie.” You were hoping it was him, yet you’re still a little surprised. You shouldn’t be, he’s been calling often for a while now, but you’ve been feeling nervous ever since reading that stupid article. Insecure, stupid, a whole bunch of negatives that won’t leave you alone. But he’s calling, so you try not to think of that. “How are you?”
“Good! I’m good.” He shuts his eyes, tries to picture what you might look like right now. He doesn’t think his mind could ever do you enough justice. “Jeff totally ate shit during soundcheck today, you would’ve loved it. You’re good?”
“It’s kind of weird being back here.” You say, your honesty spilling the way it does over the phone. You’re braver this way. “But I saw Dustin today. He asked about you.”
“Yeah?” The grin on Eddie’s face is immediate, your voice soft and somehow exactly what he needed. “Did you tell him I’m still the coolest guy ever?”
“Sure,” you drag out the word.
“Whatever. I totally am.” There’s a lull for a second, the sound of sheets ruffling on his end as he shifts on the bed. “You said it was weird being back?”
It’s hard to read his tone through a phone, but he sounds sincere as ever, his voice softer when he says it. You shift a little, too.
“A little. Just getting back into things, you know?” You’re on your back now, eyes fixed on a spot on your ceiling. “New York is a lot different than Hawkins.”
Eddie’s not sure what makes him think it—your voice going quiet, the way it takes you a little longer to answer—but he can tell that something’s off. You sound sad, and there’s a twinge in his chest at the thought of you upset. You’re undeserving of it, and he’s got the urge to break the rules of the universe and jump through the phone to be there for you.
“Yeah, it is. You okay, honey?”
The question strikes you. You hadn’t known that you’d been acting any differently, but you suppose that’s how it goes. You can only hide so much, and those words splashed on a page about you have weighed heavy on your mind since you’d seen them.
But you can’t bring yourself to tell Eddie any of it. What if he hasn’t seen it? Worse, what if he has and he doesn’t want to bring it up because he agrees?
So, you come up with a lazy excuse, “oh. I’m okay, Eddie. Just a long shift today.”
“You sure?” Even though he can’t see you right now, there’s something in him telling him you aren’t being honest. It’s like he’s got a sense for these things when it comes to you, embedded in his heart the way you are.
“I’m sure. I’m just tired.”
He knows that there’s something else to it, but he won’t pry. All he wants to do is help, so he lets himself say what he’s been thinking since you’ve left. “Is it pathetic that I already miss you?”
A smile flickers on your face.
“If it is, I’m pathetic, too.”
“At least we’re in it together, then.”
After you eventually hang up, Eddie can’t fight off the feeling that something's happened. He’s gotta figure it out, he wants to fix it, to pull away any pain you might be feeling. He’d take it for himself if he could.
So, although he’ll get endless shit for it, he finds Gareth and Jeff watching TV in the living room of their suite and figures he might as well ask them.
“Hey,” he starts, standing in front of the TV despite their groans to make sure they’ll listen. “Did either of you say something to her? About… um, you know.”
The way that he doesn’t even have to speak your name for them to know who he’s talking about says enough about the ‘you know.’ He’s slightly worried that they’d told you how he felt about you and it scared you off. He really, really hopes that isn’t it.
“About you being grossly in love with her?” Gareth checks, though he surely didn’t need to.
“Yes, asshole.”
“Nope. I didn’t. Jeff?”
“No, man.” Jeff huffs, “and you’re blocking the TV.”
“I know! I need you guys to help me out.” Eddie starts pacing in front of the TV. He explains your phone call, how he felt like something was wrong, that you were upset. They both listen, though Jeff occasionally tries to lean around to see the screen. “So? What do you think?”
“Maybe it has to do with that article,” Gareth says.
“What article?”
“You know, the one with that picture of you two leaving that restaurant.”
“There’s a fucking article about that?” Eddie twists his ring around his thumb. Shit.
“Oh, yeah,” Jeff points towards the small table near the entryway of the room, “it’s over there. Kinda brutal.”
“You idiots didn’t think to tell me?”
“Um, it’s pretty popular, actually.” Gareth shrugs. “Thought you would’ve seen it by now.”
“How are we idiots for helping you?” Jeff asks.
Eddie flips him off over his shoulder as he goes into his room, shutting the door behind him. He’s still pacing, flipping the pages to find the right one. His stomach sinks when he lands on it and skims the words written.
‘Is Munson the type to settle for a normie?’
He makes an actual sound when he reads it. Something of disbelief and shock. He knew that having the life he does comes with these things, and he’s learned to deal with them when it comes to comments about himself. But you? No fucking way.
If he was ever lucky enough to have you, he wouldn’t be settling, he’d be the happiest he could ever be, probably. Maybe it’s time he finds out.
If you’d read any of this, if you believed it, he can’t help but feel at fault. Sure, he didn’t write it, he didn’t publish it, but he brought you to that restaurant and he’s the reason that paparazzi was there. If there’s anything he can do to fix this, he will.
So, he makes a plan. He calls his manager and gets himself a spot on the next flight out to Indianapolis. He can miss a studio session or an interview, it doesn’t matter.
This is far more important. You’re more important.
-
Eddie doesn’t pack anything for the flight. He doesn’t have the time nor the concern to do it. He’s got the beanie on his head, sunglasses over his eyes, and a hoodie pulled over it all.
He doesn’t take the time to get a driver, so he takes a cab back to Hawkins once he lands in Indianapolis. It’s already dark out, probably way too late to head straight to your place but he does it anyway. No time to waste.
Slamming the cab door, he tells the driver your address and tells him to drive quickly. He gets a thumbs up in return and that’s it. Eddie’s forced to sit there, his leg bouncing anxiously as he waits impatiently to get to you.
He should be tired, should be fighting heavy eyelids and yawns, but he isn’t. Eddie’s determined and nervous, eager to get to you and agonizing over whether or not this is the right move.
But, he’s made his choice. He’ll stand by it. There’s no denying the way he feels, and he’d do anything to make you feel okay.
Eddie spends the drive trying to figure out what he’ll say to you. His thoughts are a mess of speeches and phrases that just don’t sound right. He doesn’t think there’s a way with words that really conveys the extent of his affections, but he’s going to try. He figures a four letter word is a good place to start.
His palms are sweaty as the cab pulls up to your place, your apartment in a building that’s been converted from its original use. Eddie grabs cash from his wallet and hands it to his driver, telling him to keep the change.
He stands there and stares for a minute, taking off his hat and sunglasses now that he’s on a quiet, deserted street. He’s got no idea what time it is, no idea whether he’ll be waking you up or not, but he huffs and heads to your door, lucky that he can access it from outside.
With his fist raised, Eddie takes as big a breath as he can muster, and knocks on the door.
You were having a hard time sleeping, tossing around uncomfortably until you gave up and grabbed the book from your nightstand. You’d been mid-chapter when you heard the knocking, almost convinced you’d imagined the sound.
And then it comes again, four quick taps on your door. You don’t have a single guess for who it could be, but you set your book face down and kick your blankets off, turning on your light on your way to the door and squinting at the brightness.
You’re not sure what exactly you were expecting to find on the other side of the door, but it wasn’t this. Wasn’t him.
“Eddie? What the hell are you doing here?”
He takes a second to look you over, his hands stuffed in his hoodie’s pocket. You’re wearing a pair of floral pajama shorts, ruffled at the hem, and your fucking Corroded Coffin t-shirt. Yeah, he made the right choice coming here.
He avoids your question. “Can I come in?”
“Oh! Yeah, sorry.” You open the door further and step aside, closing it after he steps inside. “Aren’t you supposed to be on tour?”
“I needed to see you.”
Needed to. Like it’s bigger than a want.
“Is everything okay?” You ask, leaning against your door. Eddie’s not far, only a step away from you.
“That article was bullshit.”
“What?”
He takes the step, his feet toe to toe with yours now. You’re forced to tilt your head up due to his proximity, his eyes unwavering and still, the way they always are, soft. You fiddle with your hands behind your back.
“That article about us, it was total bullshit.”
“I don’t-”
“I know you saw it, and it was wrong. You aren’t a fling to me, you aren’t a fucking normie. You’re my favorite person in the entire world.”
Eddie’s found, now that he’s started, he can’t stop pouring things out. He pushes your hair from your face, trails his hand lightly down your arm until he’s tugging yours from behind your back, weaving his fingers between yours.
“My favorite, okay?” He continues, his stare flicking between your eyes, like he’s making sure you believe him. “Whoever wrote that is a shithead and I don’t believe any of it. None, honey. I’m sorry that I put you in that position, you didn’t deserve it. But it’s bullshit.”
You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your chest, your fingers squeezing around Eddie’s as he speaks like you’re making sure he’s real. That he’s here and he’s saying these things and he’s looking at you the way he did before he kissed you.
“You-” you clear your throat, voice weak at first from his words. “You came all the way here to tell me that?”
His free hand tugs at the neckline of his hoodie, his gaze flicking down to your hands and then back to your face. “Yes.” There’s the lightest blush to his cheeks, “among other things.”
“Other things?”
You don’t want to guess, shouldn’t let yourself get your hopes up and up and up. But your mind does it on its own accord. What if he-
“I love you,” he rushes it out in a breath, but you hear it all the same. “I’m in love with you, trouble.”
“You are?”
Your eyes are wide, your hand tight around his, and Eddie smiles because he can’t help it. He made the right choice.
“I’m in love with you,” he says again. “I have been for a long time, I think. I only figured it out a bit ago, but it doesn’t feel new.”
“Me too, Eddie.” You barely register your own words, your grin spreading wide or the way you laugh in disbelief. Finally. “I love you, too. For a long time. But I knew it.”
His heart squeezes. He wonders how long, how hard it must’ve been for you to keep it inside while he took forever like an idiot to register his own feelings. But he’s got you now, and that’s more than enough.
“Well, you’ve always been smarter than me.”
“Can I get that in writing?”
And then his free hand is cupping your jaw, his nose nudging yours. “Shut up.”
He kisses you then, broken by your smiles but the best one yet. Because it’s out there: you love each other. It isn’t a question of whether or not, it’s a certainty. You’re in love and you can have this. You have this.
Your hand that isn’t clasped in his holds the back of his neck lightly, your fingers tangled in his curls, keeping him close.
Eddie doesn’t go far when he pulls away, his forehead tilted against yours, his hand still on your face. The corners of his eyes crinkle from his smile, and you can’t help but kiss him again. A peck, another, and another.
“I’ve got like 36 hours. Think I could stay?”
You nod, your smile mirroring his. Lovesick, totally stupidly happy.
“Yeah?” Eddie swings your joined hands lightly. You nod again. “Good. I would’ve had to walk back to the trailer if not. I probably would’ve died.”
“Always dramatic, Munson.”
“But you love me anyways.”
“Guess I do.” Your fingers gently tug at tangles in his hair. “You’re sure about this? Even with the distance?”
Eddie lifts his forehead from yours to make sure you can see his face fully. His thumb smoothes over your cheekbone.
“I’ve never been more sure. Ever.” And he hasn’t, not even when he knew he wanted to do music forever. Because he’d give it up for you if he had to, though he knows you’d never ask him to. “I’ll call you so much you’ll get sick of me. And you can come with me when you have time, and I’ll come home when I have time. I want this so much, okay? So much.”
“I do, too.” You look at your hands, thinking about how you’d always thought they were meant to be holding one another. “You’re okay with dating a normie?”
“Fuck that.” His hand on your face tilts it just a little, urging your sight onto his. “You’re my trouble. Nothing else matters.”
My trouble.
“And you’d really come back to Hawkins more for me?”
“I’m going to.” Eddie understands why you’re asking. In the past, he’s gone quiet, he’s gotten caught up, but after tonight? He’s never gonna hear the end of it from the band, that’s for sure. “You’ll totally get sick of me, you’ll see.”
“Don’t think that’s possible.” You look at his face, the eyes you could never forget, the dusting of stubble across his jawline. A face that’s been on TV and countless magazines, albums and posters. “I always thought you outgrew this town.”
“I never outgrew you.”
You know there’s more to figure out, more worries to be had, but you’re in love and you can say it. That’s what’s important now, that’s what you’ll enjoy.
The shoebox that sits in your closet has served you well, but you won’t need to pick at the scraps anymore. Won’t need to hold onto this boy through magazines and newspapers.
My trouble.
When you kiss again, you’re sure that you’ll never want to be anything else.
♫♩♪♬
hi!! thanks so so much for reading these two <3 i’ve had so much fun with rockstar!eddie and i hope u guys did too!!! if you did, a reblog would mean so much <3
i don’t usually do tag lists, and i probably won’t again after this, but the demand was high for this one (like, crazy! thank u so much!) so here’s the rockstar!eddie tag list
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
It’s funny, you think, how one simple conversation can change the entire trajectory of one’s life. How one decision, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, can completely change everything. You’ve never thought of it before, you’ve never had reason to. You wander the hallways of the Red Keep, back here for the first time in your young life. It seems so different than the way Jace and Luke described it, you, Baela and Rhaena never having come here in your youth. You still remember the day the three of you met Jace and Luke, at the funeral of your dear Lady Mother, and the bond that was forever forged between the five of you.
Things seem so different now, you muse. All this talk of succession and titles and betrothals. Just this afternoon, Jace and Luke were betrothed to Baela and Rhaena respectively, something you can’t say you didn’t see coming. You’re happy for your sisters, for your stepbrothers are good men. But it leaves you wondering what your father and stepmother intend for you. Will you be sent to some far off place to secure an alliance? You hope it isn’t Winterfell. The Westerlands or the Reach would be preferable, the latter more so since you would rather fling yourself from the castle’s ramparts than marry that twat Jason Lannister. You know your father would never allow that to happen, however, and comfort yourself in that knowledge.
After the rather eventful dinner where all your family was present, all you seek at the moment is a place to take the air and be alone in your thoughts. The feud between your stepbrothers and cousin Aemond, unsurprisingly, was the cause of all the problems at dinner, and you took your leave well before things became ugly, stating that you had a headache and wished to retire for the evening.
You find a balcony that seems to have a lovely view of the moon and step out onto it, only to see him. Aemond. He stands with his back to you, not yet having noticed your presence. But he is alerted to it when he hears you step back inside, quickly turning around, that single blue eye of his meeting your own.
“Hello, cousin,” his voice is cool and collected as he speaks, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“Aemond,” you nod at him, “I just came to take the air. Sorry to intrude, I’ll take my leave.”
You’re surprised when he calls after you as you turn to go, “You needn’t leave. You’re free to join me if you like.”
You turn back to face him, only to see he’s already turned away, looking out at the city once more. He seems troubled, you think to yourself, and certainly in need of a friend. Perhaps you can be that for him.
“I’d like that, cousin,” you say softly, moving to stand beside him, your arms brushing against each other as you stare out at the landscape of the capital as well.
He makes no move to get away from you, from your touch. Rather, he continues staring blankly ahead. The silence between the two of you is uncomfortable, deafening even. And you know that he will not be the one to break it. That it must be you. Aemond turns to face you, raising a brow, his blue eye piercing into yours, as if asking you to say something.
“How have you been, Aemond?” you turn to him, smiling kindly, “Before today, it had been six years since we last saw each other, I believe?”
Aemond looks at you and, for a half moment or less, he lets his guard down. Then his face goes cold and hard again when he recalls the events that occurred the last time he saw you. He doesn’t smile, but he regards you carefully as he speaks.
“Yes, that is correct.”
“Have you been working on your High Valyrian?” you ask him, still smiling, “If I recall correctly, you were far better at it than me. I still recall when you approached me at the funeral hoping to converse in the language and I could barely keep up.”
“Yes,” Aemond says softly, the genuineness of your smile making his icy exterior thaw if only slightly, “It’s good to know the language of our ancestors,” he states, feeling more comfortable now that the topic of conversation is something as mundane as this, “Do you study High Valyrian anymore?”
You sigh, “When I can. I was with my grandmother and Rhaena on Driftmark most of the time. Our septa felt it was more important to push us toward ladylike things such as needlework and penmanship.”
“Needlework,” Aemond repeats with a hint of thinly veiled disdain - not towards you but toward the concept of needlework itself, “Needlework and penmanship are indeed useful, but so is knowledge of High Valyrian. And knowledge of war.”
“Well,” you grin at him wryly, “The septa can’t stop me from doing what it is I truly want. I’ll sew all the old bat wants, but at night, I sneak out to the training grounds and practice my swordsmanship.”
Aemond raises an eyebrow, amused, “Sneak out?” he repeats, clearly finding the image of you slinking around Driftmark in the dead of night amusing and does not bother hiding it, a faint smile playing on his lips, “Who is your teacher in swordsmanship?”
“I am self-taught,” you say proudly.
Aemond seems impressed at your words, “I would expect no less from the daughter of the Rogue Prince and Vhagar’s former rider,” he pauses before adding, “Perhaps I can teach you about battle tactics someday, if you’re willing. A war tutor of sorts, if you’d like,” he smiles at you slightly, not so cold now.
You give him your brightest, sweetest smile in return, “I’d like that very much, Aemond.”
He smiles back, a true smile that reaches his eye, as he responds, “It would be an honor, cousin.”
Aemond seems genuinely happy as the two of you stand there, enjoying each other’s presence. He’s happy because you’ve made him happy, in fact, you may have just become more than his cousin now, you may have just become his friend.
