𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: eddie munson x fem!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.7k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: fluff
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Eddie Munson's crush on you was manageable from a distance. But now that he's friends with your brother Dustin, you're suddenly, terrifyingly close. His mission: be cool. The result: a spectacular failure that just might be the key to your heart.
𝐚/𝐧: split this up into multiple parts cause it was getting wayyyy too long
It wasn’t a secret, not really. Secrets were for things you actively hid, things that festered in the dark with the bitter taste of shame or fear. What existed between you and Dustin was something else entirely: a quiet, mutual understanding, a natural consequence of orbiting different suns in the chaotic, small-town galaxy of Hawkins High.
He was Dustin Henderson, a supernova of unapologetic weirdness, proudly branded by the Hellfire Club. His world smelled of old paper and the electric tang of a soldering iron. It was a universe mapped in the clatter of twenty-sided dice on a wooden table, in the frantic crackle of a walkie-talkie cutting through static with life-or-death urgency. His language was built on theories so wild they could unravel the very laws of physics, a future pioneer in some scientific field nobody else in these hallways could even pronounce.
You were his half-sister, a celestial body of a different sort: a varsity cheerleader with a smile that could halt traffic and a reputation so spotless it practically gleamed under the judgmental fluorescent lights. Your world was built on the sharp, clean scent of gymnasium polish and the saccharine cloud of cheap hairspray. You knew the comforting weight of a borrowed letterman's jacket on your shoulders and found solace in the crisp, certain pages of textbooks you aced without breaking a sweat. Your kingdom was the sun-drenched bleachers and the roaring Friday night crowd, a world of clear rules and tangible victories.
Yet, your gravitational pulls were inextricably linked. The same silence that fell in the Henderson household after a bad day held space for both of you. A shared glance across the cafeteria could communicate a universe of support—a raised eyebrow from him when a jock said something particularly dumb, a subtle, encouraging nod from you when he walked into a room full of snickers.
You existed within the same four walls, bound by the same history of shared Christmases and silent, understanding looks across the dinner table when your mom got that tone in her voice.
It was a conscious, carefully maintained orbit. Easier this way. Safer. A silent pact, signed not with a handshake but with a thousand averted gazes in the school hallway, to let the other survive in their own habitat, untouched by the particular predators that stalked the other's world.
The different last names were the first line of defence, a bureaucratic blessing that drew a clear, public line in the sand. The only partial, faintly visible shared genetics—a similar, mischievous curve at the corner of a smile, perhaps, or the same habit of raising an eyebrow in sceptical unison—were subtle enough to be dismissed as coincidence. They were ghosts of a relation, nothing the casual observer would ever think to trace back to its source.
It was a convenient truth, one that required no effort to conceal because no one in your respective orbits ever thought to look for it. Their attention spans were too short, their worlds too self-contained. The jocks, scanning the bleachers for a flicker of your approval, their vision clouded by the sheen of your varsity jacket, never once glanced toward the dim, chaotic sanctuary of the drama room where he held court with a twenty-sided die and a grand plan. Conversely, his fellow dungeon crawlers, locked in fervent debate over a demogorgon’s tactical weaknesses or the arcane politics of the Upside Down, would never think to seek a cheerleader’s opinion. Why would they? You were a resident of a different planet entirely, one where the only monsters were social ones, and the only battles fought for a spot on the homecoming court.
Mike and Lucas knew the full story, of course. Having been officially adopted into the Henderson fold years ago—their DNA practically rewritten by shared trauma and a thousand sleepovers—they were the keepers of the file. They treated the knowledge not with gossipy excitement, but with the grim, procedural gravity of a top-secret government dossier. It was a need-to-know truth, and they, as senior operatives in the chaotic landscape that was their adolescence, needed to know.
To them, your familial connection was not a piece of salacious trivia; it was a strategic datum. They understood its importance to the delicate ecosystem of their own lives, a key piece of intelligence that explained certain logistical realities. They saw no tactical advantage in disseminating it to the wider population. In the high school warzone, some intel was best kept compartmentalised.
To Mike and Lucas, it was just another feature on the strange, complicated map of Hawkins—a faded, familial ley line that connected the gleaming, alien territory of the gym to the familiar, sacred ground of the basement game room. They were content, diligent cartographers that they were, to let that particular line remain faint, unmarked, and undrawn for everyone else. It wasn't a secret to be kept, but a boundary to be respected—one of the many silent, unspoken rules that kept their small, fiercely protected world turning.
And at the heart of it all, your bond with Dustin was the one thing that felt unshakably, undeniably real. In a world of performative friendships and shifting alliances, it was your bedrock. While your cheer squad smiled with gritted teeth through whispered rivalries, and your study partners were temporary allies of convenience, Dustin was your anchor. He was your constant in a universe of variables.
You were the first, slightly hysterical call after a disastrous, stammering attempt to talk to Suzie, listening without judgment to the replay of every fumbled word. You were his designated driver to the arcade, your payment rendered in a palmful of stale Skittles and a running commentary of scientific trivia that you only half-understood but wholly adored because it was his. When the storms of teenage angst or high school hierarchy grew too wild, you were the safe harbour he could always sail into, no questions asked.
The two of you were a sealed system, a closed circuit of unconditional support. In the carefully partitioned worlds you both navigated—you in your kingdom of pom-poms and pep rallies, him in his empire of dice and demodogs—your relationship was the one place where you could both stand down. You didn't have to be the perfect cheerleader or the formidable nerd. You could just be. He was more than a brother; he was home base. And in a game where the rules were always changing, that was everything.
But now, a different kind of storm was brewing on the horizon—one that smelled of worn leather, damp weed, and the electric ozone of cheap thrash metal. It had a physical form: a whirlwind of restless energy contained within a wiry frame, a symphony of silver rings on every finger, and warm, knowing brown eyes that seemed to see past every carefully constructed façade to the raw wiring beneath. It had a voice, too—a low, compelling rasp that could command a room of misfits with a single dramatic flourish or shred a guitar solo that felt like bottled lightning, dangerous and brilliant.
As Eddie "The Freak" Munson sank his claws into your brother's life with the fervor of a prophet finding a new disciple, he didn't just bring a new friend. He brought a whole new religion of chaos, a doctrine of unapologetic rebellion preached from the pulpit of a beaten-up lunchroom table. He was the untamable variable in your brother's once-predictable scientific equations, the glitch in the system. He was a living, breathing monster manual entry that broke all the established rules, and Dustin was studying him with rapt, unwavering fascination.
And with every late-night D&D session that ran past curfew, with every cursed cassette tape of screeching guitars that filtered under Dustin's bedroom door and into the fabric of your quiet home, you felt it. The careful, quiet peace you’d built together—the delicate equilibrium of your separate orbits—began to tremble on its very foundations.
Eddie had always nursed a grudging, privately entertained soft spot for you from afar, a fact he’d readily—and theatrically—lament after a few beers in the sanctuary of his trailer. "It's a classic tragedy, man!" he'd proclaim, gesturing wildly with a bottle. "The king of the freaks, laid low by the most predictable cliché in the book!" And who could blame him? Who didn't harbor some distant, starlit admiration for you? You were the holy trifecta of high school divinity: smoking hot, disgustingly popular, and—most bafflingly of all—seemingly, genuinely nice.
You didn't sneer at the freaks and losers from your gleaming throne atop the social food chain. You didn't deploy your squad like mean-girl infantry to carve up the school's underbelly for sport. No, you were far more subversive. You just offered a benign, traffic-stopping smile that never quite reached the eyes of the people who didn't matter, and moved on with your charmed life, utterly unbothered. It was a quiet, effortless power that was the complete antithesis of his own loud, performative existence. You weren't playing the game; you were so far above it, you didn't even know there was a game. And that, to Eddie Munson, was the most infuriatingly, intriguingly charming thing he’d ever witnessed.
Lately, however, that dormant soft spot had begun to itch, a persistent, distracting sensation under his skin, like a corrupted track on a well-worn cassette that kept skipping back to the same maddening riff. It was a glitch in his own carefully curated persona. And suddenly, his perception had shifted, his vision attuned to your frequency. He was seeing you everywhere, your golden, sun-bleached presence a stark and polluting contrast to the grim, familiar corners of his world.
There you were, a vision of pristine varsity wool and effortless cool leaning against the scuffed, graffiti-marred lockers outside the science lab. But the real anomaly wasn't your location—it was the fact you were actually listening, head tilted, a real, unguarded laugh bursting from your lips at something Henderson said. The sound was a clean, sharp note that cut through the hallway's dull roar, and it hooked itself directly into his brain.
There you were again, parked in your obnoxiously shiny, parent-approved car right outside Family Video. You were drumming your perfectly manicured fingers on the steering wheel to a beat he couldn't hear—his beat, he irrationally hoped, something fast and violent—while you waited for Dustin to run his nerd errands. You were a splash of vibrant color on his monochrome map of Hawkins, a siren's call from the deck of a ship he was supposed to be torpedoing. And he was utterly, infuriatingly captivated.
Each sighting was a new, confounding data point that refused to fit into any of his pre-existing theories. You weren't just a flat, one-dimensional poster girl on the wall of high school hierarchy; you were a living, breathing person, with a laugh that disarmed him and a taste in music he was suddenly, irrationally dying to identify. The mystery, much to his own horror, was deepening from a casual curiosity into a full-blown fixation. And Eddie Munson, self-proclaimed connoisseur of chaos and the arcane, had never been able to resist a good puzzle, especially one that looked so damn good.
And so, cornering Dustin Henderson became Eddie’s new, and most frustrating, extracurricular activity. He was a man possessed, a hunter on a singular, maddening quest for intel. He transformed into a shadow in the crowded halls, a lurking predator lying in wait by his locker with a too-casual lean. He became an "unexpected" companion who fell into step on the walk to the parking lot after Hellfire, his questions veiled in a cloak of feigned nonchalance that was as subtle as a hammer to glass. "So, the cheerleader," he'd start, clapping a hand on Dustin's shoulder, his voice a studied casual drawl that fooled no one. "She, uh... she always your chauffeur, Henderson, or are you just that lucky?"
Each encounter was a carefully orchestrated ambush disguised as casual conversation, a verbal chess game where all roads, no matter how winding, were ruthlessly designed to lead to a single, burning topic: You.
He was a grandmaster of subterfuge, laying traps for a prodigy, and the school hallways were their board.
"Hey, Henderson," he'd start, slinging a comradely arm around his shoulders that was just a little too tight to be friendly. The scent of leather, clove cigarettes, and weed descending like a palpable warning cloud. "Saw you getting a personal audience with Her Royal Shininess again. What's the deal? You, uh… hire her for a morale campaign? Gotta say, man, the psychological warfare is top-tier."
Dustin, to his immense credit, was a veritable fortress of evasion, a master of misdirection who had, after all, helped save the world by lying to panicked government agents and his own mother. "Something like that," he'd say with an infuriatingly nonchalant shrug, never breaking stride. He wouldn't just deny—he'd counter-attack, expertly parrying every thrust with a strategically deployed question about the next campaign's monster roster or a technical debate on a new module's rule set. It was like trying to grab smoke with his bare hands.
Each failed interrogation, each expertly deflected question, only cemented a maddening truth in Eddie's mind: Henderson wasn't just being private; he was actively protecting something. He had classified information, and he was following a protocol Eddie wasn't cleared for. And Eddie Munson, connoisseur of secrets and the forbidden, had never encountered a lock he didn't immediately, obsessively need to pick until it gave up all its treasures.
Eddie's attempts grew increasingly desperate, his subtlety evaporating like cheap beer in the July sun. His interrogations became so transparent that even the wide-eyed freshmen, who usually scurried out of his path like frightened beetles, would pause to watch the spectacle.
"So, Henderson," he'd begin, materialising at his side with a jolt of manic energy that made Dustin visibly brace himself, his shoulders creeping toward his ears. "A theoretical question for the group's head of logistics. Does our resident solar deity ever, I don't know, express any opinions on local counter-culture? Inquire about the band's seminal demo? Maybe... feel a sudden, profound need to probe the tortured, creative vision of the lead guitarist?" He wiggled his ring-clad fingers for emphasis, the picture of artistic anguish.
Dustin, the unflappable stone wall in Eddie's hurricane of neediness, didn't even look up from the complex chemical equation in his textbook. "She asked if you actually passed any of your classes," he replied, his tone flat as a week-old pancake. "I told her it was a coin toss on a good day and that she should probably pray for your immortal soul." The verbal pin landed with sniper-like precision, popping the inflated balloon of Eddie's ego with a sad, quiet fizzle.
The problem, the true, moustache-twirling villain of this entire farce, was the clock. The three-minute passing period was a cruel and unforgiving master, its final bell a death knell to his progress, severing his interrogations with the brutal finality of a guillotine. He was trying to walk a razor-thin line between casually curious and full-blown stalker, and he was failing so miserably he might as well have been face-down on the linoleum, tasting the wax and his own humiliation. Every time he felt he was on the verge of a breakthrough—a single, unguarded word, a hint of a crack in the fortress walls—Dustin would deflect with the preternatural skill of a CIA operative, offering a crumb of meaningless gossip about Steve Harrington's latest hair crisis before slipping into a classroom and vanishing. The slamming door was a brutal, full-stop punctuation mark on his failure, leaving Eddie standing alone in the suddenly silent hallway, more bewildered and hopelessly intrigued than before, the ghost of your name dying on his lips.
The mystery of you and Dustin Henderson was no longer a casual side-quest. It was escalating, mutating in the petri dish of his mind into the greatest, most compelling unsolved campaign of his life. The whiteboard in his trailer was now a chaotic web of questions and theories, connected by red string and pure, unadulterated fixation. He was done playing by the rules of polite inquiry. Eddie Munson was fully prepared to burn the whole damn rulebook, shred the map, and roll a natural twenty on a shot in the dark if it meant finally uncovering the truth.
The roar of the Friday night crowd is a distant, ghostly echo, a world away from his sanctuary—a rickety picnic table shrouded in the woods behind the football field. This is his kingdom of shadows and silence, the one place where Eddie "The Freak" Munson could let his guard down.
Right now, his guard is in tatters.