You bump your hip against his playfully, “And I shall be your dance tutor,” you tease, “Don’t think I didn’t notice you avoiding every lady who so much as looked at you hoping for a dance this afternoon.”
His gaze softens even more, a hint of amusement flickering across his face, “Do you think that I may have been avoiding their gazes more than their dancing?”
You roll your eyes playfully and laugh, and Aemond thinks he would very much like to hear you laugh again, “And why would the handsome Prince Aemond avoid the gazes of some pretty noble girls?”
“Because they’re not as pretty as you.”
Aemond has never said anything so forward to any woman in his entire life. He knows it was an impulsive thing to say, but he meant every word and does not regret speaking his mind. He’s slightly nervous in your presence now, but he eases slightly when you giggle at his words.
“You’re too charming for your own good,” you grin.
“Or perhaps you are too charming for mine,” he teases back.
Aemond looks at you for a long moment, his eye meeting yours, and you can see a genuine smile on his face, the sight of which warms your heart. You’ve made him happy and he looks so very nice when he is.
“You’re very handsome when you smile,” you tell him softly, “You should do it more often, Aemond.”
Your words make him blush slightly. He can feel his cheeks flushing, but he doesn’t care. You’ve called him handsome and charming within the last few minutes. That he looks handsome when he smiles, and he likes it. He wants to make you happy, and so he responds.
“I think I will.”
“Though, if you smile like this too much, I fear one of the girls at court might steal you away from me,” you tease him, giving him a mischievous little grin.
Aemond laughs at this. A full-bodied laugh, throwing his head back.
“Who could ever steal me away from you?” he asks, his voice disbelieving as he tries to contain his laughter, “Who would ever want to? There’s nobody like you.”
Your heart melts at his words and you shake your head, “You’re such a flirt, Aemond.”
“And you’re a tease,” he accuses in return, laughing again, thinking to himself that he doesn’t think he’s ever laughed this much in his entire life, “If I am a flirt, I am your flirt,” he smiles at you, “I could never be another lady’s. I do not even think about them, so concerned as I am with you, cousin.”
You feel the heat rush to your cheeks as you respond, “You are doing this on purpose, trying to fluster me. I warn you, cousin, it will not work.”
“But what if it is working?” Aemond counters, grinning at you, “You’re blushing after all.”
Your hands move to your face, feeling how warm your cheeks are as you question, slightly panicked, “Am I?”
“Yes, you are,” Aemond teases, “Are you flustered? Maybe it’s you trying to flirt with me,” he hasn’t smiled like this in years, he’s not been this incandescently happy in years.
“What an accusation,” you feign offense at his words, though you burst into giggles before continuing, “That could be considered treasonous, you know.”
“Treasonous?” he muses, “And what would the punishment be for a traitor like me, hm?”
Aemond can’t help the rush of excitement that goes up his spine at the idea of you punishing him. All he wants is to keep talking to you. To keep hearing you smile, to keep hearing your beautiful laugh.
“Perhaps,” you barely hold back a laugh, “I’d have to make you my concubine.”
Aemond bursts into laughter as well, his loudest laugh yet as he grips the balcony railing for support, his entire body shaking, “Your concubine?” he repeats, voice full of mirth, “You cannot be serious, cousin.”
“I am deadly serious,” you tease, “Worry not, sweet Aemond, I’ll always ensure that you’re dressed in the finest silks.”
“I’d look rather dashing in silk, wouldn’t I?” Aemond is still smiling as you giggle at your joke, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so beautiful in his entire life, “And what if you were my concubine?”
“Oh, are we reversing the roles then, cousin?” you arch a brow, giving him a playful look.
“Well, you made the first jest so it stands to reason that I make the second,” he snickers, “What would you do as my concubine?”
You pretend to think for a minute before speaking, “Well, naturally, I’d have to serve your every whim,” you tease.
Aemond chuckles. He has to stop himself from reaching a hand out to touch your cheek, just to make sure that you’re real.
“My every whim? Every single one?” he looks at you, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of your lips before he sighs, regarding you again, a soft smile on his face, “Y/N Targaryen, you might just be my favorite person at court.”
“Aemond Targaryen, you might just be my favorite as well,” you rest a hand on his arm, squeezing softly.
Aemond’s heart feels as though it stops in his chest when your hand rests on his arm, and when you squeeze it, he thinks his heart begins to beat again. He stares at your hand with a mix of shameless awe and genuine delight, his gaze meeting yours again as he smiles at you.
“And why might that be?” he asks, his tone softer and sweeter than you’ve ever heard before.
“Well, surely you know I’ve adored you ever since that first conversation on Driftmark all those years ago,” you bump your hip against his gently.
Aemond surprises even himself when he rests a hand on your hip, turning to face you fully, “I adore you too,” he says quietly, “You are the light of my days and the fire of my nights.”
You shake your head, feeling a blush rising to your face once more, “You speak like a poet, Aemond.”
“I speak like a man who means every word he says, cousin,” he corrects, though his voice remains light and playful, “You will find that I never speak unless I believe it. Everything I say is true,” he has yet to take his hand off your hip and he squeezes ever so slightly, surprising you at the intimacy the two of you share in this moment, “Are you blushing again?” he teases.
“I am not,” you insist, laughing softly, “It’s just… Warm.”
“Of course,” he smirks, “Well if you’re not blushing, then will you kiss me?”
He’s not sure if he should’ve said that, but he did it anyway. And he can’t bring himself to regret it when your blush intensifies and you lean forward to peck him on the cheek, your impossibly soft lips brushing against his skin. It’s his turn to blush now, his breath slightly heavy as he gazes at you.
When you pull away, he looks at you, asking teasingly, “Was that your first kiss?”
You roll your eyes and look away from him, “Oh, come off it.”
“Well,” he pauses, gently turning your face back to him, a faint blush painting his face as he runs his thumb over your cheekbone, murmuring softfully, “Would you deny your cousin a second kiss?”
You gaze up at him and speak softly, “I wouldn’t dream of denying my cousin anything.”
Aemond leans forward, his lips hovering just over yours as he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, “May I?”
“You may,” you breathe against his lips.”
And he kisses you. It’s a kiss he’s dreamed of for so long, ever since the first day he met you. It’s a soft, chaste kiss, one that he hopes will be the first of many. When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, closing his eye.
“My love,” he murmurs.
He didn’t mean to say it, it was a slip of the tongue, but when your face brightens at the term of endearment he’s given you, he knows it was meant to happen.
“I missed you every day while I was away,” you speak softly as his free hand takes yours, “I long for you like a flower longs for the sun.”
“And I long for you like a man dying of thirst in the desert, begging for rain and only getting more sun,” Aemond replies, brushing his nose against yours, “I love you.”
“And I love you.”
Aemond’s smile is so wide and so bright that it feels almost blinding looking at it. He embraces you tightly, tucking you under his chin, arms wrapped around you with the intent to stay there always.
“Do you really?” he asks, his voice choked with emotion.
“With all my heart,” you reply, gazing up at him, leaning in to kiss him again.
He kisses you back, the kiss being deeper, more passionate this time as your hands move to tangle in his hair, one of his hands in your own hair while the other grips you by the waist. He bites down gently on your lower lip, causing you to gasp and allow his tongue to enter your mouth. You stay like that, locked in a passionate kiss for what seems like hours, until you break apart for air.
“I’ve dreamed of this for so long,” you whisper.”
“I have too,” Aemond agrees, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I’m so happy.”
“I’m scared I’ll wake up and this will have all been a dream,” you admit to him, leaning into his touch.
He kisses you again, promising you as he pulls away, “This is not a dream. This is as real as it gets,” Aemond grins at you after a moment, “Would it help if I kissed you again?”
“Perhaps,” you tease, losing yourself in the feeling of his lips against your own, his tongue dancing against yours.
“And did it?” Aemond questions when the two of you pull apart.
“I don’t know, you whisper breathlessly, “I think I could use some more convincing.”
Aemond doesn’t hesitate to kiss you once more, over and over, just as passionately as before, asking once again when your lips part if you have been convinced.
You shake your head, pulling him back in, “Need more convincing.”
Aemond chuckles, kissing your cheek, then the other, whispering in your ear, “I’ll kiss you forever if that’s what it takes to convince you my love for you is real.”
“That sounds entirely impractical,” you giggle.
Aemond shrugs, not particularly caring about the practicalities of kissing you forever, only the fact that he wants nothing more than to be with you always. He watches as your fingers trace the shape of his scar, his eye closing as he leans into your touch.
“You can kiss it if it pleases you, cousin.”
You bite your lip, gazing up at him, “Is that what you want me to do?”
Aemond nods eagerly, sighing when he feels your soft lips brushing against the scar.
His lips then find yours once more before he murmurs, “I have loved you since the first day I saw you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”
You take his hand, pressing it to your chest, the action making him blush, the flush on his cheeks getting even worse at your words, “This beats only for you.”
“You are my sun,” Aemond says softly, “My light in the darkness. The stars that guide me in the night. I can’t compare you to a goddess, for you are a goddess to me.”
“I love you, Aemond,” you say, your voice so tender that it nearly hurts him, “Like earth needs the sun, I need you. Like summer needs rain to grow and sustain each day. I wonder if the Mother needed the Father like this.”
“I don’t think any man or god has ever needed anyone the way I need you,” Aemond whispers, his lips finding yours once more.
“Do you remember that day on Driftmark,” you pause, giggling, “During the funeral when I asked to braid your hair?”
Aemond nods, grinning at you. He remembers it vividly. It was the closest he’d ever been to you.
“I remember,” he says softly, “Did you like braiding my hair?”
“It was a ruse to be near you. I thought you were cute,” you laugh, burying your face in his chest.
Aemond hugs you tightly, “So it was a flirt all along? You’re much more of a flirt than I gave you credit for,” he adds after a moment, “It felt nice. Having your hands in my hair like that.”
“I can do it for you anytime you want,” you tease, running a hand through his platinum locks, “We’ll make it all pretty with some flowers.”
“Will you be my wife?” he asks softly, “And braid my hair as a wife does?”
You feel as though you could die in this moment and be happy as you question, “You wish to marry me?”
“As soon as possible,” Aemond smiles down at you, “Would that please you?”
You nod, feeling as though you may cry from joy as you answer, “I will braid your hair as a wife braids their husband’s hair. As a khaleesi braids their khal’s hair.”
“I will be your khal,” Aemond murmurs, eye locked on yours, intense, making this promise to you, from one soul to another, “My khaleesi. Love of my life.”
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
It’s funny, you think, how one simple conversation can change the entire trajectory of one’s life. How one decision, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, can completely change everything. You’ve never thought of it before, you’ve never had reason to. You wander the hallways of the Red Keep, back here for the first time in your young life. It seems so different than the way Jace and Luke described it, you, Baela and Rhaena never having come here in your youth. You still remember the day the three of you met Jace and Luke, at the funeral of your dear Lady Mother, and the bond that was forever forged between the five of you.
Things seem so different now, you muse. All this talk of succession and titles and betrothals. Just this afternoon, Jace and Luke were betrothed to Baela and Rhaena respectively, something you can’t say you didn’t see coming. You’re happy for your sisters, for your stepbrothers are good men. But it leaves you wondering what your father and stepmother intend for you. Will you be sent to some far off place to secure an alliance? You hope it isn’t Winterfell. The Westerlands or the Reach would be preferable, the latter more so since you would rather fling yourself from the castle’s ramparts than marry that twat Jason Lannister. You know your father would never allow that to happen, however, and comfort yourself in that knowledge.
After the rather eventful dinner where all your family was present, all you seek at the moment is a place to take the air and be alone in your thoughts. The feud between your stepbrothers and cousin Aemond, unsurprisingly, was the cause of all the problems at dinner, and you took your leave well before things became ugly, stating that you had a headache and wished to retire for the evening.
You find a balcony that seems to have a lovely view of the moon and step out onto it, only to see him. Aemond. He stands with his back to you, not yet having noticed your presence. But he is alerted to it when he hears you step back inside, quickly turning around, that single blue eye of his meeting your own.
“Hello, cousin,” his voice is cool and collected as he speaks, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“Aemond,” you nod at him, “I just came to take the air. Sorry to intrude, I’ll take my leave.”
You’re surprised when he calls after you as you turn to go, “You needn’t leave. You’re free to join me if you like.”
You turn back to face him, only to see he’s already turned away, looking out at the city once more. He seems troubled, you think to yourself, and certainly in need of a friend. Perhaps you can be that for him.
“I’d like that, cousin,” you say softly, moving to stand beside him, your arms brushing against each other as you stare out at the landscape of the capital as well.
He makes no move to get away from you, from your touch. Rather, he continues staring blankly ahead. The silence between the two of you is uncomfortable, deafening even. And you know that he will not be the one to break it. That it must be you. Aemond turns to face you, raising a brow, his blue eye piercing into yours, as if asking you to say something.
“How have you been, Aemond?” you turn to him, smiling kindly, “Before today, it had been six years since we last saw each other, I believe?”
Aemond looks at you and, for a half moment or less, he lets his guard down. Then his face goes cold and hard again when he recalls the events that occurred the last time he saw you. He doesn’t smile, but he regards you carefully as he speaks.
“Yes, that is correct.”
“Have you been working on your High Valyrian?” you ask him, still smiling, “If I recall correctly, you were far better at it than me. I still recall when you approached me at the funeral hoping to converse in the language and I could barely keep up.”
“Yes,” Aemond says softly, the genuineness of your smile making his icy exterior thaw if only slightly, “It’s good to know the language of our ancestors,” he states, feeling more comfortable now that the topic of conversation is something as mundane as this, “Do you study High Valyrian anymore?”
You sigh, “When I can. I was with my grandmother and Rhaena on Driftmark most of the time. Our septa felt it was more important to push us toward ladylike things such as needlework and penmanship.”
“Needlework,” Aemond repeats with a hint of thinly veiled disdain - not towards you but toward the concept of needlework itself, “Needlework and penmanship are indeed useful, but so is knowledge of High Valyrian. And knowledge of war.”
“Well,” you grin at him wryly, “The septa can’t stop me from doing what it is I truly want. I’ll sew all the old bat wants, but at night, I sneak out to the training grounds and practice my swordsmanship.”
Aemond raises an eyebrow, amused, “Sneak out?” he repeats, clearly finding the image of you slinking around Driftmark in the dead of night amusing and does not bother hiding it, a faint smile playing on his lips, “Who is your teacher in swordsmanship?”
“I am self-taught,” you say proudly.
Aemond seems impressed at your words, “I would expect no less from the daughter of the Rogue Prince and Vhagar’s former rider,” he pauses before adding, “Perhaps I can teach you about battle tactics someday, if you’re willing. A war tutor of sorts, if you’d like,” he smiles at you slightly, not so cold now.
You give him your brightest, sweetest smile in return, “I’d like that very much, Aemond.”
He smiles back, a true smile that reaches his eye, as he responds, “It would be an honor, cousin.”
Aemond seems genuinely happy as the two of you stand there, enjoying each other’s presence. He’s happy because you’ve made him happy, in fact, you may have just become more than his cousin now, you may have just become his friend.
You bump your hip against his playfully, “And I shall be your dance tutor,” you tease, “Don’t think I didn’t notice you avoiding every lady who so much as looked at you hoping for a dance this afternoon.”
His gaze softens even more, a hint of amusement flickering across his face, “Do you think that I may have been avoiding their gazes more than their dancing?”
You roll your eyes playfully and laugh, and Aemond thinks he would very much like to hear you laugh again, “And why would the handsome Prince Aemond avoid the gazes of some pretty noble girls?”
“Because they’re not as pretty as you.”
Aemond has never said anything so forward to any woman in his entire life. He knows it was an impulsive thing to say, but he meant every word and does not regret speaking his mind. He’s slightly nervous in your presence now, but he eases slightly when you giggle at his words.
“You’re too charming for your own good,” you grin.
“Or perhaps you are too charming for mine,” he teases back.
Aemond looks at you for a long moment, his eye meeting yours, and you can see a genuine smile on his face, the sight of which warms your heart. You’ve made him happy and he looks so very nice when he is.
“You’re very handsome when you smile,” you tell him softly, “You should do it more often, Aemond.”
Your words make him blush slightly. He can feel his cheeks flushing, but he doesn’t care. You’ve called him handsome and charming within the last few minutes. That he looks handsome when he smiles, and he likes it. He wants to make you happy, and so he responds.
“I think I will.”
“Though, if you smile like this too much, I fear one of the girls at court might steal you away from me,” you tease him, giving him a mischievous little grin.
Aemond laughs at this. A full-bodied laugh, throwing his head back.
“Who could ever steal me away from you?” he asks, his voice disbelieving as he tries to contain his laughter, “Who would ever want to? There’s nobody like you.”
Your heart melts at his words and you shake your head, “You’re such a flirt, Aemond.”
“And you’re a tease,” he accuses in return, laughing again, thinking to himself that he doesn’t think he’s ever laughed this much in his entire life, “If I am a flirt, I am your flirt,” he smiles at you, “I could never be another lady’s. I do not even think about them, so concerned as I am with you, cousin.”
You feel the heat rush to your cheeks as you respond, “You are doing this on purpose, trying to fluster me. I warn you, cousin, it will not work.”
“But what if it is working?” Aemond counters, grinning at you, “You’re blushing after all.”