He is supposed to be plotting his next campaign, a strategic masterstroke to finally, finally talk to you. But his mental playbook, once filled with clever subterfuge and silver-tongued gambits, is now just a collection of pathetic, crumpled failures. Just ask her about Dustin, the logical part of his brain pleads. It’s the perfect in! But the rest of him, the part that turns to a puddle of incoherent mush whenever he sees you, rebels. What if he sounds like a stalker? What if his voice cracks? What if he, in a moment of peak Munson misfortune, spontaneously combusts at your feet?
He’s so deep in this cycle of self-flagellation that he doesn't hear a thing—not a footfall, not a snapped twig, not a single rustle of leaves. Which is why the voice, smooth and clear as polished glass, slices through the quiet from directly behind him and nearly sends his soul launching into orbit.
"I heard you've been asking about me."
Eddie jolts so hard the table shudders in sympathy. His heart isn't just pounding; it’s performing a frantic, double-kick-drum solo against his ribs, a frantic rhythm for the panic coursing through him. He spins around, his rings scraping against the weathered wood.
And there you are.
It was as if you’ve materialised from the shadows themselves, a phantom made flesh, bathed in the dappled moonlight filtering through the canopy. His mind, usually a whirlwind of witty retorts and theatrical flair, goes utterly, completely blank. All that remained is a single, screaming thought: Abort mission. System failure. Total, catastrophic, and humiliating system failure.
A soft, melodic laugh escapes you as he fumbles, his limbs turning to tangled marionette strings. He practically falls off the bench in a clatter of silver rings and frayed denim, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Before he can even attempt to reclaim a shred of dignity, you’re moving.
Completely uninvited, you smoothly take a seat on the bench opposite him, folding your hands primly on the weather-beaten wood as if you were holding court in a king’s hall, not some shady clearing. The move is so audaciously calm, so utterly self-possessed, that it leaves him mentally reeling, grasping for a handhold in a world that has suddenly tilted off its axis.
His brain, desperate for any port in this storm of your presence, latches onto the first ridiculous lie it can find. “Who, me? Asking about—? Pfft. No, I was just… conducting a sociological survey on the migratory patterns of the common jock,” he deflects, the words tumbling out in a rushed, defensive jumble. A sociological survey? He sounds like a complete dork. A poser. A fool.
The panic is a neon sign plastered all over his face, he’s sure of it. And the way your smile widens, just a fraction at the corners of your mouth, tells him it only amuses you more. It’s not a mocking smile, but something far more dangerous: a genuinely entertained one.
His gaze follows yours as you nod your head towards his contraband scattered across the graffiti-scarred table—the worn leather pouch, the rolling papers, the bag of mid-grade schlock. And a sudden, piercing regret lances through him, so sharp and specific it’s almost comical. He wishes, more than anything, that he’d brought the good weed. The sacred, top-shelf stash he reserved for solo nights contemplating the cosmos and his own magnificent failures. Not this dry, pedestrian schlock he palmed off to desperate freshmen for gas money. The thought is utterly, pathetically vain, but it’s there: he wants to impress you, even with his weed, and he has already, catastrophically, failed.
“How much?” you ask, your voice slicing clean through his internal lament.
His mouth moves on pure, unadulterated instinct, completely bypassing the shred of his brain that runs a business. “For you? First one’s on the house,” he says, his voice cracking on the word ‘house,’ pitching a humiliating notch too high. He fumbles through his leather pouch, fingers finally closing around what he deems a relatively respectable joint. The moment his fingers brush against yours as he hands it over, a jolt shoots up his arm—static-sharp and disconcertingly warm. The thought flashes, unbidden and terrifyingly sincere: He’d hand you his whole damn stash for free. His van keys. The master copy of Corroded Coffin’s demo tape. Possibly his still-beating heart, if you kept looking at him with that unreadable, captivating glint in your eyes.
Then, you shift the entire universe.
Without a word, you produce a sleek, silver lighter from your skirt pocket. It’s a mundane object, but seeing it on your person, knowing you carry this small tool of controlled arson, feels impossibly intimate. He watches, utterly mesmerised, as you bring the neatly rolled joint to your lips. The act is practised, effortless, and it steals the air from his lungs.
You take a slow, deep inhale. The tip glows a fierce, brilliant orange in the dimming light, and for a surreal second, he feels like he’s witnessing a sacred ritual. You hold it for a beat, your eyes fluttering slightly, before you tilt your head back and blow a smooth, grey plume into the dappled forest air. It’s not a cough or a sputter, but a perfect, controlled stream that dances with the motes of dust in the sunbeams.
A soft, content sigh leaves you, and it’s the most relaxed, unguarded sound he’s ever heard you make. It’s a sound that wraps around him, and he knows, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that he is in deep, deep trouble.
“You’re staring again, Munson.”
Your voice is a low hum, laced with amusement. Your eyes flutter open to catch him in the act, and they’re clearer now, more focused, piercing through the hazy air and seeing right through the fragile fortress of his cool. He quickly looks away, feigning a sudden, intense interest in the gnarled bark of a nearby oak tree as if it holds the secrets of the universe. His cheeks burn with a tell-tale heat he’s desperately grateful you can’t feel.
“Just didn’t know you smoked,” he counters, the words a weak, transparent defence against the gentle accusation in your tone. He knows it’s a pathetic excuse, knows it’s about so much more than tobacco or weed. It’s about the fact that he’s been quietly building a shrine to you in the dusty, hidden corners of his mind, and you just walked in and casually rearranged all the furniture, leaving him disoriented and in awe.
A slow, knowing smile plays on your lips, a silent testament to the fact that you see right through him, and you don't seem to mind. “There’s plenty you don’t know about me yet.”
Yet.
The word doesn't just hang in the air; it detonates. A single, three-letter promise that throws a gallon of gasoline directly onto the already raging fire of his curiosity. It’s an invitation that makes his pulse stutter. A challenge that his entire being itches to accept. A future tense that sends his mind spiralling into a dozen different, thrilling possibilities—shared mixtapes, late-night drives in his van, the secret sound of your laugh when it's meant just for him. It’s the most terrifying and beautiful word he’s ever heard.
Panicking under the weight of that single, terrifyingly beautiful promise, he’s rambling again before his brain can even think to engage the clutch. “I’ve, uh—I’ve got some better stuff. Back at the trailer. The good shit, you know? The kind that… unlocks the secrets of the universe. Or, you know, just makes Deep Purple sound even more fucking epic.” He’s babbling, digging the hole deeper with every word. “If you’d ever be… interested.”
The invitation hangs in the air between you, as clumsy and transparent as a sheet of Saran Wrap. He might as well have just handed you a poorly photocopied flyer that read, in Comic Sans, ‘Please Come To My Sad Trailer So I Can Stare At You More Efficiently.’
You cock a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow at him, a silent masterpiece of judgment and amusement. The gesture is a physical thing, driving the sheer, unadulterated stupidity of his words like a hot spike directly into his already fragile ego. He can feel it—a full-body cringe that starts at the soles of his boots and vibrates up to the tips of his hair. He can practically feel his soul trying to vacate his body, peeling itself away from this mortifying reality out of pure, unbridled shame, desperately seeking refuge in the Upside Down where the social stakes are, frankly, less terrifying.
You actually seem to contemplate the offer, your gaze drifting past him into the shadow-dappled woods as if mentally consulting some invisible, infinitely more interesting social calendar. The pause stretches, a taut, excruciating silence filled only by the frantic thrum of his own pulse in his ears. It lasts just long enough for him to fully register the monumental, soul-crushing magnitude of his own idiocy. He’s already scripting his retreat, the mumbled apology, the vow to never speak again.
Then, your answer nearly knocks him clean off his seat and into next week.
“Sure. Why not.”
It’s so casual, so utterly, devastatingly nonchalant, that his brain simply short-circuits. The words don’t compute. They’re a syntax error in the carefully constructed code of his social anxiety. He swears you’re giving him psychological whiplash; he can’t keep up with the violent, nauseating shifts between his own spiraling panic and your preternatural calm. It’s like being caught in a hurricane that has the manners to sip a cup of tea at its very centre.
“Wait… really?” The words escape him in a stunned, breathy rush, all his usual theatrical bravado stripped away, leaving only the raw, disbelieving shock of a man who just hit the jackpot he never dared to buy a ticket for.
A ghost of a smirk, there and gone in a heartbeat, touches your lips. “Don’t have any plans tonight,” you shrug, the picture of nonchalance, as if agreeing to hang out in his shabby trailer was the most mundane decision in the world, like choosing what to watch on TV. But your eyes tell a different story—they glint with a sharp, knowing challenge. “Unless you don’t actually want me to come over?”
The banter feels familiar, a verbal volley he recognizes from a hundred lunchroom skirmishes and hallway arguments. It’s a rhythm he knows how to dance to. And yet, he’s completely disarmed. He’s a swordsman who has not only forgotten his blade but has forgotten which end is the hilt. All his usual sarcastic comebacks, the clever retorts that usually stream so effortlessly to form a protective, witty moat around the fortress of his insecurities, have deserted him, leaving the gates wide open and him utterly exposed on your shores.
You stand up, brushing a stray leaf from your skirt with a grace that feels utterly alien in this muddy, Munson-domain clearing. It’s a gesture that belongs in a catalog or a ballet, not here amongst the discarded beer cans and gnarled roots. You look at him expectantly, a single, perfect eyebrow arched in a silent question that feels louder than any Corroded Coffin solo.
“Well? You gonna give me a ride, or what?”
The question, so direct and laced with a challenge he desperately wants to prove himself worthy of, finally jump-starts his frozen motor functions. “Right. Yeah. The van. It’s, uh… this way,” he manages, his voice still rough with shock.
couldnt sleep and wanted eddie so i wrote a little blurb abt it 🐇
eddie sleeps easy, heavy and unbroken. been that way since he was little. he falls asleep within minutes of laying his head on his clumpy pillow, snores loud as fuck and wont wake up till you shake him semi aggressively.
however, when he met you - his sweetheart angel baby - he has a hard time sleeping till youre in his arms falling asleep too.
so now as you sit up in his bed, staring at the clock that reads 2:30AM he wakes, groaning softly as its way past his bedtime. you’re not sure what woke him up, you were being careful and quiet. not that it would’ve mattered, you’ve seen him sleep through quite a bit of noise. really, its his spidey senses about you that woke him up. something in him scratched and screamed that his baby was upset.
“you ok baby?” his voice is scratchy, deep with sleep. his fingertips brush you before he sits up for better reach, placing a gentle hand on your lower back and rubbing softly.
you smile at him, endeared by his constant doting over you. no one has ever cared this much, not about the big things that keep you up at night and certainly not about little things like this; your silly insomnia.
“mhm.. just cant sleep.” you crawl closer to him, tuck yourself under his arm as you both lay back down. you smile at each other, a disgustingly sweet lovesick expression on both your faces. you’re admiring the way the light from the moon shining through his window behind him makes his hair glow like a halo on his head. like the angel he is, you think.
“you’re pretty.” You say, smile wide and a light blush fanning over your cheeks. Its too dark to see, but he makes you blush all the time, so he recognizes that look. he’s definitely blushing too. he plays it up, acting coy. he tucks his chin in, twirls a curl around his finger. the shyness is an act (mostly) but the huge grin on his face is entirely genuine.
“Who, me?” it makes you giggle, although softly in your tired state.
“Yes, you.” you know its a rhetorical question, more of a joke, but who cares, he is pretty and he deserves to know so. his smile is wider now, cheeks pink-er. you kiss him on the cheek and he turns his face, a silent plea of ‘please kiss me’
you do, one, two, three soft pecks. you stare into each other’s eyes again still both smiling like idiots. your friends were onto something when they teased you for being so disgustingly head over heels. he pulls you in closer, his arm around you feels like a seatbelt, safe. you lay your head on his chest on close your eyes, smiling still. the pace of his chest rising up and down lulls you to sleep. you love him, he loves you, you’re loved, you’re safe.
Hiii!!💚 I saw you were asking for requests and decided to send one in for a change. I know it’s stereotypical but I’d love to see childhood friends! Eddie and reader where they drift apart in about middle school because he has the realization of “oh, she’s a girl” and he doesn’t know how to act anymore. Preferably with a happy ending! I usually don’t send in requests but I’m a sucker for Eddie.
₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊ childhood best friend!eddie munson x reader ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊
you and eddie reconnect after years of not talking
944 words
a/n: thank you for your request angel! i don't love this (i'm still a little rusty) but here you go!
The bell above the diner door jingles when you step in, shaking off the crisp November wind. Inside smells like coffee, comforting in a way that makes you forget about your bad day, drama with your friends and a pile of homework waiting for you at home.
You slide into a booth near a window and drum your fingers against your thigh. The waitress, Amy, who’s been here since you were little, waves at you from behind the counter, telling you she’ll be over in a second. Pulling the menu out, you flip through it, wanting something to do with your hands. You hear the bell ring again behind you.
The voice is deeper than you remember. Without turning around, you hear Eddie Munson calling out, “Hey Amy. You miss me?”
You freeze, hands pausing on the menu. His voice hits something deep in your memory, a name from a part of your life you haven’t thought about in years. Tried not to think of.
While Amy and him start to chat, you risk a look over your shoulder. You’ve seen him over the years, of course, Hawkins too small to truly avoid someone. But this is the first time you’ve seen him up close, close enough to see the tattoo peeking out of his sleeve and the rings adorning his fingers.
Like he can feel your stare, he turns, scanning the booths. His eyes land on you, a look you don’t recognize flashing in his eyes.
For a second, it’s like you’re ten again—mud on your shoes, his laughter echoing through the woods behind Forest Hills as he dares you to jump across the creek. But the moment passes just as quickly, replaced by the memory of middle school: the awkward silence, the way he’d started walking a few paces ahead of you, the realization in his eyes that you were suddenly… a girl. Things changed.
You drop your eyes, busying yourself with the laminated menu like your life depends on it. Maybe he’ll ignore you. He will just sit at the counter and act like he didn’t see you at all.
But then his boots scuff the tiled floor, slow, hesitant steps moving right towards you. Through your periphery, you see his shoes stop before your booth.
“Hey.”
Your head snaps up and you blink, caught between the urge to wave and the urge to vanish under the table. “Hey, Eddie.”
For a second, neither of you say anything, just looking into each other's eyes. It’s easy to find pieces of the boy who was your first friend; the big hair, soft eyes that gleam with dozens of emotions all at once. Yet there’s differences too. He’s taller, his smile smaller as if he’s not sure if he can use it on you anymore.