Your hands move to your face, feeling how warm your cheeks are as you question, slightly panicked, “Am I?”
“Yes, you are,” Aemond teases, “Are you flustered? Maybe it’s you trying to flirt with me,” he hasn’t smiled like this in years, he’s not been this incandescently happy in years.
“What an accusation,” you feign offense at his words, though you burst into giggles before continuing, “That could be considered treasonous, you know.”
“Treasonous?” he muses, “And what would the punishment be for a traitor like me, hm?”
Aemond can’t help the rush of excitement that goes up his spine at the idea of you punishing him. All he wants is to keep talking to you. To keep hearing you smile, to keep hearing your beautiful laugh.
“Perhaps,” you barely hold back a laugh, “I’d have to make you my concubine.”
Aemond bursts into laughter as well, his loudest laugh yet as he grips the balcony railing for support, his entire body shaking, “Your concubine?” he repeats, voice full of mirth, “You cannot be serious, cousin.”
“I am deadly serious,” you tease, “Worry not, sweet Aemond, I’ll always ensure that you’re dressed in the finest silks.”
“I’d look rather dashing in silk, wouldn’t I?” Aemond is still smiling as you giggle at your joke, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so beautiful in his entire life, “And what if you were my concubine?”
“Oh, are we reversing the roles then, cousin?” you arch a brow, giving him a playful look.
“Well, you made the first jest so it stands to reason that I make the second,” he snickers, “What would you do as my concubine?”
You pretend to think for a minute before speaking, “Well, naturally, I’d have to serve your every whim,” you tease.
Aemond chuckles. He has to stop himself from reaching a hand out to touch your cheek, just to make sure that you’re real.
“My every whim? Every single one?” he looks at you, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of your lips before he sighs, regarding you again, a soft smile on his face, “Y/N Targaryen, you might just be my favorite person at court.”
“Aemond Targaryen, you might just be my favorite as well,” you rest a hand on his arm, squeezing softly.
Aemond’s heart feels as though it stops in his chest when your hand rests on his arm, and when you squeeze it, he thinks his heart begins to beat again. He stares at your hand with a mix of shameless awe and genuine delight, his gaze meeting yours again as he smiles at you.
“And why might that be?” he asks, his tone softer and sweeter than you’ve ever heard before.
“Well, surely you know I’ve adored you ever since that first conversation on Driftmark all those years ago,” you bump your hip against his gently.
Aemond surprises even himself when he rests a hand on your hip, turning to face you fully, “I adore you too,” he says quietly, “You are the light of my days and the fire of my nights.”
You shake your head, feeling a blush rising to your face once more, “You speak like a poet, Aemond.”
“I speak like a man who means every word he says, cousin,” he corrects, though his voice remains light and playful, “You will find that I never speak unless I believe it. Everything I say is true,” he has yet to take his hand off your hip and he squeezes ever so slightly, surprising you at the intimacy the two of you share in this moment, “Are you blushing again?” he teases.
“I am not,” you insist, laughing softly, “It’s just… Warm.”
“Of course,” he smirks, “Well if you’re not blushing, then will you kiss me?”
He’s not sure if he should’ve said that, but he did it anyway. And he can’t bring himself to regret it when your blush intensifies and you lean forward to peck him on the cheek, your impossibly soft lips brushing against his skin. It’s his turn to blush now, his breath slightly heavy as he gazes at you.
When you pull away, he looks at you, asking teasingly, “Was that your first kiss?”
You roll your eyes and look away from him, “Oh, come off it.”
“Well,” he pauses, gently turning your face back to him, a faint blush painting his face as he runs his thumb over your cheekbone, murmuring softfully, “Would you deny your cousin a second kiss?”
You gaze up at him and speak softly, “I wouldn’t dream of denying my cousin anything.”
Aemond leans forward, his lips hovering just over yours as he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, “May I?”
“You may,” you breathe against his lips.”
And he kisses you. It’s a kiss he’s dreamed of for so long, ever since the first day he met you. It’s a soft, chaste kiss, one that he hopes will be the first of many. When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, closing his eye.
“My love,” he murmurs.
He didn’t mean to say it, it was a slip of the tongue, but when your face brightens at the term of endearment he’s given you, he knows it was meant to happen.
“I missed you every day while I was away,” you speak softly as his free hand takes yours, “I long for you like a flower longs for the sun.”
“And I long for you like a man dying of thirst in the desert, begging for rain and only getting more sun,” Aemond replies, brushing his nose against yours, “I love you.”
“And I love you.”
Aemond’s smile is so wide and so bright that it feels almost blinding looking at it. He embraces you tightly, tucking you under his chin, arms wrapped around you with the intent to stay there always.
“Do you really?” he asks, his voice choked with emotion.
“With all my heart,” you reply, gazing up at him, leaning in to kiss him again.
He kisses you back, the kiss being deeper, more passionate this time as your hands move to tangle in his hair, one of his hands in your own hair while the other grips you by the waist. He bites down gently on your lower lip, causing you to gasp and allow his tongue to enter your mouth. You stay like that, locked in a passionate kiss for what seems like hours, until you break apart for air.
“I’ve dreamed of this for so long,” you whisper.”
“I have too,” Aemond agrees, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I’m so happy.”
“I’m scared I’ll wake up and this will have all been a dream,” you admit to him, leaning into his touch.
He kisses you again, promising you as he pulls away, “This is not a dream. This is as real as it gets,” Aemond grins at you after a moment, “Would it help if I kissed you again?”
“Perhaps,” you tease, losing yourself in the feeling of his lips against your own, his tongue dancing against yours.
“And did it?” Aemond questions when the two of you pull apart.
“I don’t know, you whisper breathlessly, “I think I could use some more convincing.”
Aemond doesn’t hesitate to kiss you once more, over and over, just as passionately as before, asking once again when your lips part if you have been convinced.
You shake your head, pulling him back in, “Need more convincing.”
Aemond chuckles, kissing your cheek, then the other, whispering in your ear, “I’ll kiss you forever if that’s what it takes to convince you my love for you is real.”
“That sounds entirely impractical,” you giggle.
Aemond shrugs, not particularly caring about the practicalities of kissing you forever, only the fact that he wants nothing more than to be with you always. He watches as your fingers trace the shape of his scar, his eye closing as he leans into your touch.
“You can kiss it if it pleases you, cousin.”
You bite your lip, gazing up at him, “Is that what you want me to do?”
Aemond nods eagerly, sighing when he feels your soft lips brushing against the scar.
His lips then find yours once more before he murmurs, “I have loved you since the first day I saw you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”
You take his hand, pressing it to your chest, the action making him blush, the flush on his cheeks getting even worse at your words, “This beats only for you.”
“You are my sun,” Aemond says softly, “My light in the darkness. The stars that guide me in the night. I can’t compare you to a goddess, for you are a goddess to me.”
“I love you, Aemond,” you say, your voice so tender that it nearly hurts him, “Like earth needs the sun, I need you. Like summer needs rain to grow and sustain each day. I wonder if the Mother needed the Father like this.”
“I don’t think any man or god has ever needed anyone the way I need you,” Aemond whispers, his lips finding yours once more.
“Do you remember that day on Driftmark,” you pause, giggling, “During the funeral when I asked to braid your hair?”
Aemond nods, grinning at you. He remembers it vividly. It was the closest he’d ever been to you.
“I remember,” he says softly, “Did you like braiding my hair?”
“It was a ruse to be near you. I thought you were cute,” you laugh, burying your face in his chest.
Aemond hugs you tightly, “So it was a flirt all along? You’re much more of a flirt than I gave you credit for,” he adds after a moment, “It felt nice. Having your hands in my hair like that.”
“I can do it for you anytime you want,” you tease, running a hand through his platinum locks, “We’ll make it all pretty with some flowers.”
“Will you be my wife?” he asks softly, “And braid my hair as a wife does?”
You feel as though you could die in this moment and be happy as you question, “You wish to marry me?”
“As soon as possible,” Aemond smiles down at you, “Would that please you?”
You nod, feeling as though you may cry from joy as you answer, “I will braid your hair as a wife braids their husband’s hair. As a khaleesi braids their khal’s hair.”
“I will be your khal,” Aemond murmurs, eye locked on yours, intense, making this promise to you, from one soul to another, “My khaleesi. Love of my life.”
Lil’ request for a modern!aemond fic just reader had a long tiring week and reader and aemond sit on coach eating watching movies maybe lil cockwarming just couch cuddles
thank you for this request! i'm not really sure if this is good even though i loved the request and tried to do my best but i still wanted to post it, i hope you enjoy!
my masterlist
quality time
modern!aemond helps you relax after a long week. nsfw, cockwarming.
you turn your key and push the door with a soft sigh. finally. carrying books in your hand, you hold your bag as you walk into the apartment you share with your boyfriend. your steps are silent and slow as you enter the living room.
you put your books and bag on the table. aemond is nowhere to be found, probably dealing with the traffic to come home now. you walk into your room, take off your clothes and wear one of aemond's shirts. you take your time as you wash your hands and face, trying to get rid off the tiredness the day brought you.
your next stop is kitchen, to make some coffee. a little unlocking sound comes from the front door when you reach for your coffee mug and you lift your head, rushing to the door to see him.
aemond steps in, closes the door, and opens his arms for you when he sees you. you practically throw yourself on him, wrap your arms around his neck like a little koala and press a gentle kiss on his lips. you greet him with a sweet voice and lead him to the kitchen by holding his hand.
"are you ready to hear the big news? the most tiring, unbearable, and stressful week of my life is finally over!" you say with a cheerful voice. "would you like a cup of coffee?"
he nods to your question, watches you with a little smile on his face. "well, i'd hate to remind you but for the last 2 months you say that after every week."
you frown but it's fake. "yes, but... i feel good now that another week has finished."
he approaches closer, holds your face, and kisses your forehead. "i'm so proud of you."
you blush slightly. he always says this, always knows how to make you feel better. it's such a lovely feeling to hear these words, especially from someone you care about.
"thank you." you say with a sweet smile.
"you can finally spend a few days resting then, hmm? we should make the best of it." he says.
you brush a quick kiss on his cheek. "we can just lay on the couch and watch a movie." you say. "you know, quality time."
he smiles and nods. "you choose the movie, i'll be right back changing my clothes."
you take the coffee mugs and walk into the living room. the couch looks so comfortable now that you don't have to do anything besides having a rest. you put the mugs on the coffee table, take the blanket on the couch and pull the soft material on your body.
you end up choosing a random movie that neither you nor aemond would probably enjoy. it's just for some background noise, your eyes are closing anyway. you take a sip from your mug, waiting for aemond to start the movie.
aemond walks in with a simple white shirt and black sweatpants on him. he looks at the tv screen and turns to you with a questioning look. "you chose that?"
you chuckle lightly. "just for some noise, i'm not in the mood for serious movie time. i'll probably fall asleep on you in ten minutes."
he nods, comes closer, and sits next to you on the couch. he drinks his coffee as you almost finish yours and you try to focus on the movie which has possibly the worst dialogues you've ever heard.
a few minutes later, he can't stop himself. "i think that movie can be the worst option even for background noise, baby."
"well, i could've done better than choosing this." you shrug.
you spend a few minutes more just drinking coffee and watching the ridiculous movie, mocking it, making jokes. you finish your coffee and put your mug on the coffee table. aemond does the same after you and lays on the couch, his back on the comfortable pillows. he opens his arms for you, a silent invite for you to relax into him.
you accept the lovely invitation by settling up closer to his body. you stay on top of him, your legs on either side of his thighs and your head on his chest. you wrap your arms around him and exhale softly, his fingers rub the soft flesh of your thighs as he tries to place you on his body in a comfortable position.
you can't help but squirm against him, you can almost feel him between your legs and the pressure starts being a little too much. you lift your hips and settle down again, earning a soft groan from aemond.
"i thought you were tired, hmm?" he asks with a tempting voice, clearly understands what you want to do.
"yes, but the coffee will keep me awake for a little while, you know that." you say, looking up to him with big eyes. "i just want to feel you, i'm tired to do anything else anyway."
he smiles affectionally, nods and holds your waist. "alright. if my pretty baby wants to feel me, i should give her exactly what she wants."
he lifts your -his- shirt just a little, only enough to pull your panties to the side. you are slightly wet from the friction, but he knows you need to be more ready for him to not be sore afterwards. he puts two fingers on your lips and guides them into your mouth.
you accept his fingers attentively, coating them with saliva and he is quick to rub his fingers on your cunt after he pulls them from your mouth. you help him pull his sweatpants until he can hold his cock in his other hand, he strokes himself until he is ready.
you start taking his cock inside with a soft moan, arching your waist slowly. "a little more, just a little."
he holds your hand and kisses the back of it, encouraging you to stay relaxed. "come on, baby. you'll like it deeper, hmm? you can take it."
you nod, taking him inside you in a lovely angle. you wait a few seconds to adjust, he holds your waist, and you put your head on his chest again now that you are more comfortable. feeling him deep inside you always brings contentment, makes you feel safe and grounded.
"is this good for you?" you ask with a small voice.
"this is perfect for me." he answers.
aemond loves staying inside you like this, there's no rush, only your warmth that surrounds him. he holds you on his chest and rubs your back, strokes your hair until you almost close your eyes under his touch.
he cups your cheek with one hand, touches your bottom lip with his thumb. his other hand stays on the back of your head, rubbing the tense spot there.
"i'm gonna fall asleep."
"it's fine, sweetheart. we can stay like this as long as you want, just close your eyes." he says, his voice soft and caring, a tone he only uses with you.
he brushes his thumb on your bottom lip again and you part your lips, taking his finger in your mouth. you slowly suck his thumb as you close your eyes, melt into him, and trust him with your body.
"there you go. my pretty baby, you deserve a good sleep, hmm? you tire yourself too much, it's only fair." he whispers as you let go of yourself and fall asleep on him.
it doesn't take long for him to sleep as well, he almost loses himself to the feeling of your warm tightness. the movie in the background keeps playing, but aemond doesn't care. he doesn't care about anything else besides you and your comfort.
in the late hours of the day, you find contentment in his hold, just allowing yourself to focus on him and only him. nothing else matters.
You weren’t totally sure how you ended up here. Sitting with the sweet beloved priest, Osferth. Confessing your sins about sleeping with his nephew days prior. It wasn’t your first choice, to come and talk about this but the guilt was going to eat you alive.
He looked at you kindly as he listened to your confession. He had a warm smile on his face, his eyes were soft and gentle. You felt a little bit of comfort in his presence.
"So you let him bed you?" he asked gently. "Yes,” you replied. "I did. I am sorry." He nodded, looking down at his hands clasped in front of him. "It is alright. There are worse things that could have happened."
“I know. It started off innocent enough, I was at his place and we were just fooling around. Just a few kisses here and there. I don't know what came over me, I guess I wanted more.” You said, looking down, reverting your eyes back to the ground.
“When he touched you. Did you enjoy it?” Unsure of what to say, you stared down at your lap, balling the fabric of your dress in your fists. Was there a right or wrong answer?
“You’re going to have to be honest with me if you want me to help you. Can you do that?”
“I, um, I suppose that I did – yes. But I didn’t want to enjoy it!”
“Did you finish?”
“What?”
“Did you have an orgasm?”
“Honestly, Father, I don’t know.” You were unsure whether or not he had made you cum. You knew that he did, since there was evidence of it afterward.
“I believe if you did, you would know.”
“Well, then maybe not. I’m sorry I’m not sure how discussing this is going to help,” he cut of you off.
“If you did have an orgasm, I believe you would definitely know.” He repeated. “That's why I'm here. To help you through this, but you can’t tell anyone.” You just stared at him. You were growing more nervous by the second, but yet you found yourself intrigued.
“Sometimes, when you are left unsatisfied, it can leave your mind… vulnerable. Leading us into temptation more easily.”
It was clear to her now what the intentions were, as his demeanor completely changed. Fear crept through your veins, but you were in no position to be denying a priest. You had already confessed your sins to him, and even though you were feeling guilty about it, you couldn't deny that he was helping you. "Okay." You said hesitantly. What was wrong with you? We’re you going to allow him to do this? "Good girl." He said, smiling again.
Without another word, he lifted you onto his desk and began to unbutton your dress. He pulled it open revealing your already hard and swollen nipples. Shame creeping over your body. You could feel him run his hand up your leg until he reached your small clothes.
With one quick motion he ripped them off your body. Your skin felt cold against his fingers as he traced them across your stomach, his touch sending chills down your spine.
He leaned forward to kiss you again, but you pulled back. A string of saliva connecting the two of you. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Me to fix you, make you pure again?”
“No, I mean — yes, but Father, I didn’t mean like this.”
A devilish smile crept on his face as he ran two fingers over your folds. “You say you didn’t want it like this, but your cunt says otherwise. So wet and swollen for me.”
His fingers found their way inside of you, his thumb rubbing against your clit.You closed your eyes and bit down on your lip as he plunged his fingers deeper into you. His tongue running along the curve of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. You let out a moan, your hips bucking against his hand. He slid his fingers out and replaced them with his mouth.
The change of sensations felt overwhelming to you, pressure began to build in you lower abdomen. The intensity was so much it almost hurt. “God, I feel like I’m going to explode! Stop, stop!”
The young priest ignored your plea. Sucking on your clit harder and shoving two fingers back into you. He continued working his fingers inside you as he removed his mouth from you.