He shifts his weight, hands clasped behind his back. “Are you getting a milkshake?”
You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You remember that?”
“Course I do.” His grin flickers, still hesitant. “You used to say they could fix your problems. A bad day, a bad test, anything.”
You smile slightly, because he’s right. “Guess I did.”
He gestures with his chin towards the seat across from you. “Can I sit?”
You hesitate. Not because you don’t want him to, you really do, but because everything unacknowledged between you two hangs heavy in the air. But the look on his face is hopeful, and you could never say no to him.
“Sure,” you say softly.
He slides into the booth, elbows on the table. “So… how have you been? It’s been awhile.”
You shrug one shoulder and say “I’m fine. Highschool… is highschool.”
He laughs softly. “Yeah, I get it.”
For a few moments, it’s quiet. The jukebox in the corner hums, Amy clears dishes from a nearby table, a group of people sitting nearby laugh at something. It should feel awkward, but there’s this familiarity that sits above anything else.
He catches your eye. “I didn’t mean to just… disappear, you know. Back then.”
You swallow. You weren’t expecting him to bring it up. “You didn’t disappear. You just… stopped showing up.”
He chuckles softly, the corners of his mouth pulling downwards guiltily . “It sounds awful when you say it like that.”
You can’t help but smile at him. “It was awful,” you tease.
Eddie leans back, watching you with a look full of hope and relief. “Guess I deserved that.”
“Guess you did.”
He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. He leans forward again, opening his mouth to say something, eyes shining. But before he can, Amy chooses that moment to come by with her notepad. You startle at her voice, having been so absorbed by him.
“Hey, kids. Haven’t seen you two together in some time,” she says happily. “One chocolate and one vanilla milkshake?”
You and Eddie glance at each other. Is he staying? Or is he leaving once again, leaving you behind, wondering how things could have ended differently? What had been the point of sitting down in the first place, if he didn’t want to make amends?
Like he can hear your thoughts, he shakes his head. Eddie grins up at Amy, the kind of grin that starts small and ends with dimples. Something warm flutters in your chest.
“Yes ma’am,” he replies. “Could we get fries too?”
Like he had taken a hammer to the wall built between you two, you relax in your seat. He’s aiming his grin at you now, and for the first time in years, it feels like you’ve got your best friend back. Maybe, just maybe, you never really lost him.
Hopper isn't fond of his job as the chief of police on a good day, but he hates it even more when he has to cover for one of the younger guys and do night patrols around town.
One cold winter night, he's driving around town, thinking of ways to finally win over Joyce, when he spots a van parked half a mile into the woodsy area of town, still running. He recognizes it as Eddie Munson's -- hell, he's pulled the Munson kid over enough times for reckless speeding to have the license plate memorized.
At first, he figures his speed must have caught up to him, and he lost control, which is why the van is idling in the middle of the goddamn trees, but as he drives closer, he sees Munson's frame slumped over the wheel.
Maybe it's the paternal instinct in him or his years at war, but he immediately assumes the worst. He knows Eddie's a local dealer, so it's easy for his mind to jump to the conclusion that he sampled some bad product. He spent time in the city, he knows what a drug OD looks like, and judging by the stillness in Eddie's body from his vantage point, well, it ain't looking good for the Munson boy.
The last thing Hopper wants to do tonight is have to drive to Wayne's home and sit outside until he gets off his night shift at the plant and tell him his nephew overdosed on the backroads, so he speeds closer and double times his steps when he hops out of the truck.
His mind is reeling a mile a minute, hand on his walkie-talkie ready to radio to the station to send an ambulance half a mile past Cornwallis if he needs it, that he doesn't even think to hesitate before he's tapping frantically at the glass of the driver's side window.
Thankfully, Munson jolts upward, so he's not dead. Unfortunately, Steve Harrington also makes his presence known, sitting up from where he was crouched over in Munson's lap, mouth agape and --
"Oh, for fucks sake," Hopper swears. He does not get paid enough for this shit.
"What the fuck, Hop?" Eddie asks, voice several octaves higher than usual, as he rolls down the window.
"I thought you were dead!" Hopper shouts as he scrubs his hand over his eyes, trying to erase the image from his mind. He turns his back on the van and takes a deep, calming breath that does absolutely nothing when his ears pick up on the sound of zippers being closed and belts being buckled back up.
When silence falls on them, Hopper reluctantly turns around. "Harrington, I know you have an empty house where you can do these sorts of activities. Why the hell are you both on the side of the road!"
"Well," Steve says, a tilt in his voice and a mischievous grin on his face. "We tried to make it to my place, but we just couldn't wait. You know how it is, Hop."
Eddie snorts. "He most certainly does not. Joyce won't give him the time of day."
"Poor Hop," Steve pouts. "Maybe we can put it in a good word for you."
Hopper rolls his eyes. The last thing he needs is these two getting involved in his and Joyce's non-relationship. "You know I could have the both of you arrested right now?"
Eddie hums, "You could."
"But you won't," Steve adds.
Hopper sighs. They're right.
"Fine. But you better get out of here before someone stumbles on you that will arrest you."
Much to his chagrin, Eddie salutes Hopper. "Aye, Aye Captain"
"Hey," Steve whines, pulling at the disheveled tie of his Scoops Ahoy uniform. "I thought I was your captain."
"You are, baby. Of course, you are."
"Jesus Christ!" Hopper groans.
This is why he hates the night shift.
This is silly and dumb and the timeline is very ambiguous lol but I saw this tiktok last week and the worms started worming and figured I should get it posted while I can still link out to the inspiration.
Your estranged friends Max, Steve and Billy, find you crying, half naked, in the woods.
Warning: RAPE, RACISM (canon typical), mentions of past trauma and abuse, violence.
A/n: This fic can be seen as a part 2 of my first Billy Hargrove fic, but can also be read as a stand-alone fic. You don’t have to read my first fic to follow along.
Billy shoved you hard against the rough surface of the stone, your back scraping against the jagged edges. Pain flares up your spine, but it's nothing compared to the terror flooding through your veins.
His face twisted in rage, mullet disheveled from the wind. “You think you can talk back to me like that?” he growled, his breath hot and sour against your face.
You opened your mouth to beg, but he backhanded you across the cheek, the slap echoing through the trees. Your head snapped to the side, skin stinging like fire.
“Please, Billy, stop,” you whimpered, tears streaming down your face, tasting salt on your lips. You’re shaking so hard that your knees buckled, but Billy yanks you up by your hair, roots pulling painfully.
“Stop the fucking tears.” he spat “you women are all the same. Crying won’t help you out of this.”
You couldn’t believe that this was the same Billy you kept on dreaming to marry every night before falling asleep..
His free hand teared at your sweater, ripping the fabric with a sharp tear. Buttons popped off, scattering into the leaves. “You wanna act up? I'll show you what happens to little sluts who mouth off.”
His knee jammed between your thighs, forcing them apart as he pressed his hardening cock against your hip through his jeans.
Terror clawed at you; you thrashed weakly, but he's too strong. “No, please, don't—“ your plea cuts off as he slapped you again. Pain exploding under your skin. You scream, the sound echoed off the trees. Birds scattered from the branches above.
Billy clamped a hand over your mouth, smothering your cries, his fingers digging into your cheeks hard enough to bruise. “Scream all you want, baby. You know I love when you act all virgin.”
With brutal efficiency, he yanked your jeans down your legs, the denim catching on your sneakers before he kicked them free. You’re exposed in your plain cotton panties. He shoved your legs wider. The rock bit into your bare skin, scraping raw patches on your back and ass as you squirm.
Billy unzipped his jeans, freeing his thick cock, already throbbing and leaking pre-cum at the tip. It's veined and angry-looking. He didn’t bother with gentleness but grabs your cute panties and rips them aside, the fabric tearing with a snap. You felt the exposure keenly, your pussy clenching in fear.
This all felt too familiar...
“Shit, babe. Are you wet or is this piss from being scared shitless.” He mocked, but you knew it's just your body's betrayal, slick from terror.
Another feeling that was just too familiar. You couldn’t stand it.
He slammed into you without warning, his cock forcing past your folds in one vicious thrust. Pain ripped through you like lightning, your pink walls stretching painfully around Billy’s grith. You screamed into his palm, muffled, tears soaking his hand. He didn’t care—pounds into you relentlessly. The stone grinding against your spine with every brutal push, your body jolting like a ragdoll.
“Fuck, you're tight,” he grunted, punctuating his words with a slap to your face and then a deep kiss on your lips. You choked on a sob, your vision blurry from the pain and tears. His other hand fisted your hair again, yanking your head back to expose your throat. He bite down hard on your neck, teeth sinking in until you felt skin break.
He beats your pussy in rhythm with his cock. Each hit forceful. You felt the bruises blooming all over your body. You’re sobbing uncontrollably now, snot and tears mixing on your face, body limp from Billy’s treatment and you wondered in your misery how you fucked up this badly again.
Billy's pace was quick, grunts animalistic. He released your mouth to grab your throat, squeezing until black spots dance in your vision. You were sure he had no clue how strong he was and how fragile you really were.
“Take it, you fucking whore,” he snarled, choking you harder as he slams in deep.
Your lungs burn, chest heaving uselessly. Panic rose; you desperately scratched at his wrist, nails breaking skin, but he just tightened his grip. His cock twitched inside you, hot spurts of cum flooded your pussy in thick ropes. He roared, hips jerking erratically, filling you until it leaked out around his shaft, mixing with little bit of your blood from the rough entry.
He didn’t pull out right away—stayed buried, grinding against you as he rode out his orgasm. Then, with a final kiss to your bruised cheek, he shoved you down onto the forest floor. You crumpled beside the stone, curling into a ball. Cum dripping out from your abused pussy, staining the dirt.
Billy zips up. “Next time you argue, it'll be worse.” He started to walks away. “Get dressed I’ll wait in the car.”
———
The path to the clubhouse was a thin scar through the trees.
Max walked ahead, kicking stones too hard. Her jaw was set the way it got when she was trying not to cry or scream or do something worse. Steve followed a few steps behind her, hands shoved into his pockets like he was afraid of what his fists might do if left loose. Eddie brought up the rear, like if he slowed down enough the conversation wouldn’t catch up to them.
It did anyway.
“She didn’t even call back,” Max said finally, breaking the silence. “Again.”
Steve scoffed. “Why would she? She probably too busy getting smashed by him.”
They were talking about you.
Eddie winced, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Jesus, Harrington. You don’t have to say it like that.”
Eddie was right, but so was Steve.
“I do,” Steve shot back. “Someone has to say it out loud since everyone keeps pretending this is just some messy high school relationship and not a fucking train wreck.”
Max stopped walking and turned on him. Her eyes were sharp. “You think I don’t know that?
Steve held up his hands, frustrated. “I think you know it. I think you know it better than anyone since he’s your brother.”
“Step-brother.”, Max corrected sharply.
“Knowing won’t change shit if she doesn’t listen to us.”
“She listens to him,” Eddie muttered. “That’s the problem.”
The unspoken name: Billy Hargrove.
Steve exhaled hard. “He didn’t even like her at first…Not really. He just—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “He saw how close she was to us. Saw her laughing with me. With you guys. And suddenly he is interested in her.”
Max swallowed. “She loved him though. She would always get excited to see him. It was disgusting to witness.”
“She loved the version he pretended to be,” Steve snapped. “There’s a difference.”
Eddie shook his head slowly. “Man, I’ve been around assholes. I am one sometimes. But Billy? He’s… different. He takes it too far, always.”
“She’s pretty.,” Max said. “That’s all that matters to Billy.”
They were all in a bad mood. It was suffocating. None of them said the worst part out loud: that they all knew she was hurting. That they all knew he was fucking other girls. That they all knew she knew—and stayed.
The woods thinned.
And then Max froze.
“Wait,” she said. “Do you see that?”
Steve followed her gaze.
There was that familiar rock just off the path. They’d all sat on it a hundred times, passing joints, skipping class. And sitting on that familiar rock was you.
Curled in on yourself like a wounded animal. Shirt gone. Bra strap hanging loose down one shoulder. Knees pulled to your chest. Bare skin smeared with dirt and tears. Hair tangled. Mascara streaked black down your cheeks.
She was crying without making a sound. Just shaking. Like you’d already screamed everything out.
Max ran.
“Hey—hey—oh my God,” Max dropped to her knees in front of you, hands hovering like she was afraid to touch. “Hey, it’s us. It’s us.”
You looked up to Max slowly. Your eyes were glassy. When you recognised Max and the boys, you collapsed.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered immediately. You were ashamed that they had to see you like this.
Steve’s stomach dropped.
Your cheek was swollen. Purple blooming under the skin.
“What the fuck,” Eddie breathed. “Holy shit.”
Steve crouched in front of you, he was angry and calm at the same time “who the fuck did this to you.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.
Max grabbed your hands gently—and then sucked in a breath. Red marks circled your wrists.
“He left you here?” Max asked, voice shaking. “He just—left you?”
You shook your head, staring at the ground. “We fought. I said something stupid. He is waiting for me, I—“
Steve’s hands curled into fists. “No. No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to make it your fault.”
“He was angry,” you whispered, like it explained everything. Like it excused it.
Eddie stood abruptly. “Okay. Okay. We’re not doing this out here. You’re freezing. Come on. Clubhouse. Now.”
You flinched at the word. You knew Billy was waiting for you. But the last thing you wanted right now was to see Billy.
“I’m not supposed to be there,” you said quickly. “Billy—”
“Billy doesn’t get a fucking vote,” Steve cut in.
You shook your head, panic creeping in. “You don’t understand. If he finds out—”
“Let him,” Eddie snapped. “Let him fucking try.”
Steve softened his voice, carefully. “We need to get you somewhere safe. And then tell the police.”
Your lips trembled. “No! Don’t tell Hopper.”
Max’s head snapped up. And then she whispered. “If we go to the police, Neil is going to kill him…”
She said it so quietly that it was almost just a thought.
“Hopper will kill him,” You said. “And then he will kill me. I’m not supposed to have a boyfriend, Steve. You know that.”
Max closed her eyes. “Jesus, can we all calm down.”
They all went quiet. They just helped you up. Steve you his jacket. Eddie wrapped an arm around your shoulders like a shield.