“No, no. This is good, this is what you need. Chase that feeling and let go.”
Your body tensed up as your orgasm built, your legs shaking as your muscles contracted around his fingers. You cried out as your release washed over you, your juices flowing from between your legs.
As your orgasm subsided, you felt exhausted. You laid there trying to catch your breath. You looked over at the young priest who was still kneeling beside you.
“See? You did so good for me. He’s never made you feel like this, has he?” You could feel your cheeks burning red. “No, he hasn’t. I think I just saw God for a minute.”
The priest smiled at you, stroking your cheek. "You did great. Stay here, try to catch your breath." He stood up and walked towards the door. "I'll be right back. Don't worry about getting dressed, we are not done yet."
summary: even as the crowds at his shows get bigger and bigger, eddie munson still has you, his very best friend. or, (for my swifties) eddie munson is your dorothea.
word count: 8.6k
warnings: fluff, a little angst, childhood best friends to lovers (sort of), weed and smoking, librarian!reader, first kiss, so many uses of the words “i miss you,” and some idiots in love !!!
a/n: hiiiii!!! this one took so long but i really love rockstar!eddie and i hope you do too!!! this is inspired by tis the damn season and especially dorothea by taylor swift <3 thank you to my love @inkluvs for encouraging me on this one ily!!!
♫♩♪♬
It’s surreal to watch someone close to you grow so much bigger than the town you live in.
To know that the person you see on the news, at award shows on your TV screen, is the same one who used to push you on the swings at the playground, who used to walk with you to and from school, who grew up beside you, closer than anyone else ever could have.
Closer than anyone ever would, still.
To most people, he’s Eddie Munson, lead singer and guitarist of Corroded Coffin. To you, he’s Eddie, the best friend you’ve ever had.
You can go back years and years, and Eddie’s woven into your life for so much of it. So is his music. You can pick out the points: watching Corroded Coffin play for the first time in middle school, watching their first gig at the Hideout, being in the front row for it all wearing the widest smile, having the loudest cheers.
Even the late night phone calls you’d get when he’d be stuck on lyrics, when he wanted someone’s opinion and chose to dial your number instead of his bandmates’.
(“Hello?”
“I can’t get this line to sound right.”
“Let’s hear it, Munson.”)
You’re often in disbelief of where he is now. Not because you ever doubted him, but because even after so long, it’s strange not to see him every day. You’re insanely proud of him, but that doesn’t mean you don’t miss him.
Because you do. You miss him so much.
A box sits on the top shelf of your closet, one filled with newspaper and magazine clippings, articles about the band’s success, positive reviews about their shows and their albums. Things to show that Eddie’s dream came true, and that’s a rare thing.
There’s only one kind of tabloid you choose not to keep: the ones booming with rumors you selfishly hope aren’t true.
‘Lead singer of Corroded Coffin has a new spark? Read more to find out who’s caught famous bad boy Eddie Munson’s eye.’
You see him constantly in pictures, through a screen, but you only really ever see him on holidays, when he’s able to come home. When he comes bursting back into your life in vibrant fireworks with his stupid, pretty smile and stupid, shining brown eyes. When he comes back only to leave all over again.
You only have yourself to blame, really, for letting it tear you up. Because more than anything, you’re happy for him, so happy you could never express it properly, but still, there’s an ache in you when he crosses your mind, when the feelings linger.
Life in Hawkins for you consists of working at the library, reading your days and thoughts away, hanging out with the gang when you’re up to it, and that’s about it.
Eddie always knows where to find you when he does come home, usually barging into the library with his arms open for a hug, one you rush into easily. You always spend the couple days he has in Hawkins together, being the you and him you’ve been since you were kids. But the lingering reminder doesn’t fade, the reminder of him having to leave looming over you like a storm cloud.
Eddie Munson comes home sporadically, unknowingly taking your heart with him wherever he goes. And when his inevitable departure takes place, you’re forced to regrow what’s missing from your chest. Every single time.
-
Besides his uncle Wayne, who could only ever see him as a troublemaking kid, you’re the only person who’s never treated Eddie any differently.
Not in high school when he was labeled a freak, not even when the fame rose so suddenly it felt like a tidal wave. You kept him afloat. You keep him afloat.
He knows he should call more often, he knows that even if the phone works both ways, you really don’t have a way of keeping track of which hotel he’s in, which state, which country, even. He knows that falls on him.
Your phone number’s burned into Eddie’s memory. He could never forget it, and still, he can’t seem to find the time to dial it. He’ll get called away, or he’ll just be getting back from a show and barely have the energy to shower before getting in bed. Worse, he’ll get the panicked sense that you won’t pick up anymore.
At least he’s never missed your birthday. That, he’ll always make time for, usually phoning you at the same time that a bouquet of flowers arrives at your door. And somehow, even when he’s away, you don’t miss his birthday, either.
Eddie’s sitting on the small couch in his dressing room, waiting to go on stage, thinking of you the way he often does.
He wonders if you think of him, too. If you miss him or if you’re angry that he’s gone so often, that he can barely even manage a fucking phone call. Though, you were never the type to be angry. Never with him, at least.
He wants to hear your voice, wants to hear you tell him ‘good luck’ before going on stage like you used to. He peeks at the table next to the couch. Eddie’s not sure how much time he has before he needs to go, but he figures it’s worth a try.
Just as he’s about to pick up the phone in his dressing room, there’s a knock on the door.
“Munson! You’re on in five!”
He’ll call you later, then.
-
“Beginning descent to the Indianapolis International Airport.”
The muffled sound through the airplane’s speakers is followed by the ding of the seatbelt signs being turned on. Eddie shifts in his seat to look out the window. He’s got his own little cubicle in first class, and though this is how he always flies now (other than when he finds himself on a private jet, which is even more unbelievable), he’s still not used to it.
He’s itching to get out of this seat, then he remembers that he’s still got the trek through the airport and the drive back to Hawkins. It’ll be worth it to see Wayne, who he doesn’t see nearly as often as he should, and get his classic hug with a slap on his shoulder.
It’ll be worth it to see you, who makes Hawkins feel more like home. You, who reminds him of the person he’s always been, the parts that get lost on the road. You, who hugs him tighter than anyone else ever has.
His hands clench into fits in his lap.
As soon as Eddie steps off the plane, his security team finds him. He’d assured them that he’d be fine, really, but this is how it is for him now. Through baggage claim and all the way to the car that’s waiting for him outside, security takes a step whenever he does.
Shutting the car door as he slides into the backseat, Eddie tips his head back and sighs.
The car ride feels shorter than usual, the city fading into trees and fields until the ‘Welcome to Hawkins’ sign comes into view. The gravel crunches under the car’s tires as it pulls into the trailer park. Wayne’s got enough to get a better place now, Eddie made sure of it, but he never did. He’d never admit it but Wayne’s sentimental, and the trailer houses too many memories to let go of it.
After all, it was home.
Stepping through the front door there’s the smell that he’d never noticed until he’d been gone for weeks at a time. The settled dust, the faint smoke of cigarettes, coffee, and the room spray Wayne inevitably uses to try and cover it all up.
Eddie drags his bags inside, waves to his driver, and shuts the door behind him.
Then, Wayne’s warm rasp, “my boy. Get in okay?”
He’s wrapped in his uncle’s classic hug quickly, the pats on his shoulder and all. Eddie closes his eyes and soaks it in, just for a second, “yeah. It was fine.”
“Good, good,” Wayne says, pulling back and grasping Eddie’s shoulders, getting a good look at him. “Take a shower.”
“Is that your way of telling me I look like shit?”
“Nah, that’s me telling you that you smell like airport, boy.”
“It’s great to see you, too,” Eddie says, smiling.
He and Wayne have the kind of relationship that time doesn’t really affect all that much. Whether Eddie’s away for a week or a month, or two, or three, they fall back into things like he’d never even left.
He knows Wayne’s probably lonely, probably hiding more than he could imagine, but he also knows that he loves him, and that’s always a good thing to know, to feel. Loved.
“Shut up, you know I missed you,” Wayne shakes Eddie’s shoulders and lets go, “now go wash up and you can tell me about your last show over some coffee, sound good?”
“Sounds good. I missed you too, Wayne.”
Eddie carries his bags into his room, leaving them open on the ground rather than unpacking. He’ll just have to pack them all over again, anyways.
Before long, the trailer’s small bathroom is filling with steam as Eddie steps into the shower, dropping his neck back and letting the water run over his shoulders, his back. He stands like that for a bit, simply letting the heat melt away at the tension in his muscles.
By the time he steps out, the mirror is completely fogged with steam, and Eddie wipes away at a section to look at himself. The bags under his eyes, the mess of his hair that he doesn’t bother taming, the small scratch on his chin from one of his rings. He shakes his head and heads into his room with his towel around his waist.
He throws on a pair of plaid pajama pants and a faded band tee, his hair soaking the back of it drop by drop.
In the kitchen, Wayne’s got two mugs of coffee sitting on the small table, a seat already pulled out for Eddie to take.
“Thanks.”
He nods, sipping from his mug as Eddie does the same.
In the silence, he can’t help but think of you, of how close he is to you now. Mere minutes away. He wonders what you’re doing, if you’re reading in bed after your shift, if you’d just showered like him, if you’re thinking of him, too.
“I saw her the other day,” Wayne says.
They both know he means you.
“How’s she doing?”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll ask her that when you see her tomorrow, but she seemed good.”
“How'd you know I’m gonna see her tomorrow?”
“Come on, kid. You go to the library the day after you get in every time and think I don’t notice?”
Eddie looks down at the mug in his hands, his face warm. It shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t have him feeling all shy and nervous, like he’d been caught, but it does.
“She misses you,” Wayne adds.
“She tell you that?”
“Doesn’t have to. I’ve known that girl since she was little and running after you on the playground. I can tell.”
Wayne has always said that you’re as good as family, after all. Eddie used to joke that his uncle liked you more than him, and you used to laugh and joke back that he was right.
Eddie’s suddenly very excited to sleep, only to get to tomorrow quicker.
“I miss her, too.”
“Yeah, kid. I know,” Wayne leaves it there, switching things over, “I saw you almost eat shit on TV the other day.”
“Come on!” Eddie groans. He’d tripped over a fucking wire on stage. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“It was still fuckin’ funny.”
“Of all the shows, you just had to tune in for that one.”
Wayne asks about the tour, about how Eddie’s liking it this time around, about whether or not there’s anything new he’s working on.
In return, Eddie asks about the mechanic’s, about whether or not Wayne’s back has been acting up (which earns him a light slap on the back of the head), about what’s changed in Hawkins since the last time he’d been home.
Even through the smiles he shares with his uncle, Eddie’s wondering how you’ll react when you see him tomorrow, picturing how it’ll feel to be near you again. He gets that feeling in his gut, the butterflies that are nerves and excitement and questions and feelings rolled into one.
He’s pretty sure he dreams about you, too.
-
Your shifts at the library are always long; full days of scanning and shelving books. You’re lucky to say that you actually like your job. The smell of worn pages, the peacefulness (save for when Dustin comes barging in with his stack of overdue books that you let him off the hook for every time), the interactions that are almost always short and sweet since it’s meant to be a quiet place.
Your eight or nine or however many hour days go by much quicker now than they did during your high school job at the grocery store, that’s for sure.
You’re pushing the put-back cart between shelves, humming a random song quietly as you place the books where they belong, sometimes pausing to straighten things out. It’s the middle of a weekday and you’re the only person in there anyway. That is, until the small bell on the front desk dings.
“Just a second!” You call, squeezing between the cart and the self beside it to walk over to the front desk. You think your heart stops altogether.
You’d recognize that head of hair anywhere, the dark, frizzy curls. Hell, you’d recognize that damn denim vest anywhere, even the stance of the person wearing it. “Eddie?”
He turns around at the sound of your voice, and something lifts from his chest when he sees you. A grin spreads wide on his face, splitting his cheeks and crinkling his eyes in the corners, “there she is.”
Usually, when he comes home, it’s on a holiday and you’re expecting him, watching the door and waiting for him to walk through it. This time, you had no idea he’d be coming home. It’s the best surprise you could get.
You’re practically running into his arms, and he wraps them around your waist easily, yours tossed around his shoulders. Your face is buried in his neck, breathing him in, making sure this is real. “What the hell are you doing here?”
His hands clutch at the fabric over your sides, his head twisting so he can place a kiss over your hair, “had a break from tour. Missed home.”
And sure, Eddie hadn’t really realized just how much he missed it until he came back, it’s crystal clear now, with you hugging him. He really, really missed home.
You want to say something stupid and emotional like it hasn’t felt as much like home until now, or I missed the sound of your voice and the smell of your shampoo, but that would probably reveal a little too much.
“Just home you missed or…” you tease, pulling back to look at his face, his brown eyes that sort of sparkle. Your hands stay on his shoulders, his on your waist.
“I missed Wayne, obviously,” Eddie replies, acting oblivious and smiling at the small furrow in your brow.
“Eddie!”
“Aw, come on.” He tugs you in for another hug, his cheek squished against the side of your head. “‘Course I missed you, trouble.”
Trouble. You never knew you could miss a single word so much.
Eddie started calling you ‘trouble’ when you were kids, sometime in middle school when you’d stolen a bunch of his mixtapes and only returned them weeks later, when he finally noticed. He’d snatched them out of your hands and muttered ‘you’re trouble’ and it just stuck.
“Thank you,” you say, laughing when Eddie pulls back frowning at you. “And I missed you, too. Duh.”
“Duh.” He mocks. He lets go of you fully but doesn’t go far, leaning an elbow against the desk, “you’re doing okay?”
“I’m good. Things don’t change all that much around here, you know that.”
“I’m not asking about around here, I’m asking ‘bout you.”
You tug at the hair tie on your wrist. “I’m fine, Eddie. Promise.”
He nods, and there’s a small lull in the conversation that pinches at your chest for some reason. The sort of silence that never used to be there when it came to you and Eddie, always filling it with conversation or letting it be comfortable. Now, there’s something like awkwardness stretching and it stings.
Because it shouldn’t be there, because he’s Eddie and you’re you and you’re best friends and that’s all there should be to it. But it isn’t. You’re the same people, but so much is different.
“You working late?” He asks.
“Until we close.”
“Care for some company?”
You tilt your head at him, “you really wanna hang around the library for the last four hours of my shift?”
“Sounds like fun to me. I’ll even push the cart for you, and you can tell me what I’ve missed while I was away.”
It’s funny that he thinks he’d ever have to convince you to spend time with him, when you’re practically pulling at any thread of him that you can, when you’re taking anything he has to give you. Two days, a week, a couple of phone calls.
It’s all better than not having him at all.
“Only if you tell me what I’ve missed, too. Like all the cool celebrities you’ve met.”
“Not as cool as you, trouble.” Eddie taps your nose, smiling at the way you scrunch it in response.
“Shut up and start pushing the cart, Munson.”
He stands straight and salutes, “yes ma’am.”
You’re still smiling when you shake your head, “idiot.”
Eddie really does spend the rest of the day with you, pushing the cart while you re-shelf books, sitting in the extra chair behind the counter while you file returns, ducking when someone else walks in.
He asks you about Robin and Steve, Dustin and Lucas, how the kids are finding school, whether Nancy’s been hired at a big paper yet. He asks you about your family, and most of all, about you.
He hangs onto every word you say. And not once do you say anything to make him feel bad for being away, if anything, you can’t stop telling him how proud you are, especially when he talks to you about what’s in the works.
“I always told you you’d make it, Munson.”
“Wouldn’t have done it without you, trouble.”
-
The next morning, you’re sitting across from him in the corner booth by the window at Benny’s for breakfast. The same way you did every Friday in high school, at the same table.
Whenever you wind up at Benny’s when Eddie’s away, you tend to avoid that booth. It’s pathetic. Like his absence is clearer than ever sitting there when he isn’t. When he’s not putting whipped cream on your nose or stealing food off your plate.
Now, it’s his presence that surrounds you, his smile and his laugh, his foot nudging yours under the table.
The menu is sticky under your fingertips where you hold it, faded from sunlight and discolored from coffee spills that stain the page. You don’t really need to be looking at it—after years of coming here, you’ve probably got the thing memorized—but you need the time to collect yourself. To remember that this is Eddie, and there’s nothing to be nervous about.
You need the time to stuff down that flutter in your gut and in your chest.
On the other side of the booth, Eddie takes your distraction as a chance to really look at you. The details he can’t seem to picture when he’s away like the flecks in your eyes or the exact shade of your lips.
He never realizes just how much he misses you until he’s home. Until he’s sitting across from you and listening to the sound of your voice clearly instead of through a crackling phone’s speaker, until he gets to see the way your eyes light up slightly when you laugh.
It sort of hits him all at once, and he’s thinking, God, I should call more often. I should visit more often.
After a couple of minutes, you look back at Eddie, “you know what you want?”
“I’ve been getting the same thing since high school, trouble. Don’t need the menu.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go order,” you say, placing your menu back in the holder by the window.
When you start sliding your way out of the booth, Eddie places a hand over yours on the table, “I can get it.”
You look down at your hands, his skin on yours, like you’d expected to see something there. A spark, a burn scorching your skin in the best way.
“I know you can,” you say, smiling at him. “But it’s my treat, okay? I want to get it.”