The clubhouse door creaked open like it always had. Inside smelled like smoke and old beer. They sat you on the old dirty couch, wrapped you up in all the blankets they could find like you might shatter.
And slowly, painfully, you started to relax.
“He gets angry…over nothing. It’s—I don’t know what I do wrong.”
They all listened to what you had to say.
“He likes to…break things”, you kept on.
Max looked down at her hands. Steve noticed.
“Bottles, walls, he once ripped my mother’s bracelet off my neck.”, you sobbed. “It was the only nice memory I had of her, and he ripped it off.”
You fished out the necklace that you were currently wearing. It was a thin gold necklace with the latter B dangling from it. “He then gave me this one. He said it would suit me better. It was nice of him, he was sorry.”
Steve and Eddie gave each other a telling look. It was hard to listen to what you had to say.
“He likes to break things because he knows it scares me.”, you whispered but they heard anyways.
“We saw him fu…we saw him talking to another girl.”, Eddie carefully said. He didn’t want to hurt you more than you already were but he also wanted you to know.
You just scoffed. “He says jealousy keeps me loyal,” she said quietly. “Says it means I care about him.”
Max was crying now. Silent, but ragingly furious.
“He broke my skateboard,” Max said finally. “He calls me a traitor for dating Lucas. And when he saw me kissing Lucas, he got so so mad, he told my mother that he found a pregnancy test in my room. I wasn’t allowed to see Lucas for weeks.”
“This is genuinely fucked up.”, he said totally mind blown “like what the actual fuck, guys?”
Steve rubbed his face, trying to not explode. “Somebody need to beat the living shit out of him…”
Max looked Steve dead in the eyes. “Don’t worry about that.”
„When my mom married his dad, we were like 10-13 years old. He was just a kid. Neil almost drowned him in the pool. Almost. He had so much water in his lungs he had to stay in the hospital for weeks. It was over something really minor—I think Billy left the refrigerator open and Neil’s beer ended up warm. Mom told the police that Billy accidentally fell into the pool.“
You listened to Max talk and all you wanted was to take him into your arms and tell them how sorry you were—
“That doesn’t excuse it.”, Steve said.
“I know,” Max said. “But it explains a lot.”
You nodded slowly. “When he’s good,” she whispered, “he’s the only thing that feels real.”
That was when the engine roared.
The Camaro.
Every head snapped up.
“No,” Max and you breathed.
Before you had time to react, the door flew open.
Billy filled the place like a storm in a human body. Eyes dancing wild. Jaw clenched. Rage vibrating off him in waves.
“What the fuck is this,” he snarled.
His gaze landed on you first, then on Max. He saw the blankets and the weed. It was only then when he registered Steve and Eddie.
He started laughing. Sharp. „Oh, I get it!“
He slammed the door close behind him before turning back to the scene in front of him. A scene crystal clear for his mind.
“You bring them out here to fuck them?”, he turned his attention towards Steve and Eddie. “My baby sister and my fucking girlfriend, you fuck them here? In this trash-hole? Have some grace.”
Steve scoffed. “Like fucking them on a stone in the middle of the woods? Very graceful, Hargrove.”
Billy laughed again, but behind his eyes hell was burning. Billy grabbed the broom that was leaning against the wall next to the door. “Be careful, Steven, or your ass will be the next hole in line that’s getting banged under this roof.”
With each and every word he marched closer towards Steve and Eddie.
But suddenly your big watery eyes were in front of his vision, snapping him out of his plans.
“Billy please. I can explain.”, you started.
“Sit your ass back on that couch, you fucking dirty slut.”, he hissed at you. “You will regret every crossing my path.”
“You touch her ever again, it will be your last day living.”, Steve said, calmly.
That brought the spark back into Billy’s eyes and he started laughing again. “Steven, look at you all protective over my girlfriend! I know, I trained her mouth good, didn’t I? You already fallen in love with her, what a little gem she is! Woow!”
You looked down to the floor. Body filled with to the brim with terror. You’d never seen Billy this pissed. Never. He looked possessed. Out of it.
“And you Maxine, I already knew you were a little whore, just like your mother, but I have to say I would rather have these dorks getting you dicked down then that bitch Lucas.”
Eddie stepped forward. “Back the hell off, Hargrove.”
Billy hit him first. Fast. Brutal. Eddie went down hard, skull cracking against the floor.
Max screamed. She tried to stop him, just the way she would try to stop Neil when he was taking his anger out on Billy.
Billy turned and slapped her. Hard. Max flew to the ground. She had bit her tongue and was bleeding out of her mouth.
“When we get home,” he said coldly, “you’re done.”
Steve swung. Billy swung harder. They crashed into the wall, fists flying, grunts and blood and an historical amount of anger colliding. Steve held his own—until he didn’t. Billy slammed him down, breath knocked clean out of him.
Billy spat at him.
Then he shifted all his attention to the only person standing, you. He marched over to you like a possessed soldier and grabbed you. Your wrist screamed in pain as he yanked you toward the door.
“Billy—please—” you were ugly crying right now. All you wanted to do was go and help your friends. Eddie wasn’t moving, he groaned, barely conscious. Max was spitting blood. Steve tried to get up. Failed. Blood in his mouth. He looked at you and tried again to get up. To get up and stop him from taking you away from them. Again.
“I’m okay,” she cried, lying. “Please don’t follow. Please.”
Billy shoved her into the car like luggage. He launched into the driver’s seat and started the engine, humming his favourite song, died in your arms.
He drove the car through the woods in such a speed that made you sink into your seat. You reached for the seatbelt, not knowing what else to do. He turned the music on with one trained hand, singing along while tapping his fingers onto the wheel to the rhythm. He almost killed your Friends, and he wished he would’ve.
“If I ever see you near them, they will die. I’ll kill them and fuck your cunt on top of their dead bodies, you hear me, babe?!”
Part 2 of Damsels & Debauchery: The D&D Chronicles
Pairing: DM!Eddie Munson x fem!reader
WC: ~9.9k
Summary: You find out the result of Eddie’s dice roll, and you both make the most of every point…
CW: 🔞 SMUT, NSFW, MDNI! Lots of kissing, boob play, dry humping (brief), finger sucking (brief), hair pulling (subtle), oral & fingering (f rec), unprotected p in v (protection discussed), chair sex, aftercare, allusion to cream pie, the tiniest amount of angst between party members, mentions of food, mediator!Dustin Henderson, insightful!Erica Sinclair.
A/N: Many thanks to everyone who expressed so much love on the first part and convinced me to write more for these two - this is now a series, if you want to be on the taglist, or my general one, just ask, I’d love to have you on board 🌼 Also grateful thanks to two superfans @airen256 and @80s-addict who gave me some ideas for interactions with the kids, you guys rock!🤘
“Okay, Master. How about this? You roll, and the result is how many kisses you have to give me...”
Eddie’s never been so desperate to roll a 12 in his entire fucking life.
“Four? FOUR?! Goddammit!!”
Eddie’s high-pitched screech slices through the dense, charged atmosphere of the trailer. He’s clearly not thrilled with the result of his dice roll.
And, if you’re completely honest, neither are you.
The heavy ambience returns, however, when he drops his voice to a much lower timbre, leans forward, and murmurs directly into your ear,
“I guess I’d better make them count then, huh?”
You feel the heat contained in his words, as well as in his breath fanning over the back of your neck. Goosebumps travel down your spine despite the warmth, and your core clenches gently around nothing.
Eddie’s strong hands come to your hips, and he kneads at the flesh as he considers in his Dungeon Master voice that’s only slightly laced with trepidation,
“Are you sure you want this, Princess?”
You nod rapidly, slightly jostling both of you, but it’s not enough for Eddie. He lightly rests his forehead against your shoulder blade as he continues,
“Need your words, sweetheart. I need you to tell me.”
You gasp as he places a gentle but firm open-mouthed bite to your covered shoulder, the damp heat of his breath passing easily through the thin fabric of your shirt. His grip tightens, and your breath hitches in your throat as you somehow manage to stammer,
“Yes, Eddie. I want this.”
Turning so you can speak to him over your shoulder, you add,
“I want you.”
He groans into your flesh before he lifts his head and his gaze meets yours. His palms slide up, slowly, like he’s still not sure he’s supposed to do this, over your shirt against the sides of your ribs until he’s cupping the undersides of your breasts. He pauses, still half-expecting you to push him off you, chastise him, maybe even get up and leave.
But you don’t. You’re a little surprised, but pleasantly, and your chest heaves with excitement combined with a little disbelief that this is actually happening.
Eddie lifts and squeezes, just a little. Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, and your eyes roll too as you revel in the sensation of him touching you. Finally. His hands feel just as good as you’d imagined they would, better even, because it’s actually real. You run yours up his strong, veiny forearms, brushing over bracelets of leather and chains and feeling the heat of his skin. Your thumbs graze the undersides of his wrists and you hear him let out a tiny, breathy gasp as you draw minute circles on the sensitive skin. But you don’t linger. You want more from him, and you need him to know it.
You gently push upwards, directing him to take more of your flesh in his hands. He acquiesces and moans as he places a wet kiss to that spot where your neck meets your shoulder, letting his teeth graze your skin as his hands roam your chest and his fingertips skim the peaks of your nipples. He closes his lips and begins to suck, and takes as much of your breasts into his hands as he can, palming and groping and moulding the flesh like it’s giving him life.
You slide your hands up and over his, feeling his knuckles and the pointed nubs of his rings against your palm. You imagine feeling this without any fabric barrier separating you, and the image makes you whimper. Eddie’s hips buck up at the sound, pressing his not-insignificant bulge into your ass, and as much as he wants to do this forever, he wants more of you too.
You lose your grip on him as he slides his hands down again, past your waist and hips and over your thighs, squeezing them before he settles them around your waist and moves to twist you as he softly whispers, voice cracked and broken,
“Will you— Would you turn around?”
By way of an answer you go to stand, toppling a little on your wobbly legs and grabbing his hands for balance as you manoeuvre yourself to straddle his lap, facing him. You slowly lower yourself onto his thighs, your legs pushed apart as you settle across his knees.
It’s the first time you’ve been able to fully look at him since before any of this started, and you’re enraptured by the sight. His cheeks are flushed a pretty pink, and you can see the smattering of freckles that adorn his perfect, alabaster complexion. His dark, wavy bangs are a little mussed and fuzzy from where he’s been leaning against you, and his rosebud lips part as his gaze roves your form. They’re puffy and pink, and shiny with his spit from where he’s been mouthing at your neck. He looks up at you with what might be awe, and those beautiful, deep brown eyes, rimmed with the longest and darkest eyelashes you’ve ever seen on a boy, flick around your cheeks and your lips until they settle on your own.
For a moment, neither of you move. You simply gaze at each other, taking in the other's features as if it’s for the first time. In a way it is - you’ve never had free rein to just… ogle each other before, previously always conscious of being caught. He looks to you like a sculpture, as if every curve and line of his face is exquisitely positioned and shaped to create the most aesthetically pleasing whole, and his molten chocolate irises glow in the sunlight cascading through the blinds. Entranced, you trace a fingertip across his eyebrow, his cheekbone, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth, the subtle stubble on his top lip, his Cupid’s bow. You swear you can feel the crackle of electricity where your skin meets his.
He inhales sharply as his hand flies up to grab yours, stilling your movements. You flush with worry, terrified you've done something wrong, but it’s quickly assuaged when Eddie opens his mouth a little more, and gently pushes your first two digits past his lips and onto his tongue. Your breath hitches as his lips close around it, and you feel light suction as the wet muscle caresses your finger. You can’t help but whimper, Eddie’s eyes still locked on yours as he slips his tongue between your fingers, and you feel a rush of his warm breath flow across the back of your hand as his lips part and he breathes deeply.
You close your eyes for the briefest of moments, enjoying how it heightens the sensations, but you can’t deny yourself Eddie’s gaze for long. You open your eyes, and one corner of your mouth kicks up ever so slightly as you pull your hand back and remove your fingers from his mouth. He watches you intently as you smile, turn your wrist so that your fingers are pointing towards you, and slip them past your lips and into your own mouth. You lick and suck, trying to garner everything of Eddie that he’s left. His taste is faint, but it’s there - cigarettes, coffee, and the merest hint of spearmint gum - and before you can stop it a low moan leaves your chest. But the merest hint of him isn’t enough, you want the full Eddie experience, to taste him in his entirety, to have his essence suffocate you, drown your senses.
You plunge both hands into Eddie’s glorious locks, your fingertips running through the roots as his breath stutters and he trembles beneath you. You lean forwards, and your noses bump and your breaths mingle and fan over each other as you skim your lips against his with the lightest of touches. Speaking so quietly it’s almost inaudible, yet with so much power Eddie thinks he might actually die, you murmur,
“So, Master... Are you ready for kiss number one?”
Slack jawed and barely coherent, Eddie nods an assent, and as you move forwards an almost imperceptible amount Eddie tilts his chin up, the joint movements eliminating the space between you. Your first kiss is soft, tender. His pillowy lips press against yours with what feels like barely contained desperation, his breath uneven and shaky, and you wonder quite how much he’s holding back. It’s delicious. The scent of him is stronger at this proximity, and you inhale it like holy smoke. You immediately press back, feeling his lips move beneath yours. Your mind fills with images of pink silk, warm honey, fizzing wine and swirling glitter. No one’s touch has ever given you visuals before, and there’s a brief moment where you wonder whether there were hallucinogens in one of the snacks, but then Eddie jolts you back to reality by moving the tip of his tongue ever so gently against the seam of your lips. You can’t stand to wait any longer. Parting your lips and dropping your jaw, you immediately allow Eddie full access to your mouth. His tongue plunges in with a fervency you’ve never experienced, and he moans as yours slides over and around it.
His hands are on you again, stroking and squeezing at your waist and your hips, and you whimper into his mouth. Braver now, or perhaps just unable to resist, Eddie’s hands cup under your ass, his fingertips drifting dangerously close to your cunt, kneading the flesh and pulling your cheeks apart, causing you to let out a groan of your own. You almost break the kiss and drop your head back, but stop yourself, not wanting it to end. After all, you only have three left after this... Instead, you lean forward and kiss Eddie deeper, gripping his tresses and tugging gently at the roots, and he moans harder into your mouth.