Eddie always feels sort of guilty when he’s not buying, because he has more than enough money to take care of it, more than he knows what to do with. Sometimes (often), people expect him to pay, even. And just like you’d known how he was feeling, you shut it down with a flash of your smile.
You shift to squeeze his hand before getting up and heading over to the counter, leaning on your elbows as you wait your turn.
Still, Eddie’s looking at you, his hand in the same spot on the table.
He knows that, despite it not being a busy morning at Benny’s, people are looking at him, whispering the way they did even in school. Only now, they’re saying they can’t believe it, look at him now, instead of calling him a freak. And just like in school, having you around makes the talk bearable. Hell, it makes it disappear, if only for a little while.
When the waiter finally comes over to take your order, you send him a kind smile, rattling off yours and Eddie’s orders.
Eddie watches the entire interaction. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to make eye contact with anyone else, that it’s because he’s just making sure you’re alright. It’s certainly not because of how pretty he thinks you look today, not because of how hard it is to keep his eyes off of you.
The waiter is a younger guy, probably around your age. Someone Eddie doesn’t know. He seems to tell you a joke because you laugh, bright and sunny, and Eddie suddenly wishes that Benny was the one taking orders.
Because he should be the one to make you laugh like that, to be on the receiving end of your grin and crinkled eyes. Because there’s this weight in his stomach that feels a little too much like jealousy. Because you’re his best friend and he fucking misses you.
Eddie looks down at his hands and twists his rings around and around until you come back, the old booth squeaking as you sit down.
“You okay?” You ask, always noticing his nervous habit of fiddling with his rings.
She’s my friend, he reminds himself. My best friend, that’s all.
“‘Course I am.”
“The guy at the counter, Dan, wanted me to tell you he’s a fan.”
He shakes his head, “I can't believe I have those. Especially in this town.”
“Excuse me? Your biggest fan is sitting right here, in this town, Munson.”
He probably thinks you’re joking with the way he chuckles, chest rumbling. But, you’re not. The shoebox full of clippings says enough, and you don’t think he’d ever let you live it down if he knew about it.
“She want an autograph?” He teases, the heaviness in his stomach melting away. Your biggest fan.
“In your chicken scratch? Yeah right.”
It’s not long before your food arrives, plates of waffles and fruit, sides of bacon and hashbrowns. Of course, you inevitably end up with whipped cream on your nose and food missing from your plate.
It’s your favorite kind of breakfast.
-
You’re sitting in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van—the same van he’s had since high school, that he refuses to replace—heading towards Steve’s place. It’s not unusual for either of you to be meeting up with the gang, but Eddie’s still nervous.
“Are you sure about this?” He asks you.
They don’t know he’s in town, and as sure as you are that they’ll be thrilled to see him, Eddie isn’t convinced. You place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze lightly as he drives.
“Everyone’s gonna be so happy to see you. Don’t you trust me?”
“‘Course I do,” he says easily, without thinking, “just haven’t seen anyone in a while, you know?”
“We all miss you, Eddie. It’ll be fun!”
Logically, he knows nobody’s gonna kick him out, or treat him any differently, but it doesn’t stop him from getting nervous. You wanted to surprise everyone, and how could he say no to you? So, here he is, gripping the steering wheel too tight and worrying too much.
Pulling into the driveway, he nods, “here we go.”
You hop out of the van before he has it shut off, but he catches up quickly. He follows you to the side gate of the house, watches you unlatch it and stroll into the yard. The sound of voices mingling hits his ears as you walk around the house and find your group of friends sitting around in lounge chairs.
“Look who I brought,” You announce.
Your shout is followed by eyes flicking towards you, then Eddie who stands beside you. Then, a chorus of his name, plus Argyle’s “rockstar!”
“Hey guys,” he says, waving shyly.
It’s odd to feel this way around these people that he’s known for years. Robin and Steve who’ve rented him way too many movies for free, Nancy and Johnathan who are probably why he graduated high school, and Argyle who was always his most loyal customer.
All of these memories and he feels a little too much like a stranger. At least he’s got you, who feels like one of the only sure things in his life. No matter how long goes by, you’re there, and he hopes you always will be.
“You want a drink?” Steve asks, leaning to reach into the cooler beside him.
“I’ll take one, thanks,” you say, catching the can Steve throws to you.
“I’m driving,” Eddie says, jingling his keys.
“Eddie Munson being responsible,” Robin teases, “they grow up so fast.”
And just like that, he feels a little better. These are his friends, and even though he’s not around all of the time, and even though he may not be as close to everyone anymore, they’ll still be his friends.
You sit down on the empty lounge chair and pat the space beside you for Eddie, sending him a smile that says both ‘told you so,’ in your snark he can practically hear, and ‘everything’s okay,’ in your kind way.
He plops down beside you.
“How’s everything going?” Johnathan asks him.
Not wanting all of the attention on him, Eddie keeps his answer short, “busy, but it’s a ton of fun.”
“Everything you ever dreamed of?” Robin adds.
“You could definitely say that.”
Though, Eddie has this strange feeling that he’s missing something whenever he’s gone. It’ll go away, but somehow, it always finds him again, when he’s debating on calling or not, when he’s hit with a memory of you in the front row at the Hideout when he’s on stage.
He looks over at you and finds you smiling softly at him, eyes fond. He can’t believe he’s the one you’re looking at like that.
Eddie blinks and turns back to the group, “how about you guys? How’re the jobs?”
The chatter picks up and surrounds him, but Eddie can’t stop thinking about the way you were looking at him just then. He’s never had someone look at him like that, like there’s nothing but affection there.
It’s platonic, he tells himself. She’s my best friend.
You feel happier now than you have in a while. Things feel more complete when Eddie’s around. Things feel right. It’s all of your favorite people with no empty chair, it’s falling back into a friendship that’s existed for years.
When conversations split off into smaller ones, you lean your head on his shoulder, and the words sort of slip out of you, “it’s really nice to have you here.”
His heart beats louder, he leans his head on top of yours, “it’s nice to be home.”
And it is. Eddie loves touring, he loves playing his music, and he loves his job, but at the end of the day, he’ll always be this boy from Hawkins, and he’ll always be happy to be home, to be with you.
Catching the moment, Argyle—always sharing his thoughts—says, “sick, you guys are finally together.”
You and Eddie both sit up, like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t, even when you’ve sat like that countless times before.
Everyone’s eyes seem to be on the both of you now, and you have a tiny panic inside. Have you really been that obvious with how you feel? Does Eddie know and he hasn’t said anything because he doesn’t want to hurt you?
You laugh awkwardly, “what?”
“Like, dating,” Argyle explains.
“Me and Eddie?”
He’d been frozen for a second there, surprised that Argyle thought that. Was he seeing something Eddie couldn’t? No, no way.
“Just friends, guys,” Eddie says. “Come on.”
You swallow, forcing out a word, “exactly.”
“They’ve always been like this,” Nancy says, which explains enough but also sort of nothing at all.
Just friends. It’s something you know, you remind yourself constantly. It’s all it’ll ever be, and still, hearing Eddie say it out loud has your stomach feeling heavy. Just friends, get over it.
Even as conversation picks up again, as you laugh with everyone, the two words play in your head over and over. Then, after saying your goodbyes, once you’re in the van with Eddie again, it fades, because if you can’t be in love with him, you can be his best friend, and you’d much rather have that than nothing at all.
Once he drops you off, Eddie thinks and thinks about what Argyle had said. He goes over memories, over how he feels around you, and it hits him like a huge punch to the gut.
He thinks he has feelings for you. Big, huge feelings.
-
It’s the same day, a different sky, the sun sunk behind the horizon to give way to a sky full of stars and a bright moon.
Eddie’s van is parked by Lover’s Lake, the back full of blankets where you both sit, the doors open to look at the sky and the way the moonlight reflects on the water.
There’s practically an indent in the ground in the spot he’s parked, the one that’s been your go-to for ages. From day picnics to nighttime smoke sessions, it’s another place on the list of the ones that are filled with memories of Eddie.
Beside you, he’s got a joint in hand, the flick of his lighter catching your ears over the crickets and the breeze. You watch him inhale, his chest expanding, the smoke slipping from his lips. You turn back to the water.
“Your turn,” he says, handing you the joint.
You grab it between your fingertips and bring it to your mouth, feeling the smoke trail down your throat, further, then you’re breathing it out, clearing your throat at the tickle.
“Out of practice?” Eddie teases at your small cough.
“My favorite weed dealer went out of business,” you say, nudging his shoulder with yours, “so, yeah.”
He takes the joint back from you, “you don’t smoke when I’m not around? You know Argyle’s gotta have some stock.”
“Oh, he definitely does. A little too exotic for my taste. Besides, he won’t give it to me for free.”
“Getting cheap, trouble?”
You shrug, shoulder to your cheek, and give him an innocent smile.
It feels easy, the joint being passed back and forth between sentences until it’s done and stubbed out, the flow of conversation, the comfort that’s there. It’s always been easy with him, even when it hurts a little.
Eddie’s got on his worn denim vest, still full of pins, and you tug at it, “think this thing has a permanent weed smell by now.”
“I think that’s just part of my natural scent,” he replies, playfully flipping his hair over his shoulder.
His curls graze your cheek—that’s how close you’re sitting, thighs touching—and you giggle. You’ve had so many nights just like this one with Eddie, and it feels like some kind of reward that you get to have them still, even when they’re far less regular now.
“Doesn’t this make you think of high school?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Eddie’s hand is on his knee, his pinky twitches, reaching for your leg, “hell, I’m even wearing the same clothes as in high school.”
“How does it feel like yesterday and also a lifetime ago?”
Eddie looks over at you, the warm glow of moonlight and stars on your skin, the way your sweater hangs off your shoulder, the shine in your eyes that’s part weed and part nostalgia.
“A lot’s changed since then,” he says. “I’m not a loser anymore.”
“You’re still my loser.”
How is it that even when you’re calling him a loser, the idea of being yours in any sense of the word is enough to have Eddie’s heart swell in his chest, a balloon floating up and up and he has to swallow to push it back down.
“Stop being cheesy,” he plays it off, ruffling your hair.
You shove his arm away, “I just miss you!”
Eddie looks at his arm, your hand still holding onto it, he follows your arm with his gaze until it lands on your face. He thinks you’re beautiful, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen and no groupie could change that.
“I miss you, too, trouble.”
Something shifts, the air growing thicker, a sort of understanding between the two of you. There’s something here, something that could be a disaster but could also be so, so good. Could be everything.
“No way you think about me when you’ve got crowds and fans and-“
“I think about you a lot, honey.”
Honey. He’s probably called you that before, but never like this. Never dripping sweet and sincere, never looking at you like he wants to do something you can’t even let yourself imagine in fear of being let down, of hoping too much.
Eddie’s hand shifts from his own leg to yours, thumb running back and forth, burning you even through the fabric of your pants.
“You do?”
“All the time. You’re my best friend.”
Right. Friend.
“You’re mine, too, Eddie.”
And suddenly you can feel his breath fan across your cheek, your lips. His face is close to yours and the hair that falls over his forehead tickles yours. Just a second ago he’d been saying the word ‘friend,’ and now it feels like he’s going to do something to contradict that.
Against all odds, he does.
Eddie couldn’t help himself. Maybe he’ll blame the weed, or maybe he won’t, but before he knows it he’s reaching up with the hand that isn’t on his leg to cup your cheek and tilt your head. And he’s kissing you.
He’s kissing you.
It’s so delicate, so much you’re afraid to even breathe, like it’ll break in an instant. Eddie’s fingers squeeze your leg, urge you to kiss him back and there’s no way that you wouldn’t. Not when his lips are actually on yours, not when he tastes like weed and mint gum and something perfect.
It could be seconds or minutes that you’re kissing, tilting your head even more to feel him, clutching his sleeve tightly. It never deepens, but it doesn’t have to, it says enough.
When you pull away, it’s not one or the other who does it, it’s natural, like it’s been rehearsed time and time again. Eddie leans his forehead against yours, his hand still on your cheek.
“Was that a bad idea?” He asks you, voice low and quiet.
“Maybe. I don’t know.” And you don’t, because there’s no way of knowing what’s gonna happen next, if things will be ruined, if this will fade away like it never happened, or, maybe, just maybe, if it’ll start something.
“Was it okay?”
“More than okay.”
You don’t talk about it that night, and you don’t want to just yet. You’re fine with enjoying the pink-tinted haze at least until tomorrow.
-
Eddie’s barely been gone for two days and you’re not sure what to do with yourself. After that night, neither of you brought it up, and as much as you wanted to, you couldn’t. You were scared. And anyway, it was probably just the weed for him.
You’d never kissed before. Sure, you’ve come close, faces inches apart when you’d share a bed, whispers away, but nothing ever happened. Until now.
Now, sitting on your bed, chin resting on your knees, you’re reeling from knowing what Eddie’s lips feel like and missing him all over again. Rebuilding that piece in your chest.
Somewhere else in the country, in the world, Eddie’s position isn’t so different from yours. He’s sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, forearms on his knees, head bent. He wants to call you, and he’s figuring out what he’ll say when he does.
He misses you every time he isn’t home, but it’s never felt like this. There’s never been this ache in his stomach that won’t go away because of it. Fuck, he misses you more than ever.
The last trip back to Hawkins was different than anything else, because he brought back these feelings with him and he keeps reaching up to press his fingertips to his lips, like the memory of your own lingers there.
Sure, he’s had silly, sticky thoughts like waking up with his arms around you after a nap and thinking he could wake up that way forever, but he’s always pushed them down. Now, it seems, he can’t, the images too buoyant to ignore, floating back up every time.
Sucking in a deep breath, he sits up and reaches for the phone, dialing your number that’s stored in his memory. His leg bounces as the phone rings.
You’re startled by the screech of your phone on your bedside table, head lifting to look at it shake on the receiver. You reach over and pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, trouble. It’s not a bad time, is it?”
Eddie. His voice crackling through the phone sends a spike down your spine. You clutch the phone a little tighter.
You’d expected Robin, or Nancy, even Steve. Because there’d been a time, earlier in Corroded Coffin’s career, when Eddie would call you at least three times a week, and then the calls grew less frequent until they sort of died out to holidays and birthdays.
So, maybe a couple of years ago, you’d have expected Eddie’s voice, but not today.
“Eddie, hi. Not at all.”
“I- um, I just wanted to call,” a small pause, he clears his throat, “how are you?”
“It’s only been two days, you know how I am.”
“I mean right now.”
You twist to lay on your side, legs curling in towards your chest. You smile to yourself like an idiot. “Right now, I’m good. It’s lame, I already miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
The reply comes easily to him. There’s no thought to it, because in the past 48 hours, he hasn’t been able to stop missing you for a second. The warmth of your hand in his, the sunshine sound of your laughter.
He’s not sure why everything’s so big now, his feelings amplified, only quieted now, by the sound of your voice.
“Did you have a show today?”
You have a way of asking that makes it sound like you really care, Eddie thinks. He loves his music and he knows you know that. It means the world to him to do what he does, confusing feelings or not.
“Not today. We spent the day on the bus. Show’s tomorrow.”
“Nervous or excited?”
It’s something that you used to ask him before every small show in Hawkins, and the memory has a grin spreading on Eddie’s face. “It’s always both. More excited, though.”
“You should be,” you say. “You guys are really great.”
“Yeah? Who’s your favorite band member?”
He’s fishing, and you tease him rather than bite, “hmmm. Gareth.”
“Fuckin’ trouble. You liar.”
“You asked!”
“You answered the question wrong, honey.”
There it is again. Honey. You’re sort of glad he can’t see you right now because you probably look way too happy, burying your face in your pillow for a second before replying.
“You know you’re my favorite, Munson.”
“Yeah I am,” he sounds far too proud. And then, he’s softer, “I’m not keeping you up, am I? Time zones fuck me up.”
“No, no.” Even if he was, you wouldn’t tell him. This is better than trying and failing to sleep the way you so often do. “It’s not that late. What time is it for you?”
“Not that late,” he says, even though the clock on the nightstand reads 1:14AM. “So, what’s happening in Hawkins right now?”
“Mmm, it’s getting warmer. My window’s open and the crickets are loud as fuck.” You twist the phone cord around your fingers, “it’s donation week at the library, so I’ve been shelving new books for a change.”
Eddie listens to every word you say, asks you questions like if you’d kept any books for yourself (you had, but swore you’d give them to the library when you were done) and hums between your sentences.
Somewhere along the way, he’d laid down while listening to you, eyes shut as he tried to picture what you might look like right at this second. If you’re in your pajamas or not, whether your hair would be a little messy, baby hairs a halo around your face.
Then his eyes grew heavier, your voice putting him at ease even with the sounds of his bandmates laughing from somewhere in the hotel.
“Eddie?” You ask after he’d been silent for a bit.
“Hm?” He hums sleepily.
“I lost you for a second there.”
If he wasn’t half asleep, he’d feel worse. “Sorry, getting sleepy.”
“You wanna hang up?”
“No, uh- keep talking to me? You have a nice voice.”
You smile, cheeks pinching with the size of it.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll keep talking.”
And you do, you keep talking and talking until you can hear the sound of Eddie’s tiny snores on the other side of the line. You’re smiling again at that.
Even after you’re sure he’s asleep, you don’t hang up right away, not until your own eyes are growing heavy. You put the phone back quietly, like you’ll wake him if you’re not careful. You whisper a soft ‘goodnight, Eddie,’ as you do.
There’s a small stiffness in your fingers from how tightly you’d been holding the phone, and still, you’d let your hand cramp for hours to talk to him.
The next morning, Eddie wakes up with the pattern of the phone pressed to his cheek where he’d left it last night.
-
The TV sends flashes of color flickering across your living room and over your face. Usually, you’d be in bed by now, but it’s the night of the MTV awards and Corroded Coffin is nominated. You couldn’t miss it.
You’re not really paying attention to most of it, the sounds of performances and hosts and thank-you speeches filling your ears as you read your latest book. At least, you’re not paying attention until Eddie’s category is announced.
That has you shutting your book and sitting up, grabbing the remote to turn the volume higher.
They show the nominees, give far too long of an introduction before tearing open the envelope holding the winner’s names. You don’t know it, but you’re practically white knuckling the blanket on your lap.
“And the MTV award goes to… Corroded Coffin!”
You stand and place a hand on your chest, feeling your heart beating—racing—for the band, for Eddie. This is huge, it’s a dream, and it’s his. If you could, you’d give him a suffocating hug right now.
Eddie’s voice taking over, thanking his fans and Wayne, the boys and their team, then, thanking Hawkins and the people there, even when they gave him hell.
If you knew the right number to call to talk to him, you’d dial it in an instant.
Lucky for you, your phone rings the next night, late enough that you can only assume it’s Eddie given you don’t know anyone else who’s probably in a different time zone right now. You pick up quickly, fumbling with the phone a little before bringing it up to your ear.
“Eddie?”
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Ummm, my amazing intuition? Telepathy?”
“Telepathy, she says.” There’s a soft chuckle on his end, you close your eyes and lean your head back to thump against the wall behind you. “How’re things, trouble?”
“I feel like I should be asking you that, mister MTV winner.”
Eddie’s been calling more often again, whenever he gets the chance, really. Even so, he never thought you’d be keeping up with him that way, that you’d care enough to watch an award show and remember what he’d achieved.
“You were watching?” He asks, heart thudding.
“Of course I was. I’m your biggest fan, remember?” You’re sitting with your back against your headboard, knees bent, hand absentmindedly pulling at a loose thread in your pajama pants. “I’ve got cheerleader pom-poms and everything.”
“You do not.”
“Do too. They’re super metal, all black.”
“Yeah, cause pom-poms are super metal, babe.”
Another pet name in the rotation, uttered like it’s easy, natural. You bite back a smile.
“Whatever. Mine would be,” you say. “I’m glad you called.”
“Me, too.”
“I wanted to call you yesterday,” you admit, twisting that loose thread in your fingers, “after I saw you won. I’m really proud of you, Eddie.”
They’re words he hadn’t been expecting, but ones he’ll be thinking about over and over. He wants to keep making you proud, he thinks, and he’ll pour that into everything he does whether he means to or not.
“Thank you,” his voice is quieter, almost shy. “I wouldn’t be here without you, you know?”
“You would. You’re talented, and there’s no way that could stay hidden in this town, you’re bigger than it.”
Somehow, it’s easier to be so open with him on the phone. You don’t have to look at him, get distracted by his tongue running over his lips or the way his bangs get caught in his eyelashes sometimes. This way, all you have to do is speak, nothing more.
“Trouble-” he can’t even find the words to say, because there’s affection laced in your tone, seeping through the phone and into his head and, fuck, he wants to kiss you for it and he can’t. “I really miss you.”
“I miss you, too.” There’s some silence, and the overthinker in you worries that you’ve said too much even though you meant it with every part of you, that you’ve given yourself away. “Anyways, I should go, let you celebrate your win.”
It’s what he would be doing if Eddie’s thoughts hadn’t been so full of you and your mouth and your voice. It’s what his bandmates and friends are surely doing in some club around here.
“You don’t need to. I’m not doing anything.”
“No?” You try to lighten your tone, to joke the way you usually do, “don’t have groupies knocking on your hotel room door right now?”
Instead of playing along, Eddie’s voice is serious, still soft in the way he speaks to you, but serious nonetheless, “I don’t entertain them, honey.”
“You don’t?”
He’s tried. But ever since you kissed him, probably since before that, too, Eddie can’t seem to look at anyone else, let alone have someone else kiss him and tarnish the memory of your lips on his. He’s only ever thinking of you, it seems. So no, he hasn’t fooled around lately.
“Not in a while. I’m trying to write for the next album. No distractions.”
No distractions. He says it like that’s true, even though he can’t seem to fully focus, like there’s a piece he’s missing. Like every lyric he’s written since he’s been back isn’t somehow about you.
He’s so, so fucked.
“Look at you, Munson. Squeaky clean.”
You hope he can’t tell that you’re sort of a mess, a stupid blossom of hope planting itself where it shouldn’t. He’s your friend, he’s always been just your friend. But you kissed and it felt like something changed, and you can’t seem to let go of that.
“You sound surprised,” he teases, gathering his wits the best he can.
“Can you blame me? You used to have multiple lunchboxes reserved for your weed.”
“You loved those lunchboxes and you know it.”
“Yeah, I did.”
And then, like that moment was simply a blip, easily brushed over, your conversation turns back to your normal. Jokes with underlying affections, teasing while picturing what kind of smile the other wears when you laugh lightly into the phone.
Time runs away from you, and by the time you hang up it’s well into the early hours of the morning, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
-
After hanging up, Eddie’s got this sinking, aching pull in his stomach. He knows what it is, has had bouts of it before where he misses Wayne’s hand patting his back or the way his mattress is worn-in just the right amount back at the trailer, when he thinks about what his friends might be doing or what science project Dustin’s got going on.
But it’s never felt this heavy. Eddie’s the most homesick he’s ever been.
He’d listen to your voice forever, but in that moment, he’d give anything to see your face, to see the shake of your shoulders when you laugh, the curve of your smile.
What the hell is wrong with him?
Eddie wipes his palms on his thighs before standing and walking out into the living room of his band’s suite hotel room. The guys are still up, and they’re all staring at him like weirdos.
“What?” He pauses in the doorway.
“Did you tell her you’re in love with her yet, or what?” Jeff, the electric guitarist, asks him.
“What?” Eddie says again because there’s no way he heard that right. He’d only just come to terms that he had feelings. This is much bigger.
“You’re joking,” Gareth pipes in, “you don’t even know it? Dude, you’re all ‘I miss you, trouble, you’re my favorite person ever.’” He does a knowingly terrible impression of Eddie.
“I do not sound like that.”
“You kinda do,” Jeff says.
“Why else would you be spending hours in that room on the phone, man? Come on,” Gareth sing songs the next bit: “you’re in loooove.”
Then Eddie thinks and thinks and thinks. The warmth that blooms when he hugs you, the jealousy he felt when he thought that server at Benny’s was flirting with you, the difficulty to say goodbye, the way your kiss haunts him in his sleep.
These idiots aren’t usually right about things, but just this once, maybe they are. Eddie Munson is probably, very likely, definitely in love with you.
Yeah, he’s so fucked.
♫♩♪♬
thank you so so much for reading!!! if you enjoyed please please please consider reblogging and letting me know what you think! it helps and means so much <333 i have plans for a part two, and if you’d like to see it, some support would help a bunch! ily!
a/n: request from @dreamfyre03 sorry it took me so long darling!! ❤️
Summary: You catch feelings for your friend with benefits, who also just so happens to be your best friend's brother.
TW: profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, angst with a happy ending, alcohol consumption, hookup culture, p in v s*x, oral f receiving, tiddy succin, jealousy
Word Count: 2,800 words
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
When you started at a new high school in the middle of junior year, you were, in a word, horrified. You missed your friends, your hometown, everything. You’d never been great at making friends, so you were resigned to spending the last two years of your high school career on your own. That was until you met the Targaryens. Helaena was in your year and the moment you two met, it was magic. She became your best friend, the person you trusted most in the world. She was so sweet and warm that you couldn’t help adoring her. Her older brother, Aegon, was a senior, and also pretty nice to you, if not a bit too flirty for your taste.
Then, there was her younger brother, Aemond. He was a bit of a mystery, never being rude to you, but rather very quiet. He hardly ever spoke in your presence, something that Helaena evaded commenting on whenever you brought it up, giving you a secretive little grin. That Helaena grin that said “I know something that you don’t”. Aegon? He would just snicker to himself, saying he wasn’t going to touch that with a ten foot pool. So, you continued being nice to Aemond, hoping that somehow, someday, he’d open up to you.
It isn’t until several years later, when you’re in your final year at uni and he’s in his second, that you finally get the answers you so desperately seek regarding what Aemond’s deal is when it comes to you.
It’s summer break and you’re back in King’s Landing, spending every spare moment you can with Helaena before heading back to Sunspear for the fall semester. Tonight the two of you have made plans to have a sleepover, just like you used to back in high school, staying up late and giggling until the morning hours. When you ring the doorbell to the Targaryen’s mansion, you’re surprised when it’s Aemond who answers. Not for the first time, you realize that your best friend’s little brother is extremely attractive. You quickly shake the thought away and smile at Aemond brightly.
“Hi, Aemond! Is Hel home? We have plans tonight.”
Aemond’s good eye widens when he sees you. He feels like his heart is in his throat as he takes in your choice of attire, a pair of pink pajama shorts paired with a pink tank top and some fuzzy slippers. He feels his cheeks flush slightly as he mentions that Helaena isn’t home yet but that you should come inside, that she’ll be home any minute. You happily walk in past him, failing to notice the way he stares after you like some poor, pathetic lost puppy, following after you and taking a seat on the couch, his hands folded on his lap.
“How’ve you been?” you smile at him softly, “I haven’t seen you around much this summer.”
“I, um,” he stutters, “I’ve been in my room mostly, working on my summer classes. Doing them online.”
“Oh, makes sense, you’ve always been the smart one.”
Aemond’s cheeks feel like they’re going to light themselves on fire at your complimenting his intellect, but he blurts out, “You’re very smart too.”
You turn and give him another winning smile, “That’s sweet of you to say, Aemond. How was your first year of undergrad? Everything you hoped it would be?”
He nods slowly, refusing to look at you, staring straight ahead at the TV which plays some re-run of “Family Guy” on mute - probably Aegon’s doing, “Yeah. It’s nice.”
You let out a sigh and speak in a slightly firmer tone, “Aemond. You’re always so stiff around me. Have I done something to offend you? Is there a reason you dislike me so much?”
He freezes, turning to you, shaking his head vehemently, “N-no! That’s not it at all! It’s the opposite,” he gnaws at his lower lip before looking up at you, “I’m quiet around you because I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing and making you think I’m just Helaena’s weirdo little brother.”
“Aw, Aemond!” you pat his knee gently, squeezing, making his breath hitch in his throat, “You’re a sweet kid, I’d never think that!”
Your words hit him like a punch to the gut as he stands up and speaks in an insistent, borderline angry tone, “I’m not a kid! I’m only two years younger than you!”
Your eyes widen at Aemond’s outburst, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings-”
Helaena walks in at that moment, looking between the two of you, completely bewildered at the scene she’s come upon. Aemond lets out a frustrated groan and stomps off to his bedroom, slamming the door shut. You pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration before turning to Helaena, telling her what just happened. She gives you that infuriating knowing look again before changing the subject.
Later that night, after your best friend has fallen asleep, you make your way down to the kitchen to get a bottle of water. And there he is, the only sound being the low hum from the fridge he stands in front of, its glow illuminating him. You quickly notice that he isn’t wearing a shirt and his hair appears to be up in a bun, that silver chain Aegon gave him for his sixteenth birthday dangling off his neck. Your eyes move along his lean, well-muscled torso to the sweatpants that rest low on his waist. Your breath catches in your throat, loud enough for him to hear you. Aemond turns and meets your gaze, looking away awkwardly the minute he makes eye contact.
“Er, sorry,” he mutters, stepping away from the fridge, “I’m guessing you wanted something?”
“Could you just pass me a water bottle?” you mumble, averting your gaze as well, feeling a bit bashful in front of him all of a sudden.
Aemond was right. He’s not a kid. He hands you the water bottle, your fingers brushing against his as you take it. The sensation sends a shiver up your spine, making him stare at you with concern.
“Do you need me to turn the AC down?”
“No, um, I’m good.”
You turn to leave only to feel Aemond rest a hand on your shoulder before quickly pulling it away. His hand is rough but it’s warm and it felt good on your bare skin. You turn to face him again, looking up at him questioningly. Aemond scratches the back of his neck and speaks after a moment of awkward silence.
“Sorry about earlier.”
“It’s okay,” you assure him, smiling sweetly, “Don’t worry about it.”
“Do you,” he begins before shaking his head, “Never mind.”
“Do I what?” you ask, taking a tentative step closer to him, “Aemond? What’s-”
Before you can finish your question, Aemond’s lips come crashing down on yours. And, despite every rational part of your mind telling you this is a horrible idea, you wrap your arms around him and kiss him back. He’s a surprisingly good kisser, you note, for someone who stays in his room all summer and looks as pale as a vampire. Helaena’s often called him a cryptid, with affection of course. But right now, he’s kissing you like a man starved, like you’re the only thing he could ever need in the world.
The summer passes with you and Aemond hiding this new little secret affair of yours from Helaena, from Aegon, from everyone really. It’s your little secret how you sneak into his room after Helaena falls asleep during your sleepovers and he pins you down on his bed, making you feel things you’ve never felt before, a hand on your mouth as he smirks at you, reminding you that your best friend is just in the other room as he taunts you, dragging the head of his cock along your cunt as it squeezes around nothing, desperate for him.
Sometimes he comes over to your house instead, headlights off on his car so as not to wake anyone, throwing pebbles at your window, grinning as you sneak him in through the back gate, through your parents’ garden, back up to your room, where he maps out every inch of your body with his hands, his tongue, whatever you ask for. Aemond admits to you that he was a virgin before that first night you hooked up, a fact you find endearing as you tell him that he made you feel way better than other guys who did have experience, because he was so focused on your pleasure, on making it feel good for you.
And things are perfect for a while, this little secret of yours, the way your eyes find each other in a crowded room, knowing that you can’t wait to get your hands on each other the minute you’re out of there. And as far as you know? Helaena and Aegon remain none the wiser to your little escapades.
That is until you all go to the local bar to celebrate Aegon’s birthday. You know you probably shouldn’t have drank as much as you did, because when you drink? You have a tendency of reading too much into things. And that’s exactly what you do when you see Aemond speaking to his ex girlfriend from high school, the gorgeous Alys Rivers. You feel a lump in your throat as you see the two of them talking, standing close together, looking as good together as they always did, and of course, your method of coping with the situation is to drink more. To drink until you forget about him.
And it works until you’re being carried out of the bar by a very amused Aegon and Helaena, and a very worried Aemond. You’re seated in the backseat of Aegon’s car, crying like a baby as you bury your head in Helaena’s lap. Aemond keeps glancing back at you as Helaena shushes you and dries your tears, a pit in his stomach as he watches you cry, wondering what happened to make you so upset. After he helps Aegon place you in Helaena’s bed, a trash bag at your side just in case you get sick in the night, you look up at Aemond, eyes glossy with tears and grab his wrist for a moment before letting go and turning away from him.
That night, as you sober up, you tell Helaena everything, crying into her arms as she hugs you, running a hand through your hair, telling you everything is going to be alright. You fall asleep sometime later, while Aemond stays awake all night, tossing and turning, worrying about you.
The next day, you leave without even a second glance in his direction. And your visits to the Targaryen mansion become less frequent. You stop answering his texts, his calls, hell, you even stop answering him on Instagram. It’s complete radio silence from you for two weeks. He stops Helaena on her way to your house, pleading with her to tell him what he’s done wrong.
“You used my best friend as a way to make your stupid ex girlfriend jealous,” Helaena snaps, surprising Aemond with how much venom such a normally sweet person is able to put behind their tone, “Just stay away from her.”
Aemond shakes his head, quickly explaining to his sister that he was only speaking to Alys about you, about how happy you make him, about how he thinks he’s in love with you. Helaena’s brows fly to her hairline and she quickly helps her brother devise some sort of plan to win you back, knowing that with how stubborn you are? It’s going to need a grand romantic gesture.
Aemond is fully aware of the fact that you love 80s movies. He’s heard you and Helaena talk about them often enough that he knows one of your absolute favorites is “Say Anything”. And so, now he stands in your parents’ garden, holding a boombox he managed to procure from a thrift store above his head, blasting a medley of your favorite songs. You poke your head out the window and see him standing down there, a pleading look on his face.
“You’re so lucky my parents aren’t home right now,” you mumble as you lead him into your house, grumbling under your breath how you were fast asleep.
He can tell you are, by the fact that you’re only wearing an oversized shirt, his shirt, that he gave you closer to the beginning of the summer.
“I love you,” Aemond blurts out, making you freeze in place, “I have since I was fourteen. I was just terrified of ever telling you. And this summer, it seemed like you didn’t want this to be anything more than a hookup, so I didn’t ask for anything more. But I’m asking now,” he clears his throat, holding your face in his hands, his gaze pleading, “I don’t want this to be a secret anymore. I want to be with you. Really be with you. Because I love you.”
You stare up at him, confused, “But Alys-”
“I was telling her how happy I am to be with you, after wanting you for so long,” he murmurs, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours, “I love you.”