Eventually you both need air, and you break apart, gasping. You gaze at Eddie’s flushed face, his pupils blown wide and his lips reddened and slick from the kiss. You swear the temperature in the trailer has risen a good five degrees, and without thinking you grab the hem of your shirt and lift it up and over your head, discarding the fabric somewhere in the room. Eddie's arms go slack at his sides and his eyes widen. His Adam’s apple bobs and he swallows, hard, as he’s presented with the sight of your tits at eye level, covered in nothing but the cutest bra you own (that you totally didn’t wear especially).
His eyebrows furrow and he breathes out a ‘haaaaah’, in a strangled half sigh, half moan. Your confidence soars as it becomes clear that he likes what he sees, and although you’re feeling both flattered and desired it does seem to have stunned Eddie into some sort of paralysis. You move your hands to his and position them over your boobs, encouraging him to hold them, squeeze them, make them his. He complies, groaning again as he massages your warm flesh in his palms. His calloused fingertips dip beneath the tops of the cups, and with sudden urgency he roughly pulls down the fabric, your tits bobbing free and your nipples peaking at both the rush of air and the intensity of his gaze. You slip the straps down off your arms and the cups fall away against your ribs, your soft flesh jiggling in front of his face. You look down to see he’s practically drooling, and there’s only the briefest beat before he’s manhandling you again, squeezing and kneading, pressing his nose against your sternum and burying his face between them.
You feel an odd wet sensation in your cleavage and realise it’s Eddie’s tongue, probing and prodding and tasting your flesh. He hums loudly; it reverberates through your chest, and you moan in return. He laps and licks at your flesh, kissing and sucking through shuddering hums. Open-mouthed kisses and swipes of his tongue turn into gentle bites, sucks, and eventually combinations of both that you’re sure will leave marks, and you can’t bring yourself to care.
He turns his attention to your nipples now, reverently but firmly pinching and twisting them between his calloused fingertips, watching them harden further at his ministrations, jaw slack. You whimper above him, and his eyes dart up to your face, his gaze settling there as he drinks down every furrow of your brow and each little gasp and whine that he draws out of you. Smirking slightly, he slowly lolls out his tongue and watches your reaction as he licks a broad stripe over one bud, and you let out a sigh so sweet he wants to record it and play it again and again. You watch as he wraps his pretty, plush lips around your firmed nipple, sucking hard and quickly flicking his tongue over it, his fingers still gently pinching the other. It fires sparks throughout your entire body and stokes the flames between your legs. You let out a primeval sound that you’ve never heard yourself make before, and below you Eddie can’t help but break into a feral grin as his eyes turn dark and wild and he moves to do the same on the other side.
Your hips roll against his and suddenly you need more of him, so much more. You shift back just a little and slip your fingertips under the hem of his Hellfire tee, knuckles just grazing the warm skin of his abdomen as you pinch the thin fabric between your fingers, questioning,
“And yours?”
He smiles softly, hardly believing you’re asking him this, and he grabs the back of his collar, ripping his shirt off with the same fervour you did, neither of you watching where it lands. You can’t help but grin and bite your lip as you view his naked torso for the first time. It’s just like the rest of him, sculpted and exquisite - perfect-looking skin, marble-like contours, pretty pink nipples and the sweetest dusting of chest hair, decorated with beautifully contrasting charcoal ink. You lightly run your fingers over the spider and gruesome figure on his pec, allowing them to drift over his nipple, which immediately peaks under your touch as he shivers beneath you. Fuck, he’s beautiful.
Your hungry gazes devour every inch of each other, before flicking back to one another’s eyes. There’s a brief moment of stillness and eye contact, and you swear you’ve never before been this hungry for anything in your entire life. It’s like a pause before an avalanche; you know something big’s about to happen, and that there’s nothing either of you can do to stop it. You lurch forwards simultaneously and your chests crash together, your arms slide around, gripping and grasping and mussing each other's hair as your lips meet again in a wet, deep and passionate kiss. Eddie’s hands roam your back, his fingertips dragging down your spine and hot palms caressing you. Your breasts squash against his pecs, and the feeling of his skin against yours intensifies the kiss to the point where the only way to deepen it would be to climb inside of him.
You kiss for what feels like forever, leaving your lips swollen and tingling and a slight ache in your cheeks. Whilst it all feels fucking amazing (really fucking amazing), the throb between your legs is growing and begging for attention. Keeping your mouth attached to his you slide your hips up Eddie’s lap, easily finding the significant protuberance and pressing your centre against it. You moan long and low as you grind down on Eddie’s prominent bulge, the slick in your underwear still offering a pleasant glide, and Eddie joins you, the stuttered sound vibrating against your lips.
You roll your hips again and sparks leave your core and travel all the way up your spine. You’re certain you could cum like this, pushing Eddie’s covered length between your folds and rutting your clit against his swollen tip, and you wonder if he would want that too. But, abruptly, Eddie’s grasping your upper arms, pulling away from you and looking into your eyes, pleading. He speaks again, his voice now broken and low and it makes your insides liquify as he rushes out,
“Goddamnit, Princess, I wish I could make this more special, take my sweet time with you. I swear on the soul of James Hetfield I would love that so much. But right now, I just really, really want you.”
You weave your fingers deeper into his hair and bring your face so close to his that you can’t focus. Breaths mingling in the space between you, you breathily assent, peppering his nose, forehead, cheeks with wet kisses as you respond, softly but clearly,
“I want you too.”
You lean in for another passionate kiss, anticipating sliding your tongue deep into Eddie’s mouth again, imagining him humming with delight and approval and reciprocating, hard. But suddenly, you’re lifted from his lap. You’re momentarily confused as he encourages you to stand, moving you backwards until you’re braced against the table, your tits out and knees splayed apart over his.
Eddie pauses for a moment, taking in the scene. He’s been thinking about this for so, so long and now he can’t quite believe you’re here. Are you an angel? A dream? A hallucination? Did Wayne’s casserole go off again, or have erroneously foraged mushrooms in it?
Whatever option it turns out to be, Eddie doesn’t care, he’s all in. He drops off his chair, pushing it backwards as his knees connect with the trailer’s scratchy carpet, feeling the hot friction against his skin through the rips in his jeans but never caring about anything less in his entire life. All of his focus is entirely on you, on feeling you, touching you, tasting you.
He grabs the hem of your skirt and tucks it into its own waistband, getting it out of the way and revealing your thighs, belly and pretty, sheer panties to him (variations of which you definitely don’t wear every time you’re going to see Eddie). He sighs, gasping out a soft exhale as he runs warm, calloused fingertips down over your soft belly to the top of your underwear. He’s vibrating with tension, yet so reverent, and you feel like a piece of art under the hands of its creator. His fingers drop lower, and his eyes flick up to yours as if asking permission. You don’t know whether you’re answering his unspoken question or simply begging as you breathily whisper,
“Please, touch me.”
Eddie doesn’t need telling twice. Both of his hands are splayed wide as they roam over your soft hips, your belly and the creases of your thighs. They feel strong, and a little rough, and it drives you close to insanity. One thick thumb swipes over the flimsy fabric again, and dips just low enough that you feel an exquisite hint of pressure where you need it most. You gasp loudly, following it with a moan as Eddie presses down slightly more, watching your expression as it morphs from surprise to pleasure.
“Oh, there we go, my sweet girl. That’s the spot, huh?”
All you can do is pant in response. It’s incredible, but it’s not enough. Eddie knows he’s teasing you, and he smirks from beneath his chestnut bangs as he hooks over the top of your panties and starts to drag them slowly down your body. He only gets them midway down your thighs before he can no longer resist, and you feel his round nose bump against your mound as he inhales deeply, releasing a long breath of satisfaction as he breathes in your scent for the first time.
Your eyes widen - no one’s ever done that before - but the desperate, animalistic gesture is definitely doing it for you. His hands continue to work, dragging the sodden material down your legs, and he helps support you to lift each foot as he removes the flimsy garment. You don’t see him shove them hastily and desperately into his pocket, but even if you had you probably wouldn’t have cared.
He marvels at the sight of your core before him, bare and exposed, your knees spread and feet either side of his thighs, and you feel deep, warm breaths fanning over your most delicate areas. His position shifts as he lunges forwards, breathing out a soft,
“Oh, sweetheart…”
And then his face disappears between your thighs. You feel a breach of your folds as Eddie’s long tongue immediately probes for your hole, finding it easily and dipping the tip inside. His mouth is open wide, collecting your juices as they run down his muscular appendage, and he hums as your taste fills his senses, the strokes and vibrations sending shocks of pleasure through your entire body.
You moan and your legs buckle slightly, which only serves to open you up even more and allow Eddie deeper access. His hands grab you underneath your ass, preventing you from falling any lower, his grip strong as his tongue probes ever deeper and you grasp the edge of the table as his rounded nose bumps against your clit. You chance another look downwards, and from what little of Eddie’s face you can see, he seems to be enjoying himself. His eyes are closed and he looks blissed out. He may be fucking your pussy with his face, but he’s using his entire body. His whole head rolls rhythmically and his upper body moves forwards and backwards with each stroke of his tongue, his thighs tensing and releasing and his hands kneading at your ass.
You’ve gripped the edge of the table for stability, but it’s rickety, and the undue stress you’re placing on the aging piece of furniture is making it wobble and sway wildly. Dustin’s pencil pot ends up on its side, and Lucas’s notebook shifts causing his ball cap to slide to the floor, but you can barely hear the commotion above your own moans and the lewd sounds of Eddie’s mouth against your cunt.
For his part, Eddie’s in heaven. He’s suffused with your scent, your taste, and he can’t get enough, alternating between lapping his tongue around your folds, dragging it up and over your clit and then plunging it as far inside you as he can get. He prays to all the D&D gods that you’ll let him do this again, maybe even on a bed, let him eat you out for hours and hours until you’ve lost count of how many times he’s made you cum and his tongue sprains and he can’t talk. But right now he has only one thing on his mind - making you cum here and now on his face. And even if this is as far as you two ever go it’s a memory that’ll keep him in nirvana forever, and he knows it.
One of Eddie’s hands leaves your ass and his thick fingers dip between your legs, the tips of two of them slipping easily inside your slick hole from behind as they replace his tongue. You gasp at the sudden intrusion from an unusual angle, but it’s all so very welcome and he slides in easily, your abundant slick providing a frictionless glide. Your wide eyes and open mouth are a joy for Eddie to see as he beams up at you from his place between your thighs, his face shiny with your slick and a hunger behind his eyes.
He pulls back, making a show of licking his lips and humming, and you feel heat flush your cheeks. Nobody’s ever taken such delight in your taste before. Then, his eyes darkening, Eddie lolls out his long tongue, and you can’t help but whimper at the sight. It’s cut off by another gasp as he lunges back towards you and connects with your clit, licking his tongue across it with the flat before tickling the bundle of nerves with the very tip. It’s intense and exquisite and just so fucking right and you want him to do it forever and ever, until he changes his technique yet again and your legs almost give out beneath you.
He suctions his lips around your bud and starts flicking and suckling intently at your clit, making you tremble and whine, one hand flying to his head and grasping again at his soft tresses. You buck your hips forward and accidentally pull on a handful as you try to stabilise yourself, but Eddie doesn’t seem to mind, in fact, he seems to like it, moaning against your core and sending more shockwaves through your centre. His fingers move deeper, roving, searching, and curling just right to graze that special place inside you, and something hot and familiar ignites in your abdomen.
“Oh fuck, Eddie, I’m gonna—”
Eddie redoubles his efforts, sucking and swirling the tip of his tongue around and over your clit hard and rhythmically. His fingers continue to massage inside you, and his hums and groans get louder as he encourages your release. He wants to tell you how he can’t get enough of this, of your scent, your taste, of you, how good you’re being for him, how much he wants you to cum on his face and soak him. But more than that he wants you here, in his mouth, on his fingers, and tries to convey it all in grunts and growls and the strength of his other hand digging his digits into the plush flesh of your ass.
Your whole body begins to shake and you try to find better purchase on the tabletop, flailing and swiping a load of dice and one of Eddie’s manuals onto the floor. But nothing matters anymore as your vision goes white, your limbs lock and you stop breathing, and your head tips back as you grace the ceiling with a silent scream. Electricity sparks through your form as the only thing in your universe becomes the fusion between your cunt and Eddie’s face. Your body tremors as you experience the most intense climax you’ve ever had, and it lasts for what feels like an eternity.
Eventually your lungs stutter into function again, and you hear an ungodly noise emanating from your own chest. You could be embarrassed, but before it’s even fully left you, you hear a similar noise coming from Eddie, something primal and unbidden. He remains fixed to your core as he licks and sucks you through a series of jaw dropping aftershocks.
He only stops when you manage to slap an uncoordinated palm against his forehead, pushing him away. He pulls back, panting and breathing deep, his jaw slack as he inhales deep lungfuls of air. He looks up at you, his big doe eyes searching yours as you blink down at him and try to swallow. After what feels like an age you’re finally able to mumble, breathily,
“Best. Kiss. Ever.”
He chuckles and nods, curls bouncing as he says, putting on a gruff voice halfway through,
“Oh, fuck yeah. But that still only counts as one.”
You roll your eyes, aghast but somehow also entirely unsurprised at his ability to be a total dork in the midst of an erotic encounter. You can’t help but chuckle at the Lord of the Rings reference, and manage to reply,
“So that’s three, right?”
His grin is wide and dazzling as, still panting a little, he responds with the sexiest wink you’ve ever seen,
“Told you I’d make them count.”
He gently slips his fingers from your sopping core, and grunts as he rises to stand in front of you. His face and chin are slick and dripping with your juices, and he places his wet hand on your hip as the other traces the side of your face.
His smile is sweet and soft as he begins to back away from you, and you briefly mourn the loss until his legs hit his chair and he sits back down. He pats one denim-clad thigh as he asks, in a tone that’s somehow full of both concern and condescending desire,
“Are your legs okay, Princess? Come sit, sweetheart.”