“I,” you swallow thickly, “I love you too.”
Aemond’s lips find yours almost immediately. He pulls you into his arms, holding you close, kissing you as though his life depends on it, and in his mind, it does, because to him you’re the very center of his life. You pull away to lead him up to your room, laughing as he follows behind you eagerly, shutting the door behind the two of you as you enter. You lay back on your bed as he crawls over you, kissing your neck when you pull him in closer by his chain. You sit up and let him pull your shirt off, tossing it to the side, and every time the cool metal of that stupid chain brushes against your bare chest, you shiver. Aemond smirks at this, moving off of you to toss his own clothes aside, leaving you in only your panties. He slowly slides them down your legs, leaving a trail of kisses along the inside of your calf, up your thigh, before burying his face between your legs, making you cry out his name. He moves his lips against your wet cunt, tasting you, his tongue moving in and out of you as it has so many times before, but he seems almost desperate this time, the noises he makes being borderline obscene. He nuzzles his nose against your clit, making you nearly scream his name, your hand twisting in his hair as you pull him closer. He holds your thighs apart, moving his lips to suckle at your sensitive nub, pushing you over the edge.
Aemond moves up to kiss you, his tongue moving against yours, forcing you to taste yourself on his lips, the thought of which makes you moan. He pushes into you slowly, teasing you.
“Tell me you love me,” he grins wickedly, not pushing more than the head of his cock inside you, leaving you desperate for him, “Come on.”
“I love you, Aemond, please fuck me,” you whine pitifully, bucking your hips against his, desperate for friction, for him.
“As you wish,” he grins, sheathing himself fully inside you, filling you up perfectly as he always does.
Aemond’s hips begin snapping against yours as your legs move up to wrap around him. You pull him in again, that chain dangling against your neck as he kisses you, the feeling being not altogether unpleasant as his lips move against yours. He mumbles how much he loves you, how much he needs you, how he adores you and always has as he keeps pulling out and slamming his cock back inside of you, leaving you a babbling, incoherent mess, only able to cry out his name and beg for more. Aemond’s hands move to hold yours, interlacing your fingers in a movement that’s so intimate, it makes your heart ache in your chest as he gazes down at you.
“I love you,” he manages to murmur as you squeeze around him, soaking his cock, “I love you so fucking much.”
He reaches his own end soon after, spilling himself inside of you, staying like that for a moment, the two of you exchanging tender kisses and sweet nothings before he finally gets up to grab you a towel and something to drink.
When he comes back, he gazes at you with all the love he possesses and asks, an almost bashful note to his voice, “So, um, am I your boyfriend now?”
“Yeah, baby,” you smile, pulling him back in for another kiss, “You’re my boyfriend now.”
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A birthday fic for the wonderful, beautiful Bel / @valeskafics who blesses us with her wonderful writing every day! 🥳🥳
Modern AU: You've broken up with Aemond right before Christmas, but are stuck at the celebration with his family. Enter his Uncle Daemon.
WC: 1.8k
Warnings: Spanking, unprotected sex, just some silly, fun smut
“Oh, ho ho, someone’s being a naughty girl,” the voice behind you quipped as you inhaled a deep puff from the cigarette you had snagged from Aegon.
“What the f….” Snow crunched under your boots as you spun around to find Daemon standing behind you. He had a god-awful Santa hat on top of his platinum hair. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t frozen to death out here. You’ve been hiding,” he admonished as he unwrapped the green knitted scarf (a gift from Helaena) from around his neck before stepping closer to place it around yours. Clad only in a red sweater dress that hit you just below the knee and black boots, you undoubtedly felt the cold in the air.
The tip of your nose was red and cold, but as he stepped closer, it felt like your whole body was on fire. “Yeah, well, don’t break up with someone on Christmas Eve while stuck with their family,” you half-joked before you glanced down at the icy ground, cigarette still between your fingers, which were starting to feel numb.
He reached out his hands to gently slide them up and down your arms to warm you up even more. “I’m sorry about that,” he offered sincerely. Everyone had been gossiping about the breakup since it happened. Aegon’s stupid jokes, Helaena and Rhaenyra’s gentle glances, Alicent glowering at you as Otto seemed ready to send you back. Viserys said that seemed too rude and that maybe you and Aemond would work it out. That definitely was not happening. You were ready to shove his face right into the goddamn figgy pudding. Pretentious ass.
“Can I have a drag?” Daemon asked.
“S…sure,” you replied, lifting your hand towards his face. His lips wrapped around the butt of the cig before inhaling deeply. Your eyes fixated on his mouth, your tongue darting out to dampen your own. You squeaked when he pulled you closer, a large hand sprawling across your lower back as his lips hovered dangerously against your own. Noses pushed together before he parted his mouth, the warm smoke billowing out. You followed his lead and inhaled; all the cold chased away.
“Come back inside,” he murmured.
“Alright,” you reluctantly agreed as you tried not to get lost in his purple eyes.
His larger hands wrapped around yours as he guided you back into the well-heated house. Some of the little ones chased each other around. “I think I should order a car and go,” you whispered when you felt Alicent, Otto, and Aemond’s glares.
Daemon gave them all a nod before guiding you up the staircase. He was the cad of the family, the bachelor who stirred up the pot wherever he went, no matter how many times Baela and Rhaena tried to simmer him down. “Don’t let them run you off; they’ve been trying to do it to me for years, won’t give them the satisfaction.”
“Where are we going?” you asked curiously. Rhaenyra shook her head when she saw you two before leaning to whisper to Laena. Both women chuckled, and you felt like they were aware of something you weren’t.
“Away from the vultures,” Daemon chortled.
“Come on, tiny ones, let’s go open some more presents,” Laena called out as the two women ushered the smaller kids further away while you trailed behind the stairs, clinging to Daemon’s hand.
He guided you into a small bedroom used for stay-over guests. You had stayed in this room a few times before. You barely had time to register when his lips crashed hard against yours.
“Daemon,” you protested but made no more to pull away.
“I’m going to help you forget about my silly little nephew,” he smirked.
“By fucking me in the guest room?” you whispered, a smirk tugging on your lips.
“And making you scream my name,” Daemon said before his hands slipped under the hem of your dark red dress before swiftly tugging it over your head. It left you in a red satin bra with matching panties and black boots. With quick, nimble fingers, he unhooked your bra before cupping your tits in his warm hands before his thumbs grazed across your nipples. Next, that warm hand shifted down, spanning across your belly before worming under the band of your panties until his fingertips gently caressed your slick folds.
“My nephew is a fucking fool,” he ducked to whisper in your ear before placing a kiss against the warm patch of skin, tugging the panties down your legs. He lifted you easily, setting you on your back, then took his time pulling your boots off, letting them clatter onto the floor below, along with black socks.
You watched with hooded eyes as he dropped to his knees, slowly kissing his way up your calf. The white pom on the end of the Santa hat tickled against your skin, and you quickly covered your mouth with your hands to stifle the giggle. Daemon worked his way up your inner thigh to your dripping pussy before he licked a slow stripe up your folds. You softly gasped while arching your back, nails digging into the soft white duvet under you. Once his tongue worked you over teasingly for a few moments, he stood to unbutton his red shirt, and your clit throbbed as you watched his muscular body slowly emerge.
Eyes nearly bulged out of your head when his black trousers hit the floor, his hard cock in perfect view, framed by a soft nest of dark curls. But, of course, he didn’t wear underwear, and he would be packing some serious heat. All fear and thoughts about this being incredibly wrong flew right out of your head. Instead, your legs automatically spread for him, eager to be filled.
“No, leave it on!” you yelled out quickly when he went to pull the Santa hat off.
Daemon froze before his hand dropped back to his side. “You dirty little bitch. Fantasize about getting fucked by Santa?”
You covered your face with your hands before groaning deeply into them. “No, it just works for you, shut up,” you sighed, peering at him through slatted fingers.
Daemon chuckled as he gave his cock a few strokes, giving you an excellent show before he turned to pull out the nightstand drawer. “Shit.”
“It’s fine. I’m on the pill. Aemond’s the only person I’ve been with,” you said quickly when you realized what he was looking for. Though you weren’t sure why he expected condoms to be stashed away in here.
“You sure you’re ok with that?”
You nodded. “Yes, very ok, please, Daemon.” You needed him inside of you. It didn’t matter if it was a one-time thing; it would help chase the painful breakup away. A rebound fuck seemed the perfect cure. Even at a Christmas Day celebration with your ex downstairs and the rest of the family.
That was all Daemon needed to hear before he grabbed your hips and then flipped you onto all fours. You let out a soft squeal after his hand connected with your bare ass. The sweet sting burst across your flesh as he painted it rosy with his palm. You did nothing to hide your soft squeaks and moans, and the sound of smacking echoed in the small room. His lips pressed a kiss against the back of your neck once he was satisfied before he rolled you onto your back again.
Eyes blown wide with lust as you panted softly, reaching up to cup his face while your legs wrapped around his back. The bulbous tip of his cock rubbed against your dripping folds as your slick mixed in with his pre-cum.
“Fuck me,” you growled, nails raking down his back to urge him on. That was all he needed to hear before he slipped inside you, stretching you pleasantly wide over his girth and leaving you deliciously filled. “Daemon.” His name came out in a fluttery moan.
“Call me Daddy,” he whispered into your ear before he gave a powerful thrust.
“Daddy,” you murmured. Your walls fluttered around him before squeezing, enjoying that fullness.
“You’ll be screaming it soon.”
He picked a steady, rhythmic pace, ensuring you felt him at every thrust. He was right; as he brought you closer and closer to the edge, your moans and cries spilled louder and louder. Until you were screaming out, “Daddy! Daddy, fuck me! Daddy, Daddy, I’m gonna come!”
“Mmm, are you going to cum all over my cock, sweet girl?” he teased, snapping his hips hard, and you whined as the pleasure burst through you. One hand slipped down his back to cup a pert, round ass cheek as his heavy balls slapped against your wet flesh. He was a bit meatier than Aemond, who was lean and slender, and you had to admit you enjoyed this a bit more. The soft cotton of your socks rubbed against his waist before he pinned your hands down to finish pounding you into an orgasm. Sweat beaded over your skin.
You screamed out Daddy with as much force as your diaphragm could muster as the orgasm screamed through you, soaking his cock a moment later. With a final snap of his hips, he gently rutted against you before filling you up. Everything was a bit blurry in the aftermath as you held his warm body against yours. The Santa hat was slightly disheveled but had persisted through the hard fucking. As your fingers soothingly stroked the back of his neck, you finally let the giggles spill forth.
Daemon lifted his head and met you with a frown. “Now, this is a first for me. I haven’t had anyone….giggle…after.” The word seemed almost distasteful on his tongue.
“No, no, it’s not that. The sex was amazing. I saw stars. It's just the Santa hat,” you explained with a sheepish smile.
Dameon let out a soft snort. “Alright, so long as it’s not regarding my performance.”
You held his face so you were eye to eye. “It was the best. Better than anything Aemond ever gave me. You rocked my world, Uncle Daddy Daemon.” You couldn't help but giggle at your own stupid joke.
“Wicked little kitten,” Daemon grinned before he kissed you. Then, after another moment of relaxation, you pulled away. You padded, still only in your socks, to the adjoining washroom to clean up a bit before you returned to dress. The two of you made your way downstairs as if nothing had happened, and you found Aemond seated at the table, tear tracks on his face, blubbering his way through a spoonful of figgy pudding. Aegon was in a fit of laughter on the couch while Baela shook her head. Now you understood why Rhaenyra and Laena had ushered the children out of the room.
“Absolutely shameless,” Alicent scowled.
“Careful, golddigger,” Daemon replied coolly before he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “Let’s get some eggnog.”
“Merry Christmas,” you smiled sweetly at everyone before allowing him to whisk you away.
Tag List: @borikenlove @silverwinged @megatardisbaby @evisnotok @watercolorskyy @oneeyedvisenya @aemondx @targaryenbrainrot
Closing shifts at Scoops Ahoy are always boring, but Robin took off early to study and nobody is coming in for ice cream at 8pm on a school night in mid-winter. Steve's alone and has been for the last forty-five minutes, with no end in sight.
He's doing tricks with his scooper, counting how many times he can twist it through his fingers without dropping it (57 so far), when the most beautiful man Steve has ever seen, walks in. He's got long dark hair that falls in perfect curls around his shoulders; wide eyes the same deep brown of fresh, dark coffee; and the most perfect plump mouth.
Steve can't move, his head going fuzzy. His eyes catch on the man's chest--visible through the black mesh tank top he's wearing-- revealing tantalizing swirls of black ink and the glint of silver bars through each nipple. The guy also has on leather pants that cling to the line of his legs like a second skin.
Jesus. Steve just realized he's bi and the physical embodiment of his wet dreams walks into the store like it's nothing. He's going to die.
The man rushes to the counter, his eyes finally falling on Steve, and it's like his feet get caught on each other for a second before he struts forward. His face melts into this heart-stopping smile, bringing out the cutest set of dimples Steve has ever seen. This is it, Steve is done for, time of death, 8:06pm.
"Ahoy, sailor," the man says with a mischievous glint in those dark eyes.
He returns the smile and somewhere, somehow, finds the words to reply, "I think that's my line."
Steve leans towards the counter, but in doing so, drops the scooper hanging from his fingers. The metallic clatter is harsh against the tile, and blood rushes to his cheek. "Whoops," he mumbles. He ducks down to retrieve it, mentally kicking himself for his clumsiness.
The man's smile only grows, and now there's a faint flush across his pale cheeks. And fuck if Steve can't help but smile right back, to let their eye contact linger.
"What can I get you?" He asks. His voice is way too low for regular customer service, and if he flutters his eyelashes too--well, that's between him and the USS Butterscotch.
"I know this is ridiculous. It's late and it's starting to snow," the man says. He leans over the counter. "But I need a strawberry shake to go."
"Strawberry shake, good choice," Steve nods. "Coming right up."
They don't stop looking at each other or smiling as he blends up the drink, and when he hands the cup over, their fingers brush, linger, both their faces staining red.
"How much do I owe you?" he asks.
Steve shakes his head. "On the house."
"You really know how to charm a guy, sailor-boy."
"Maybe I'm hoping to see you again."
"Depends," the man says. His smile widening, his dimples getting somehow deeper.
"On?"
"How good this shake is." He winks.
Steve thinks he might burst into flame before the man can taste the drink, but then the guy glances at his watch and curses. "Sorry, sweetheart, I gotta run. Been a pleasure, sailor."
And with that, he runs from the store, strawberry shake clutched in his long-fingered grasp.
Steve collapses against the counter, burying his face in his hands. He's not ever gonna recover from that.
---
Eddie's guitar is in his lap, his melted strawberry shake at his side. He can't get the guy from the ice cream shop out of his head.
Fuck, he had all that perfect hair under that silly little hat; his face dotted with cute little moles and freckles; eyes that flashed from honey to gold to green flecked hazel; and the poutiest, most perfect lips ever had Eddie seen. Not to mention how he looked bent over in those itty bitty shorts. Shit, if he isn't totally done for.
He can't stop smiling.
That is until a guitar pick hits him right in the forehead, dragging his attention back to his surroundings.
"Earth to Eddie," their manager, Chrissy, says. "You go on in ten minutes."
"Don't tell me you didn't get the stupid shake." Gareth shakes his head.
"No, I got it. Not to worry."
"Then what's up with you?" Jeff asks.
Eddie can't help the huge, stupid smile that illuminates his face.
"There was a guy," Eddie sighs.
Chrissy and his bandmates share a look. "Let me guess," Gareth says. "You walked in and he was like 'Oh, Mr. Munson. Let me get you ice cream, let me suck your dick. Oooh, you're so hot. Corroded Coffin is my favorite band.'"
"C'mon, no. I don't even think he knew who I was."
At one point, that would've bothered him. But now, after five years of hooking up with dudes who were only interested in famous Eddie Munson, he likes that the guy from the ice cream parlor seemed totally oblivious. That, when his eyes lit up with interest, it was for genuine attraction and not name recognition.
"Did you get his number?" Chrissy asks.
He slumps. "No."
His friends all groan. Another guitar pick flies at him, getting caught up in his curls.
"Well, you'll go back tomorrow. Now get your head in the game, Munson! You have a sold out stadium to play!"
---
"I'm not kidding you, Robs, he was the hottest guy I've ever seen. I didn't even know dudes could be that beautiful."
"Uh-huh," she says.
"You're not even listening." He jabs her in the ribs, making her squeak.
"Sorry, sorry," she bats his hands away. "Describe him again?"
And he does, leaving nothing out. Once he's done, Robin is gaping at him, gum about to fall out of her open mouth.
"What?"
She grabs his wrist, dragging him out of the store.
"Robin, what are you doing? We're supposed to be working!"
She doesn't answer, just hauls him to the record store down the hall.
"Was it this guy?" She asks. She's out of breath.
"What?"
"Steve! Was it him?" She gestures to a new release display and it's Steve's turn for speechlessness.
He's surrounded of images of the man from last night; on magazines, CDs, cassettes, on a couple posters hanging on display. He's with a couple of other guys, they're in a band called Corroded Coffin, but all Steve can see is deep brown eyes and plush lips, the bright dimples.
"Well?" Robin demands.
"Yeah," he nods. "That's him."