You do, wobbling as you manoeuvre forwards to straddle his knees, taking a few moments to compose yourself, breathing deeply. You can see Eddie doing the same, the movement of his ribs under his soft skin making his muscles dance and his tattoos ripple. You roll your lips inwards in contemplation, briefly considering your next move. It’s not a hard decision. You reach forward with trembling arms and fumble with his belt buckle, and his gaze flits down to your hands and back up again, as if he can’t believe you’re actually doing this. Because he can’t. He’s absolutely certain that this is a dream, and that Wayne is going to wake him up any minute, banging a wooden spoon against a pan and yelling at him about how he's late for school. But it never happens, and as he licks his lips the sweet, musky taste of you invades him again, jolting him back to reality. Yep, he thinks, I definitely do have on my lap a whole-ass, motherfucking angel…
You give him a reassuring smile as you work the fastenings of his jeans open, releasing his turgid cock to tent inside his boxers. Your mouth waters at the sight, and you note the significant damp patch on the fabric near his tip. He really did like your third kiss… Your hands move of their own accord and you reach for him, grasping his (oh god, impressive) length through the thin fabric and wrapping your fingers around him, noting with trepidation and arousal that they barely meet.
He groans long and low, and you feel his thighs tense as he ineffectually bucks his hips against the weight of you atop them. You run your hand over him a couple of times, revelling in his heat and solidity, and push your still-trembling legs into motion until you're hovering over his thighs. You grapple haphazardly with his belt, jeans, boxers, you just want it all gone. You push at his clothes as much as you can until he takes over, clumsily pushing everything down over his knees.
His boxers catch on his cock and as it’s set free from its fabric confines it slaps up against his stomach, smearing glossy precum against his happy trail as it stands proud between you. He’s long, and probably the thickest you’ve seen, with a fat, swollen tip that’s flushed a pretty deep pink and is practically begging for attention. As you stare it kicks up, leaking again, magnificent, and you’ve never wanted to get anything, or anyone, in your mouth so badly before. You move to shift off of Eddie’s lap, intending to drop to your knees, but he stops you with a hand under your elbow.
“Princess, you don’t need to do this. Trust me when I say I really, really want you to. But we don’t have much time, and… okay, this isn’t romantic in the slightest, but I really need to be inside of you, like, right the fuck now.”
You nod quickly, and he’s abruptly pulling you onto his lap again. His naked thighs (those glorious thighs that started all of this) feel divine against yours, a perfect blend of solid, soft, warm and slightly fuzzy. Your smile turns into a salacious grin, and you reach between you to pump him again a couple of times. Before you can go any further, Eddie stops you once more with a hand on your forearm.
“Should I, uh, go get…”
He nods towards his bedroom, you presume to indicate getting a condom.
“You, um, you don’t need to, if you don’t want to. I’m on birth control for a health thing, and if you can promise you’re clean—”
He nods quickly, waves bouncing.
“I promise sweetheart, I promise…”
“Okay, then we can, y’know…”
You gesture vaguely between you, but Eddie gets your meaning.
“Are you— Are you fucking serious? Holy fuck, Princess. You’re gonna kill me, I swear.”
You shift forwards and rise up on your still-shaky legs, grasping his length with one hand and dragging the head of his cock through your folds, teasing your entrance and barely grazing your clit. You let loose a strangled whimper, and Eddie’s hips buck beneath you.
“Oh fuck, those noises you make… I don’t know if I can sto— Shit! You gotta tell me right now, are you sure you want this?”
You nod, so vehemently that you wobble both of you on the chair. Your brows pinch as you slide him through your folds and notch his tip at your hole.
“Uh-huh. I’m really fucking sure.”
The brightness of the grins you gift each other could rival the sun. Eddie can’t believe it, but you’re here, over him, ready to take him. Oh god, he thinks, this is really happening… I’m really fucking the girl of my dreams…
Eddie's jaw drops open and the grip on your hips gets stronger. He tries and fails to stop his hips from bucking again and it pushes him a little further inside you. Oh god, you think, this is really happening… I’m really fucking my gorgeous dungeon master…
You stabilise yourself by gripping onto his shoulders and drop slightly. As his fat tip slides fully into you he lets out another primal-sounding noise. It’s something between a groan, a grunt and a squeal, and it’s the sexiest sound you’ve ever heard. Your eyes lock as he aids you to move forwards and down, your brow furrowing as you slip down his length. Eddie sighs, loud, as you take the top half of him in one go. You pause, unbreathing, and Eddie searches your face for any sign of pain, or regret, or discomfort. You close your eyes, take a deep breath and pause for a moment, steadying yourself as you relax into the substantial stretch. You may have been prepping for this for the entire morning, but the stretch of your walls as he slides in deep still requires some acclimatisation.
Just as Eddie is about to ask you whether something’s wrong, your eyes open again, and he sees just how blown your pupils are. Your knees bend and his hips buck up, and it closes the gap between you and seats him fully inside you. You exhale conjoined moans of relief and arousal, both wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Eddie’s cheek ticks up in an incredulous half smile as your eyebrows raise, and almost immediately you’re rolling your hips on his lap, lifting off and pushing down and sliding him in and out of you with exquisite precision, lewd sounds and wet slaps of skin against skin filling the air.
Eddie wants to tell how amazing you are, how good this feels, how he’s in heaven and never wants this to end, but his banter and eloquence entirely leaves him and all he can manage is a series of grunts followed by a spluttered,
“Fuuuuuck. Fuck, fuck, holy fuck!”
You’re no better, not managing to speak at all and just letting out a long moan as he’s repeatedly buried deep inside you, filling you like nothing or nobody has before. He effortlessly reaches that perfect spot inside of you, the one that no one else has ever cared to search for and that you can only reach with a toy, but Eddie seems drawn to it, connecting with it relentlessly like he was made to be within you.
You lunge forwards and grapple Eddie into another messy, wet and fervent kiss, so deep it’s like you can’t bear for there to be even a molecule's worth of space between you. It’s becoming almost more than you can bear, the desire to be one with all of him. You already had his mind, and now you’re having his body, but you want his heart and his soul as well, and the desire for you to climax together becomes overwhelming.
You move faster, angling your hips so your clit rubs against the dark curls around his base, ignoring the tremors in your thighs and the burning in your muscles. With as much movement as he can manage, Eddie thrusts upwards with each roll, smacking your flesh together with lewd slaps as you both tremble and race towards your highs. He’s moaning constantly, hands roving wherever he can reach, feeling and mapping your body with a desperate urgency, like he needs to be in contact with every single inch of you right the fuck now. He keeps kissing you, mumbling gruffly against your shiny lips between wet, slick, open-mouthed kisses,
“Fuck, Princess, you feel so fucking good. So fucking good. You’re squeezing me so tight, are you— uh-hh— are you gonna—?”
You have no control over the pitch of your voice as you growl, practically shouting in his ear,
“Yes, Eddie. Yes!”
Surprising you, he snakes one hand down between your writhing bodies until he reaches your clit. The pad of his thumb circles and presses, and in an instant that’s it for you. Your rhythm starts to stumble and you lose control of your spine, inelegantly slumping over and moaning obscene sounds into his ear as another torturously intense orgasm crashes over you in a wave. You feel yourself clenching around him, and somewhere in the recesses of your partial consciousness you hope this feels as good for him as it does for you.
You get your answer as Eddie grasps at your lower back with his free hand, pulling you onto him, and he slams up into you once, twice more before stilling. You feel his cock pulse rhythmically as he empties into you, filling you with hot, seemingly-unending ropes of his cum as you twitch and spasm involuntarily on his lap.
There’s a long pause, a moment of peace and silence as you breathe into Eddie’s ear and he slowly runs his broad hands up and down your back and over the swell of your ass, breath cascading over your neck and shoulders. There’s no sound in the trailer save for a ringing in your ears, your heavy, mingled breaths, and the low hum of the refrigerator.
Eddie’s the first to move as he kisses your neck, now clammy and sweaty, with gentle pecks before murmuring,
“Are you okay? Was that… alright?”
You roll up just enough to be able to look him in the eyes.
“Fuck, I— I’ve never— That was more than alright.”
You chuckle lightly as your forehead drops to his, and as you rest there you feel the cooling dampness of your combined perspiration on your chest and torso. Just one more exquisite way in which you’ve melded together today.
You unclench your hands from where they buried themselves within his hair again, and gently scratch at his scalp. Full of endorphins, you blurt out something that you weren’t sure you were ready to admit.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a really, really long time…”
He chuffs a laugh into your neck as he mumbles against your skin, admitting in return,
“Seriously? Shit, so have I.”
He snorts, and strokes your head as he adds,
“I’m such an idiot. We could’ve been doing this for weeks if I’d only had the stones to ask you out.”
You giggle as you pull back to look at him and he grins widely, those gorgeous dimples popping in his cheeks. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of seeing them.
“Hey, I could’ve asked you too. How about we say it was just a really, really long session of foreplay?”
You both break into a fit of giggles, and as you shift on Eddie’s lap you feel his softening cock begin to slide out of you. Your head flops backwards as you take another deep breath, and you languidly roll it around on your neck as your eyes fail to focus on anything in particular. Your eyes drift past the kitchen, and blink as they skim over the clock. You blink again, focussing, and your eyes flash wide as your brain slowly processes the symbols. With a start you realise the kids are going to be back soon, and the two of you really don’t have long to get dressed, clean up, and somehow make this place look like a gaming venue again, rather than the debauched sex palace it currently resembles.
“Shit, the time! Oh my god Eddie, we need to clean up!”
You look around you and grab his shirt from where it landed on the table, and Eddie hurriedly pulls it over his head. He helps you to stand, roughly pulling up his pants with one hand and supporting you on your wobbly legs as the two of you stumble towards the bathroom. Eddie tries unsuccessfully to hide the smug look on his face as he realises that him fucking you is the cause of your difficulty walking.
In the bathroom he sits you down and helps slip your arms back into your bra straps, gets you a warm cloth, and does what he can to adjust your hair. You stand and smooth your skirt, realising there’s something important missing,
“Where are my…?”
You turn to see Eddie looking at you with a smirk, your panties dangling from one finger. You lunge forward to grab them, but he’s faster, balling them in his fist and clasping them to his chest (heart?) in a faux defensive move. You huff out what you hope is an annoyed sigh, but it comes out a bit too breathy and Eddie just finds you alluring all over again.
“You know, under different circumstances I would probably ask if I could keep these, but seeing as we have a game to play this afternoon and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, I guess…”
He proffers them to you, and you grab them with a smile you can’t suppress.
From outside you hear the distant noise of chattering teens and the quiet crunch of gravel. Both your eyes pop wide. You turn, intending to have a brief final check in the mirror, and are distracted by the reflection of your barely-covered boobs, now adorned with slowly darkening pink and purple marks. Whilst you’re loving the image, you can’t exactly greet the party like this.
“Eddie, where’s my shirt?!”
“Fuck!”
Eddie is still fastening his jeans as he stumbles around on gangly legs scanning the living room, looking for any sign of your top. He finds it draped over Mike’s backpack just before footsteps hit the porch, and rushes back to the bathroom to pass it to you before anyone enters. You pull it on over your head, almost wearing it backwards but noticing at the last second, and as you squint into the mirror to check your face you see Eddie in the reflection.
“Your hair!”
It’s a mess, even more wild and voluminous than usual. Eddie does what he can to flatten it, but quickly concedes it’s a lost cause. He’s in the doorway just about to leave when you realise evidence of your tryst is beginning to leak down your thigh. You beckon him over and quickly whisper into his ear to ask if he has a spare washcloth, not really wanting to go into much detail but making it clear what you need it for.
Eddie swallows audibly and looks you up and down, a slight smirk appearing at the corner of his mouth as he licks his top lip, his cock stirring in his jeans and a pink tinge coming back to the top of his cheeks, visibly affected by what you’re telling him. He presses his lips into yours once more as he passes between you and the bathtub, and retrieves a clean cloth from the cabinet. As he leaves again, he murmurs into your ear,
“Fuck, Princess. You’re amazing, you know that?”
He gives your hips a quick squeeze and briefly presses his crotch against you, his semi evident. You feel your cheeks heat a little, hoping the sensation will dissipate by the time you get back to the table.
Positioning the washcloth into your underwear as best you can and taking a few breaths before exiting the bathroom, you carefully make your way out, saying hi to all the kids as they file in, babbling about whatever is important to teenagers and passing Eddie a greasy pizza box and half-full bottle of soda.
You spend a little bit of time in the kitchen, trying to mentally and physically regroup. You stand for far too long at the open fridge, making a show of choosing a cold soda when you’re actually attempting to quell the residual heat in your neck and face. Your head is still a little fuzzy, far away, and you briefly wonder whether that really just happened, until the burn in your thighs and the slick you can still feel between your legs lets you know that yes, it most definitely did.
After everyone’s present, you head back to the table, sitting at a place next to Eddie after he pats it when he sees you coming, having batted everyone else away, a wry smile on his face. Someone has finally noticed the seating situation, and has dragged the floral, fur-topped laundry bin from the bathroom to use as an extra seat. It’s too low, a grumbling Dustin losing a die roll and ending up sitting on it, trying to raise himself a little with a precariously placed cushion. Eddie responds to his chuntering with,
“Suck it up, Henderson. It’ll be someone else’s turn next time.”
You pause, realising that this is essentially an assumption that you’ll join in with another campaign at his house. Your chest fills with warmth as you acknowledge the feeling of truly being an integral part of the group. One of the gang. One of them. You swallow back a collection of emotions as everyone gathers at the table, and the afternoon’s gaming begins.
Eddie seems happy and content, touching your thigh under the table when everyone’s distracted, and running his knuckles against your knee or your hand, just to keep you close. He keeps looking towards you, pupils practically heart-shaped if you so much as glance in his direction. Which you’re doing. A lot.
Nobody notices. Well, almost nobody…
Everyone has a great time, the game flowing well and containing a perfect balance of challenge, humour, terror and exasperation. It’s a testament to Eddie’s skills as a Dungeon Master, and as you watch him command the game and slip his voice and demeanour seamlessly between characters you feel yourself becoming even more bewitched.
Having said that, you’ve noticed that he’s being somewhat less dastardly and devilish than is his wont. The kids spot that he’s a bit more lenient than usual, but pay it little mind, deciding to use it to their advantage and getting away with increasingly bold moves that they wouldn’t normally be able to slip past him.
Mike and Lucas try to take the lead at various stages of the game, using their deep-but-breaking voices to proffer their ideas more loudly than the rest. They’ve clearly physically developed faster than Will and Dustin, and although Dustin is whining and arguing you get the impression that Will’s somewhat quieter disposition means he’s now all too easily talked over.
You muse that the two larger boys have certainly had more than their fair share of your home baked cookies too, and whilst you don’t mind too much, you make a mental note to bake a special batch for the other three to share next time. By the middle of the afternoon there’s only one left, and you casually lift the plate, offering it to Eddie with a cheeky,
“Care for the last cookie, Master?”
You even tag on a tiny wink, that you hope no one else sees, and Eddie’s cheeks flush that pretty pink again as he goes to reach for it, giving as good as he gets by adding an overly-polite,
“Why, thank you so much for your kind consideration, Princess.”
He moves his toned arm over to the plate, but his fingers stall, hovering a couple of inches shy of the sweet treat.
“You know what? Let’s make this a challenge. Everyone roll a D6, and I’ll roll a secret die behind my screen. Whoever gets the highest combined score wins the cookie, and gets a bonus healing spell to use later in the game however they wish.”
Everyone rolls, a few people groaning as they score 1s and 2s, Will rolling an acceptable 4. You only roll a 3, but you don’t mind, knowing you can create your own cookie stash whenever you want, though you can’t help rueing that you didn’t get that spell. Also, you have a sneaking suspicion this isn’t actually about dice scores…
Behind the screen, Eddie rolls and scribbles, rolls and scribbles, Will’s being the final toss. As you hear Eddie’s die land, you think you see the faintest microexpression of disappointment flicker across his face, but he recovers instantly, booming a joyful,
“Congratulations to Will The Wise! Enjoy the benefits of your Cookie Of Healing, my friend.”
Eddie waggles his brows at a grinning Will as you pass him the plate, the taller boys groaning as he takes it, and you share an eye roll with Erica at their antics. Looking back at Eddie, he wears a fond expression as he looks at the smaller boy, and you realise he’s definitely done this deliberately. You knew he was kind, but you can add generous to the growing list of qualities you’ve observed in him.
You thought you knew him, perhaps not all that well, but at least a little. But this afternoon has shown you that there are even more facets to this fascinating man than you could’ve imagined. He’s kind and generous (and not just as a lover, though you obviously appreciate that about him too, your face heating a little as you think of it). He always puts others before himself, and you wonder whether he’s had anyone take care of him like that. Saving his uncle Wayne, of course, whom you know he loves very much.
The game continues, and becomes especially and delightfully tense when you’re all fighting the guards around the final bad guy’s lair. Will has cause to use his Cookie of Healing, and there’s a moment where your character almost dies, but fortunately Eddie manifests a reason for your dice to be re-rolled, and you are miraculously saved. You notice that Mike is giving Eddie some hard looks for the next few minutes, but assume it’s because his character has accumulated quite a lot of damage.
A comfort break follows shortly afterwards, and Mike stalks towards Eddie as he fiddles with the stereo in the corner, putting on some Deep Purple at a low volume to mix up the energy in the room. Cornering Eddie, he hisses,
“What the hell was that?”
Frowning, Eddie plays the innocent as he asks,
“What?”
“You know what! Her character totally should’ve died back there, and you— you—”
Mike’s keeping his volume low, but his indignation is turning him red in the face. He clenches his fists as he whisper-shouts,
“You cheated, man! You never cheat! You always say the dice don’t lie! What’s going on..? You loooove giving her extra help, don’t you? Love it when she asks you stuff. Wait, is it because you like her? Is she your girlfriend now or something? This is so unfair, it’s favouritism, man!”
In an unusual display of intimidation, Eddie straightens up, puffs out his chest and looms over the younger boy despite them now being of similar height. His eyes are wide and piercing as he replies,
“Don’t you ever, ever say anything about her, okay? Not ever, you geddit?”
At that moment, Dustin appears. Ever the one to diffuse a tense situation, he murmurs,
“Hey, hey. What’s going on over here?”
Putting on a mocking tone, Mike spits,
“Eddie’s favouring his girlfriend. He got to perv over her when she needed help with her dice, and now she’s getting preferential treatment. It sucks!”
“Eddie, is this true? Did you— Did you cheat?”
Eddie’s still incensed by Mike's behaviour, but he softens a little as he turns to Dustin. Sweet, caring, innocent Dustin. His shoulders slump and he huffs out a breath as he admits,
“Yeah, so, I guess I kinda did… fudge things a little back there… I’m sorry, okay? I really like her, and she spent so long building that character, and she was so into it that I…”
His posture slumps even further and a hand comes to rub at his face and the back of his neck as he realises,
“I guess I failed you guys. I’m sorry. I’m a shit DM, I should—”
Dustin interrupts.
“No, Eddie. It’s okay. I mean, it’s pretty obvious how much you like her. It has been for a while.”
Mike looks dumbfounded, completely oblivious to this apparently clear dynamic. Dustin continues,
“Look, we’ll let it slide, this time. But only this time, ‘kay? And we won’t say anything to the others about any of this if you don’t want them to know. Will we, Mike?”
He looks pointedly in the other boy’s direction, and Mike shuffles his feet as he mumbles,
“No, I guess not.”
The game resumes and all seems forgotten, although Eddie spots that Mike is now paying particular attention to what happens after every dice roll. The Party take worrying amounts of damage but ultimately achieve a resounding victory, and Eddie congratulates everyone on a good campaign.
As the boys pack up their gear you gather plates and glasses, taking them to the kitchen, and as you place them in the sink Erica corners you.
“So, Princess, tell me why you’ve been making eyes at that dork all afternoon. Are you tryna get on his good side or something? Use your feminine wiles or whatever?”
Surprised at her forthrightness, you stutter,
“What? No, I don’t— I’m not—”
She rolls her eyes. It’s so very Erica. And then she’s immediately back on the offensive.
“I saw how he let your character off with minimal damage when he should’ve legit vaporised your ass… What's going on, huh? Are you tryna fix the game?”
“I… I- uh.”
Erica doesn’t let up.
“Cmon girl, spit it out. Or I’ll tell everyone those delicious cookies of yours came out of a box!”
She spits the last word like it’s a mortal threat, and she’s pointing at your chest, although she’s thankfully not making contact. You reckon she’s got the strength of Bruce Lee in that one digit alone, even if it would manifest as sarcasm and piercing wit.
“Erica, I— I like him…”
Erica's eyes roll again, and she flings her arms skywards.
“I knew it! I fuckin’ knew it!”
She crosses her arms across her chest as she continues,
“Y’know, I genuinely don’t know if this is better or worse than just using him to get ahead in the game.”
She sighs, exasperated. Cocking her head to one side, she questions,
“Okay, you gotta tell me what you like about this loser.”
You immediately jump to Eddie’s defense.
“He’s not a loser, okay?”
“Go on, I’m listening. Be specific.”
“He’s got the most beautiful eyes…”
“Dude, they’re just brown. Like dirt.”
“I love his hair…”
She shakes her head.
“That hair is a mess! It looks like a bird's nest. Or a wet dog.”
“His tattoos are pretty cool.”
Her eyebrows practically ping off the top of her head.
“Those shit stick drawings? Those messy ass doodles? Jeez, there are some things I will never understand…”
She sucks her teeth, and you can’t help but defend him some more.
“And you know what? He’s clever, and kind, and the sweetest person you’ll ever meet. He’s creative, and generous, and funny, and sweet, and adorable. He always looks after you guys, and I think he’ll look after me too. And yeah, we might be just starting out, but if he’ll have me, I’m in it for the long haul.”
Folding her arms again, Erica looks you dead in the eye as she says, mockingly,
“Oh my, you’ve got it real bad for this nerd, dontcha?”
There’s a pause. Your expression mimics that of a lost puppy as your brows furrow ever so slightly and your bottom lip juts out.
Oh god, what if you have ruined everything? Messed up the group, lost all of your new friends…?
Suddenly, Erica's expression softens, and she gives you a sardonic smirk.
“Well, I’m glad. I was a little worried that you were gonna fuck up our DM or something. But now I can see that you really like him, y’know, for him. And you’re not gonna mess him up. In fact, I think you’re good for each other.”
There’s another short, nervewracking pause, before she declares, with a grin,
“You know what I say? You’re alright, Princess.”
She wraps both of her arms around one of yours, squeezing tightly and guiding you, still a little stunned, back towards Eddie’s living room. You spot him glance up from the mess of manuals he’s gathering, and you both give each other syrupy smiles as your eyes connect. Erica diverts your attention once again as she says,
“Now, there is just one more thing…”
You glance down at her nervously.
“When in the hell do I get that cookie recipe?”
Eventually Mike and Will’s moms arrive, and everyone files out, books and pencils stuffed in bags and clasped in arms. Eddie lets the others exit first, and as you shuffle slowly towards the open doorway he grabs your elbow and pulls you towards him, out of sight.
He presses his lips to yours in a messy, over enthusiastic smooch, sliding his tongue in momentarily and sucking on your lower lip as he withdraws.
“That’s a bonus one, right?”
A little taken aback, and still not quite stable from your earlier antics, you almost lose your balance and giggle as he wraps you in a tight embrace, kissing into your neck and growling quietly. You must admit you don’t want to leave.
You steal a few more pecked kisses before you hear car doors slamming, the realisation that your ride is waiting for you weighing heavily between you. Eddie hooks his pinkie with yours, keeping your hands out of sight as he reluctantly directs you to his open front door. He leans his shoulder against the frame and pouts a little, gazing at you through his bangs as he asks, as nonchalantly as he can manage (which, to your great delight, is adorably flustered and not very nonchalant at all),
“Soooo, you gonna come back and play again soon?”
Thanks so much for reading! There’s gonna be more to this series, just ask if you want in on the taglist or my general one for everything 💜
Speaking of taglists, this is for you my lovelies: @joejoequinnquinn @jamdoughnutmagician @guiltyasquinn @madaboutmunson @airen256 @sunshinepeachx @the-unforgivenn @skrzydlak @comeonatmebruh @jamiecb66 @80s-addict @abellmunsonmovie @definitionwanderlust @sheneedsrocknroll92 @munson-blurbs @wonderlanddreamer @daisy-munson @maedesculpaeusoubi @kurdtbean @mediocredreams @in2tswft @micheledawn1975 @littlebebebunny @12thatsanumber @alastorssimp @the-baby-angel @eddie-is-a-god @wolfqueenxxx @losingmygrasponreality @richter-raccoon @1deverland @evileyeandthecattywhumps @3rd-conchord @bellalillyrose @katethetank @justalotoffanfiction @emxxblog @awkward00noodle
hello! I'm back :) will leave a little author note at the end of the fic for u. but in the meantime: enjoy this medieval slow burn fluffy smutty monster of a fic (which has not been proofread because I am so tired) <3
in short: you're from royalty, and the illicit crush you're harbouring on your sworn protector is threatened when your father, the king, reaches the end of his tether and finally begins the search for your husband.
medieval/fastasy au with knight!Eddie and fem!princess!reader, smut (18+ only, minors dni!), implied virgin!reader, (one attempted) assault, general fluff and angst and fun fantasy frolicking, mention/threat of arranged marriage (brief), enemies to lovers if you squint but mostly a bodyguard au but he wears armour and you live in a castle.
14k words (!!!)
-
You had only seen your knight without his cuffs and cloak once before in your life.
When you were nineteen, you had a fling with one of the boys who tends the horses in the stables. It had been a wet summer and against your father’s wishes you’d spent many evenings returning to the castle sodden and smiling. Your afternoons were adventurous - too much so for your age, your mother would say over dinner - and your escapades to the woodland beside the keep resulted in muddy fingerprints up the curve of your thighs and difficult-to-hide bruises blooming below your collarbone.
You may have been reckless, but you knew better than to show up to court with purpling bite marks where the collars of your dresses did not reach.
On one of the rare sunny evenings, you had stolen away after supper to the balcony that extended across the western wing of the castle. It stretched from your quarters around the side of the building, ending at the room that had belonged to your sister before she had been married to a man who lived across the sea. The sun was low and the air was thick and so in your nightgown you prowled the terrace, fingers dancing along the worn stone and up the wilting vines. As you rounded the corner there he was - your sworn protector, a man who could be barely a year your senior, hunched in an old chair over his armour. You stopped behind the wall with enough haste that he didn’t spot you - or if he had, he never let on - and while he was engrossed in the work of polishing the silver, you watched.
He’d done away with his undershirt, most likely because of the stubborn, close heat, and though he was side-on to you, his chair facing out towards the mountains in the distance, he was hunched to his left, leaving you with a view you much preferred to the vast one beyond the wall.
The muscles across his back rippled as his arm moved back and forth over the metal. In the quiet of the evening you could hear small grunts and sighs, and as your eyes adjusted to the light you spotted silvery marks of healed flesh across his side. His back was speckled with freckles and as he moved, you took notice of his mop of hair.
Though your father’s knights were never required to wear their helmets in the castle, the hair that now flowed freely was usually tightly bound at the nape of your knight’s neck. You had never realised how long it truly was - nor how unruly. Brown curls stood in what seemed like every direction, swaying back and forth in tandem with his shoulder, glowing a slight auburn in the setting sun.
You had watched him for a while, listening to the sounds of his efforts and drinking in the way the light made his skin gleam golden. It wasn’t until the sun had set that you had made your escape, bare feet padding silently across cool stone.
Ser Munson - Edmund, or Eddie as he preferred - was assigned as protector of the King’s first daughter when she came of age, at sixteen. You had been a moody teenager, belligerent and stubborn, determined you did not need protecting, even if the protector in question was broodingly handsome and a challenge to crack.
Thus, you lingered around the castle while your sisters sought husbands and new lives. Your father, though a cunning ruler, was soft when it came to his girls, and so no man was worthy of a single one of them unless he made her happy.
And no man ever had made you happy. The ones who put themselves forward as candidates for your hand were, in most cases, perfectly nice men. Mostly wealthy, often handsome, but always boring.
It was always the same: they believed you to be the most beautiful princess in the history of the realm, and they would be honoured to wed you. But as your father’s eldest daughter you knew one thing to be true: every one of them wanted the throne, and would marry you to get there.
So you sought fun in lowly servant boys, stealing kisses from cupbearers and kitchen porters, running wild in the vast gardens of the castle, just out of grasp of your grumbling mother. One day, you’d tell her when she chastised you over monstrously glutinous dinners. One day a man will come here and sweep me off my feet. Until then, I am content with my lot.