"Oh my god!" Robin screams. She grabs his arm and squeezes. "You flirted with Eddie Munson! Steve! You minx!"
"It was nothing," he blushes. "He's probably got someone already, anyway. I mean, look at him."
Robin makes a little face. "There are some rumors, but nothing serious."
"It was a nice dream," he says. He gives her a little smile. "Now, let's get back to work."
She loops her arm through his. "Whatever you say, dingus."
---
It's been a long day of slinging ice cream. Maybe Robin's revelation that the cute guy from the night before was an insanely famous rockstar is to blame, but Steve is exhausted.
"Hey, dingus!" Robin calls from the front.
"Yeah?" he mumbles.
"Some guy is here for you. He looks a lot like Eddie Munson."
She's not even finished with her sentence before Steve is vaulting back behind the counter, coming face-to-face with the man of his dreams.
Eddie's gorgeous, his face already flushed a faint pink. And just like the night before, Steve can't help but smile at the man before him, who dimples up immediately in return.
He forgets that Robin is there until she says, "Go get 'em, tiger," and snaps him in the chest with a towel.
With Robin gone, they still don't say anything for a second, both smiling and blushing and staring at each other.
"So, uh, I guess you're wondering why I'm back today."
"That's easy," Steve says. "It was the best strawberry milkshake you ever had."
Eddie laughs with his head back and Steve is stuck staring at the long lines of his throat.
"Well, it was the best, no question. Made me realize I was a fool not to ask for your number."
Somehow Steve's smile grows. He jots his name and number on a Scoops napkin, passing it to Eddie who does the same, before carefully ripping the paper in half.
"We're still on tour for the next three months, but I'll call you when I can?"
"I'm looking forward to it."
"Talk soon, sweetheart," Eddie leans into Steve's space, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
Steve still has a hand resting on the spot when Robin re-emerges.
"Oooh, you've got it sooo bad," she sing-songs.
He's so happy, he can't even bother to shush her.
---
Corroded Coffin has a new album out. It's a huge hit, number ones across the board, a fixture on MTV. It's full of heavy metal love songs, sales bolstered by the rumors that Eddie's been in a secret relationship for years.
They're at the Grammys, nominated for Best Metal Performance. The band has moved on down the red carpet, but Eddie's still answering questions, their assistant waiting with him. The interviewer asks Eddie, "There's a lot of speculation about your romantic life because of this album. There are rumors that the song 'Sailor Boy' is in reference to how you met your lover. Will you tell fans about the person you're dating, the one who inspired the album?"
"No," Eddie smiles for the camera. "But oh, do I love the way he moans," he sings a lyric of the song in question before giving the interviewer a lascivious wink, and continuing on down the carpet.
Years later, after Eddie and Steve are comfortably out and married and Corroded Coffin has cemented themselves in metal history, the video of that interview will be uploaded to YouTube.
It's obvious, now, the way Eddie and Steve, the "assistant", gravitate towards each other. How Steve flushes a pretty crimson that spreads below the collar of his shirt as Eddie sings. The way Eddie smirks at him with a raised eyebrow. The way his hand cradles the small of Steve's back as they walk away together.
It causes a frenzy online, fans compiling blog posts and videos of moments of Steve and Eddie being totally obvious about being in love before the world knew that they were.
Eventually, Steve posts a photo to the band's webpage. It's of him and Eddie at Scoops Ahoy. He's wearing his uniform, and Eddie is in a faded Metallica t-shirt and ripped jeans. They stand at the counter with their arms around each other, smiling hard, eyes locked. He captions it with, "putting the sailor boy allegations to rest."
"I'm A Damsel, I'm In Distress, I Can Handle This" - Aemond Targaryen x Martell!Reader
a/n: just a little fluff hehe. might do a part 2 if y'all like this!
Summary: You try to escape from your arranged marriage to Prince Aemond. Or Almond. Whatever his name is.
TW: profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, arranged marriage
Word Count: 1,256 words
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
To broker an alliance between Dorne and the Greens during the Dance of the Dragons, King Aegon offers his brother Aemond as a groom for Prince Qoren’s youngest daughter.
You.
The spirited Princess of Dorne, known for your beauty and your amiable temperament, as well as your tendency to seek out adventure. Aegon finds it hilarious that your description couldn’t be more different from his stoic, reserved younger brother, other than the fact that you apparently are very smart and have a sharp tongue. That should prove most entertaining, Aegon thinks.
When you arrive in King’s Landing, the first thing you notice is the awful stench. You wrinkle your nose and turn to your father, who gives you a warning look. His words from earlier ring in your ears. You’re to behave yourself. This is to be your home now. You long for the Water Gardens, for Sunspear, and now? You’ve been brought to this place. The Red Keep looms over you like a dark shadow, sending a shiver up and down your spine.
You stick out like a sore thumb, in your silk dress that clings to your form like a second skin, doing little to hide the curves of your body. You see the way that the men and women in the Keep look at you, the women with a thinly veiled disdain and jealousy at how freely you’re able to dress, and the men with barely hidden lust. You long for your home, where all men and women are free to dress as they please without being ogled.
Soon enough, you’re called into an audience with your father and King Aegon. King Aegon, much like the other men you’ve met in King’s Landing, eyes you up and down, his lilac gaze washing over your form with appreciation. You want nothing more than to punch him in the mouth, but you hold back, forcing a smile and thanking him for his rather inappropriate compliments regarding your dress - and your figure. Soon, you’re released from the meeting, much to your delight, and told you are free to explore anywhere you wish within the Keep until dinner.
You find yourself in the gardens, near the boundary wall of the castle itself. And an idea comes to your mind. You’ve always been quite nimble on your feet, after all…
When Aemond sees you for the first time, his first thought is that, without a doubt, you’re the most beautiful creature he’s seen in his entire life. And that you appear to be… Dangling? From the boundary wall? He wonders if you’re some street rat who’s managed to climb over the wall, but judging by the fine silks you wear it isn’t the case. He approaches you, careful not to startle you, the way one would approach a wild animal.
“Is everything alright, my lady?”
You let out an annoyed huff, barely able to turn your head, only seeing the silhouette of a tall man with long blonde hair behind you. Assuming him to be a knight, you begin barking out commands.
“Everything is perfectly fine, Ser Knight, now you can kindly fuck the fuck off!”
Not only your appearance commands attention, Aemond muses, your voice does too. He walks toward you, leaning against the wall below you and giving a sly grin, watching you struggle to gain your footing as you try with all your might to climb up the wall.
“Is it not a knight’s duty to help a damsel in distress?” Aemond questions, feigning innocence.
“I’m a damsel,” you say, grunting with exertion as you try to climb once more, “I’m in distress, I can handle this. Have a nice day,” you all but shriek as you nearly lose your grip, Aemond rushing to grip you by your hips, not letting you fall as you grip the wall again.
“And what is it that has you in such a rush to get away, my lady?” he questions, not letting go of his grip on you, instead, bringing you back to solid ground, hands still on you, “If I may inquire.”
“Well, if you must know,” you let out an annoyed exhale as you try to climb again, greatly amusing him, “I’m trying to escape an arranged marriage.”
With Aemond’s suspicions about who you are now confirmed, he allows a grin to spread across his face, “And what is the name of the poor man you’re about to abandon?”
“Prince Almond or something of the like, I don’t know why his parents named him after a tree nut, but I digress!”
It takes everything in Aemond not to burst into laughter at your caustic but witty remarks. After all the simpering and mincing he’s subjected to every day at court, being the younger brother of the king, you? You’re a breath of fresh air. You’re funny, and your quick wit matches his. He’d initially been opposed to marrying a princess from Dorne, but now after meeting you, he doesn’t think he could imagine wedding anyone else.
“And what is so awful about this prince?” Aemond continues his line of questioning, “What heinous rumor have you heard about him?” he realizes you have not yet fully seen his face and asks, “Is it the fact that he has one eye?”
“No, I couldn’t care less about that, it’s the fact that I don’t know him!” you exclaim, “I find the concept of arranged marriages antiquated and archaic. Giving your children away, pawning them off to the highest bidder, it’s bloody insulting is what it is! Now, help me escape from my twat fiance or leave me be!”
“Now you request my help?” Aemond hums, “No, I don’t think I will help you, Princess.”
You scowl, “And why not? Did you not say only a moment or two ago that it’s a knight’s duty to help a damsel in distress?”
“To which you replied that you could handle it,” Aemond smirks to himself as you finally give up your efforts, bowing when you turn to face him, “As well as the fact that I happen to be the twat fiance in question.”
You then notice his eyepatch and freeze in place. Oh. This certainly complicates things.
“Prince Aemond,” you give him a bright, cheery, and entirely fake smile, “What a surprise! I had no idea you’d be coming out to the gardens to greet me! How lovely of you.”
Aemond notices a leaf in your hair, no doubt from your valiant attempts at an escape and smiles to himself, brushing it out of your hair, noting that the movement makes you shy away ever so slightly, “How lovely indeed, my princess.”
“It’s nothing against you personally-”
Aemond interrupts you, laughing slightly, “Yes, you made that abundantly clear. Arranged marriages are an archaic custom, my lady, you are right, but that is the world we live in. And I hope that,” he takes your hand, lifting it to his face so that he can brush his lips across your knuckles, “We may be able to look past the circumstances of our match and mayhaps get to know each other.”
You look up at him and pause to think for a moment before nodding, “Yes, I suppose we can,” you pause before adding, “But if I don’t like you, I’m climbing the wall and running.”
Aemond offers you his arm, and a charming smile, “My lady, if you don’t like me, I will assist you over the wall myself.”
Needless to say, you don’t ever end up requiring that assistance.
Steve Harrington was born a siren, just like his mother. Perfect skin, rosy cheeks, silky soft hair. He had her eyes, her nose, the tilt of her lips. He was supposed to be the perfect son to match Mr Harrington’s perfect wife. Handsome and charming. The heir to the Harrington Empire.
His mother was beautiful, always looking perfect. Not a hair out of place or her lipstick smudged. Steve always thought his mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, as all kids do. Turns out he was more right than most. She was ethereal, unapproachable, gorgeous in a way you couldn’t quite place. In a way only sirens can be. No wonder his father wanted her.
When he got older Steve realised it was her siren song, that made his father want her. She could charm anyone with a flick of her hair and a swish of her skirt. A wink and a laugh and you would be entranced. And if she sang, spoke to you with a special lilt to her voice, you would be under her spell. And so he bought her to work parties, on business trips, dinners with potential work partners. And she would charm whoever he wanted charmed. And then his father would be promoted, given a raise, and the cycle repeated.
He didn’t love her, and he didn’t love Steve either. And so Steve didn’t sing. Ever. No singing in the shower, no humming in the halls. No karaoke or lilting his voice. He wasn’t going to entrance anyone. He wasn’t going to con his way to the top, just like dear old dad.
Steve became popular anyway. He was handsome, he was charming, he made people want to do things for him - just by existing. He was a siren. It was easier for him, dealing with people. He knows what they’re feeling, what they crave, what they desire. And it’s so easy to take that want and twist it just so. Make his life a little easier. Make it so maybe, his dad with love him if Steve does what he wants, just like his mother.
It doesn’t work. He’s a disappointment and his father doesn’t love him. He promises to himself to never sing again.
Mrs Harrington taught him everything he knows. What she didn’t tell him about, was the itch, the burning underneath his skin. The all encompassing desire to be in the water. He needs it. He craves it. Apparently, when he was a toddler, he would happily play in the bath for hours and hours and throw a hell of a tantrum when it was time to come out. As a kid, he would spend all Saturday swimming in the pool, only getting out when his father yelled at him.
It wasn’t the same as the lake. The pool was nice, but the water wasn’t fresh. It wasn’t natural. The first time he swam in a lake, on a free afternoon over summer vacation, he grew gills. The more he swam, the more prominent they became, the easier it was to swim. And then his fingers started to web together. It was freeing, it was everything, it was as natural as anything. Young Steve came home with scales growing on his legs only to be met with the stern face of his mother.
He couldn’t swim in the lake again. He can’t transform. People can’t know what he is. What she is. The itch gets worse. He’s constantly sipping at water bottles to alleviate the sensation. It doesn’t really work. He joins the swim team. That doesn’t help either. He doesn’t know how his mother does it.
He dreams of the ocean. His parents leave for another business trip. He sneaks out to Lovers Lake.
Steve hides his car in the trees, finds what he thinks is an old abandoned dock, and strips down to his underwear. He dives in with a perfect arch, and swims until the scales start forming. Coming up for air, Steve doesn’t realise how long it’s been — but it must have been a while since there’s a boy on the dock.
Shoes next to him, ripped jeans rolled up so he can dip his feet in the water. Long curly hair falling in waves around his face. A lit cigarette perched between pink lips. Chocolate brown eyes, fluttering lashes. He’s beautiful, and he’s singing.
brain is liquid because last two weeks of school. please enjoy this near plotless piece of fluff.
Steve waits to go to college until he really knows what he wants to do. Decides he wants to be a nurse. He would have gone off to school with Robin, but because he waited, she's already out and working. Eddie, however, has moved to Chicago and and when Steve applied to University of Illinois Chicago he got accepted.
Not wanting to live in the dorms with a kid 6 years younger than him he asks Eddie, "Hey man, listen I got accepted to UIC... yeah! I'm happy about it! ... Nursing. You think I will? ... yeah. Listen, I know you and Greg kinda take up most of your apartment, but if I could just crash with... what?... He broke up with you? what kind of... shit, yeah, I'm sorry man... yeah... well, I was just wondering if I could crash at your place until I find my own? ... Really!? Awesome, Eddie, thank you!"
He moves in a week before his classes start and being around Eddie again shakes off all the dust from living in Hawkins for so long. Eddie is as loud and bright as he used to be. When school starts Steve gets overwhelmed, he's been out of academia for so long and he was never that good in the first place. But Eddie's there. "Don't worry about it Steve, I'll help you."
"Ok, Mr. Third year senior."
"Hey, it wasn't because I wasn't smart." Eddie replied pointing with a spatula.
Eddie was a help. He would study with Steve, make him food when he was buried by work, tell him to take breaks when it got a little too intense. And in return Steve got a part time job to help pay the rent, picked up the groceries on the way home from school, and listened to Eddie's demos when he finally deemed them good enough for others to hear. They formed a nice symbiotic relationship in their apartment biome.
So nice that Steve stopped looking for another apartment. So nice that neither of them had tried to date anyone in four months. So nice that one night Eddie looked over at Steve, head back on the couch, mouth open and snoring slightly because he fell asleep while they were watching TV, and Eddie just stared. Eddie's toes are tucked under Steve's thigh, warm and grounding and Eddie is suddenly struck by the fact that he loves Steve. Loves him so much it knocks the air out of him for a second.
He wants to tell Steve, wants to ask him out or make him a fancy dinner or curl up to Steve's side, but the timing sucks. Steve's in finals week and Eddie has never seen him so stressed. It's a miracle Eddie got him to sit down and not work for two second and on the third one Steve was lights out.
So Eddie waits, bides his time. It's the day of Steve's last final and he has a plan.
"Are you going out with everyone after? Seems like the end of finals is something to drink about." Eddie asks as he's getting ready for work.
"Ah... well some of them are, but I don't think I'm going. I don't think I've ever been this tired and I won't be able to keep up with them. Can't drink like I used to, and besides, I have an early shift tomorrow." Steve pops his head in the bathroom to look at Eddie in the mirror. "You gonna be home? Maybe we can just splurge and get takeout from the fancy Chinese place."
"Yeah, sounds like a plan Stevie, I'll be here."
Eddie leaves work early that day. He's going to make dinner for Steve and rent his favorite movie and buy a tub of Steve's favorite ice cream because he deserves it. Eddie is proud of him for making it through his first semester. He wants Steve to know.
When Steve opens the apartment door and drops his bag against the wall he's overwhelmed by the smell of food cooking. The apartment is warm, the TV is on in the other room with a basket ball game playing, and he can hear Eddie in the kitchen. "Garlic... Where's the garlic powder..."
Steve stands in the doorway to the kitchen for a minute, watching Eddie go back and forth from the cabinet to the stove, the smell of fajitas (something that Eddie makes every once in a while that Steve absolutely loves) cooking, and he's overwhelmed by a feeling that he barely had any time to process in the last month... He loves Eddie.
"Steve!" Eddie finally turned enough to see him, "I didn't even hear you come in, how'd the final go?" He asks before turning back to the stove.
"Went okay." Steve replied, pushing off the wall and coming up behind Eddie, throwing all caution to the wind and wrapping his arms around Eddie's middle, face pressing into Eddie's hair and the bend of his neck. "You're cooking for me?"
He feels Eddie freeze for all of three seconds before he's turning in Steve's arms.
"Proud of you." He says quietly, as he wraps his arms around Steve's neck, "Wanted to make you something nice."
Steve smiles and meets Eddie half way, the kiss slow and sweet, like someone picked them up and dropped them into domesticity, until Eddie breaks away with a "I'm gonna burn the chicken."
Steve stays in the kitchen, stealing kisses and helping Eddie cook. They eat and wash the dishes together, Eddie kissing Steve on the back of the neck any time he goes to put a dish away. They curl up on the couch with Eddie leaning into Steve's side just like he wanted to the other night. And when they go to bed, Steve pulls Eddie into his room, Eddie's head on his chest as they fall asleep.