After that evening when you were nineteen, you had not looked at Eddie the same way. His job was to follow you everywhere - well, mostly everywhere, unless you were behind a tree with the stableboy again - so it was difficult to not look at him. But those aimless adventures became tiresome, and your daydreams became occupied instead by the man who tailed your every move. Stableboys were getting married, all your sisters were getting married, every eligible nobleman for a hundred miles was getting married - but you remained, as did Eddie.
“So it doesn’t hurt?”
“No, your highness.”
Eddie stares straight ahead, off into the distance, answering your childish questions through gritted teeth. You grin at him, elbow on the arm of your chaise and chin cupped by your hand, enjoying this latest instalment of your petty little game: you ask him silly questions, Eddie’s cheeks go pink, and you get a good giggle and a kick out of teasing him. It began as something lighthearted, a test of the waters after that late night wander changed your perspective, but that was two years ago and understandably, Ser Munson is getting increasingly tired of your games.
“Your highness, can I suggest that you get dressed? You’ll be late for-”
“No,” you yelp as he stands to move, sword clanking. “I’m sorry, I’ll bite my tongue. Don’t go.”
“But Miss-”
“Okay, okay, I’ll dress, just wait outside the door, will you?”
“I always do, your highness,” he says. “It is my duty.” You cannot see the smirk he sports as he turns his back to you; it is one he reserves only for himself, lest your ego get too big.
You deflate into your chair as he leaves, the heavy door swinging open. Three young maids are by your side as it slams shut, lifting you from your doze and tying you into a corset and skirt. Today you’re offered a deep navy gown, the colour of your family’s flag and perhaps the colour you look second best in.
At least it matches Eddie’s cloak.
You knock softly twice on your bedroom door, your handmaids tugging at the final details, and the guards who stand watch pull it open for you. You breathe in quick and deep, hands smoothing the satin across the top of your skirt, and step forward into the hall.
Eddie stands to one side, awaiting your direction. You follow your usual morning route, down the wide corridor to the stairs, which roll out into an even wider hall like dropped silk. Eddie’s cloak slinks across the stone floor behind you, and you yearn to make a joke, prod at him, get under his skin but you cannot, for many eyes are upon you now.
The Great Hall sits at the opposite end of the atrium to the staircase. The walls between yourself and the huge, towering doors are decorated for the brief return of your youngest sister, the most recent to wed - she is pregnant, and so there must be celebrations.
Floral garlands follow you as you make your way across the room, where, at the far end, your father stands in the doorway, watching, your mother by his side.
Peering glances follow you until other guests arrive and attentions are diverted. So you slow your step just slightly, enough that Eddie does not notice immediately and falls in line with you. Before he can correct himself, you lean in.
“Ed- er, Ser Munson,” you say, tone playful but slightly sinister, an indicator that you are brewing one of your schemes.
“Yes, your highness?” he responds neutrally.
“Ser Munson, would you please do me a favour?”
Long ago, Eddie learned to never respond to this query the way he is supposed to as your protector: Anything, your highness.
Instead, he asks: “What can I do for you?”
“You know that sword?” You twist slightly, tapping the hilt of his blade where one of his fists seems to permanently rest. “You’ve killed people with it, right?”
“Only when I have to, your highness.”
“How many, would you say?”
You hear him take a sharp breath in. You smile softly.
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen,” you repeat. “Care to make it nineteen? Do me a favour and slice through my guts so I don’t have to bear another one of these idiotic ceremonies?”
If you’d paid closer attention, rather than sharing your gaze between Eddie and your father, who was ever-nearing, you’d have seen that your dear knight almost broke. This would have been the closest you’ve come to getting a laugh out of him, your stoic, stone-faced hero.
“That’d be highly inappropriate, your grace,” he says, composed. “And I’d surely lose my head.”
“Oh, but that’s your job,” you whisper. “To die for me! And anyway, I can’t go to hell alone, you’ll need to keep me company. And protect me from the ghouls. So maybe make it twenty instead.”
This time, you do catch it. The corner of his mouth twitches and something in his eye, the way it dodges you, gives him away. In your peripheral vision you see him open his mouth - it’s close to your ear, you almost hear the beginning of a word - but you’ve reached the end of the hall, and your father awaits. Eddie falls back again, a step or two behind, as you drop your shoulders and brace yourself.
-
Being one of many sisters is a difficult life. Impossible to prevent yourself from comparing their hair to yours, their eyes, the slant of their shoulders, their waists, their hands, and worse is the bickering, the competition.
Being the only one of them not to be married is the worst.
Twenty minutes ago, you stole yourself away to a corner of the Hall with a too-full cup of wine and three slices of the best bread. Here you camp, munching on the final crust, eyeing up the table across the room. How do I get a refill without someone asking me to dance?
With your eyes squinted and shoulders hunched in, you scarcely notice your knight down the wall. He’s on guard, back straight with his hand on the hilt of his sword - watching, as he is supposed to. Only his attention is distracted, because in his peripheral vision is you, alone, as always.
It’s only when you hear the familiar clinking of sword sheath on armour that you turn to see that he’s beside you, and in a rare moment of peace, he’s leaning back, letting the wall take his weight.
“What’re you looking at?” You eye him suspiciously, swallowing the final sip of wine. “Come to ask for a dance for one of those snivelling Harrington boys?”
You hear him scoff, though he’s smiling just slightly. “No,” he says quietly. “Why, do you want to dance with Steven?”
You scoff. “Do I fuck.”
“Language, your highness.”
“Please stop calling me that when dad isn't around.”
He glances at you, smiling still, and rolls his eyes. “Why aren’t you with the other ladies?”
It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “The Buckleys aren’t here. It’s no fun without Robin.”
“And your sisters?”
“Oh yeah,” you drone. “I just love being reminded by all four of them how lucky a man would be to have me and how I must get married because, oh, weddings are so lovely!”
He turns to look at you properly, silver collar creaking, and reaches over to take your goblet. “How many of these have you had?”
You drop your hands behind your back, looking down at your slippers like a naughty child. “Three.”
To your surprise, you feel the damp rim of the cup meet your chin, pushing your face up. Eddie looks back at you and keeps the pressure under your head so you can’t divert your gaze. Your cheeks warm, heat blooming under his watch.
“Fine,” you sigh, eyes dropping closed in defeat. “Seven.”
You brace for a scolding, expecting a telling off from your faithful knight, but when you look at him in the silence, you find him grinning down at you.
“You’re going to feel awful in the morning,” he tells you.
You look back at him a little dumbfounded, because he’s very close to your face and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him in such detail before. There are creases by his eyes from smiling, and there’s an old, white scar across his nose, which is crooked, presumably from old punches.
“Will you take me to bed, then, please?” you ask softly, and he lowers the cup slowly, placing it on a nearby table without looking away from you. You look back at him, trying your hardest through the fog to give him your best pleading eyes, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. He’s close, still; time suspends as he nears even more and runs his thumb along the underside of your chin. It is the first time in your life that your knight has ever touched you.
You watch as he brings it to his mouth - it’s a deep, bruised pink, dyed by the wine from the rim of the cup where it had held your face up - and, taking his eyes off you, slides it between his lips.
It’s certainly not the first time you’ve been breathless around him, but it is the first time you’re face to face with him as the air leaves your lungs in a slow, desperate whine. It feels criminal, illicit, standing in the shadows at the back of the room, within reach of anyone who cares to look for you, watching Eddie lick wine off the pad of his thumb.
The festive music on the other side of the room ends and people around you cheer. Eddie’s smile drops and he straightens up as though kicked in the back, looking around like he just woke from a dream.
“Uh, yes- Your highness. I’ll escort you to your quarters.”
He steps back but holds his arm out for you to take. For a moment you just stare at him, incredulous, before wrapping your fingers around the cool leather covering his forearm and lifting yourself off the wall, your heart wilting as his guard rises again and your fun, playful protector is lost to duty once more.
-
The ceiling of your bed chamber hasn’t changed in fifteen years. You know because you’ve had many nights like this, staring at it forlornly, yearning for something you cannot and will not have.
When you were six, your father had the sleeping quarters across the whole castle redecorated, and you requested a fresco above your bed. Under the guise of education, telling your father that it would help you practise your knowledge of Arthurian legends, you asked for a depiction of the knights of the round table. Truthfully, you wanted to be able to look at Arthur every night before you slept.
Now, it makes you feel sick. It’s an ugly, truthless fairytale, spun to make little girls giggle and you despise every inch of it, regardless of how beautiful it may have appeared to you once.
In the dark, you can still make out Arthur’s faded features. He is plain, with cropped blonde hair and a silly chestplate, looking over the expanse of your ceiling to Guinevere, whose clasped hands by her cheek make the picture of a woman in love.
You turn over, frustrated, and cover your head with a spare cushion.
-
The stone of the balcony wall is cool beneath the palms of your clammy hands. In the courtyard, your sister’s carriage is leaving, followed by many horsemen from her husband’s house. They’ll return only when the baby is born, to christen him in the family chapel.
You sigh as she leaves the gates and lean your weight on your hands. It’s still hot out, too hot for so many layers under your dress and a corset so tight, and you’re too exhausted to carry the weight around. Your maids are nowhere to be seen because it’s the middle of the afternoon and you should be socialising, but you’re an adult. You can dress - and undress - yourself.
As you return indoors, you reach behind your back and tug at the knot at the base of your corset. After a couple of frustrated tries it finally gives, loosening so that you can hook your fingers under each stretch and pull it undone. You gasp for air, filling your lungs properly as your ribs expand, and use your shoulders to pull it loose enough for you to remove. You take care to place each layer gently over your chaise - corset, overdress, skirt. You’re left in your undergarments - a long, loose slip made of cotton - when you hear an unexpected knock and the door begins to open.
You jump, feeling suddenly exposed in so few layers. It’s unlike anyone to disturb you at this hour.
You tense even more when your knight, with his hair loose and his cheeks pink, pushes the doors wider. He stops in his tracks for a moment as he spots you across the room, flushed your own shade of mortified.
“Eddie,” you hiss. “Shut the fucking door.”
His eyes widen and he straightens up, knocked out of his daze. You expect him to retreat, but he moves inside and pushes the doors closed behind himself.
“I meant with you outside them, ideally,” you bite.
“I- Uh, sorry- My apologies, your highness, I-”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Sorry! Sorry, shit, I- It’s important, sorry.”
“So important that it requires you to see me indisposed?”
He looks at you blankly for a second. “I mean, technically I see you like this every morning when you interrogate m-”
“Oh, shut up,” you spit, eyes narrowing. Your arms are still crossed over your chest, even though you’re covered from neck to ankle. “You know that’s different. There’s no robe or slippers between us now, Ser Munson.”
His cheeks bloom at that, pink slipping into fiery red. He breathes impatiently through his nose, clearly irritated by your prodding, and steps closer.
“Your highness,” he says pointedly. You roll your eyes. “Your father- His Highness requests your presence. In the throne room.”
-
“I refuse.”
“Darling, I-”
“No!”
Your father stands at the other end of the table, his head hung and his hands on the wood in front of him. You are in the room in which he has his important meetings with his council. Over the years you’ve tried a hundred times to get in here during such meetings, to no avail, but now all you want is to get out.
“You are twenty-one,” he says after a breath. “I’ve given you time, five years of it. You can’t remain unmarried any longer.”
This conversation has only been happening for maybe two and a half minutes, but it seems more like an age; you’re exhausted from yelling already, especially at him. But it feels like the walls are closing in, your entrapment in a loveless marriage with a stranger now a certainty rather than a possibility. It’s beyond your power to stop the tears falling.
“You can’t make me,” you say through the thickness of your throat. Your arms wrap around your waist, squeezing, breath hiccupping on its way out.
“I can,” he sighs. “But I really don’t want to. It doesn’t have to be horrible. Your sisters, they’re all happy, why-”
“I don’t care about them. I want to be-” You stop yourself, because this isn’t something to talk about here, with your father of all people; you’d barely even talk to your mother about this stuff. But he’s looking at you again over the expanse of mahogany and his eyes are sad, because he’s fighting with his first daughter, and you break. “I want to be in love, father. I don’t want to be sold off to the highest bidder because I’m the eldest. That can’t be my life.”
He sighs again. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It is. There are fifteen houses coming here tomorrow, each with an eligible son. I’m letting you choose; it’s the most I can do.”
Your nose burns with betrayal and terror. Your cheeks are wet, tears falling into soft, wet spots on the front of your dress. Your arms squeeze your middle one last time before you turn, pushing past the Kingsguard who stand at the door, past the cupbearers and the maids, and past Eddie, who has been waiting for you outside. For the first time ever you don’t hear the familiar sound of armour following you, and for a moment you almost stop to turn and look for him, but you’re still crying and although it’s the middle of the afternoon, all you want to do is hide.
-
“It’s true,” Robin sighs. “I’ve been looking in our library, and I’ve counted at least three instances.”
You roll onto your back. Robin sits beside you on the plush of your bed, which has been remade by your maids so that there are no remnants of your painful, sleepless night. She strokes your hairline softly, looking down at you with sorry eyes.
“The most recent was eighty-three years ago,” she continues. “Lady Flora. She ran off with her knight, to be fair… But still!”
“I’m the eldest, Robin,” you tell her, trying your hardest to stop your words coming out in a hiccup; you only stopped crying this morning, and you’re in no mood to begin again now. “There’s too much expected of me. I can’t run off. I have to pick the right person.”
She takes in a breath. “Who says he isn’t the right one? Or that you’d have to run off?”
“Centuries of historical precedent,” you tell her flatly. When you meet her eye, though, you watch as she tries and fails to hold in a laugh.
“Since when have you ever cared about historical precedent?”
“Never, but that’s the problem.” You sit up quickly, knocking her affectionate hand back into her lap. “I can’t… This isn’t right. None of it is, but especially… Him.”
“But in the centuries of historical precedent,” Robin says, a poor imitation of you, “There were people like you.”
“And what happened to them?” you ask with a huff, standing to pace beside your bed. “Exiled, abandoned, cut off, ridiculed… I can’t live like that, Robin. But- But I can’t exist here while he’s always around, right behind my back. He’s like my fucking shadow. I can’t-” You hiccup, a wet sound that heralds the return of tears. “I can’t move on.”
Robin watches you with eyes laced with a pity that makes you furious. You want her to fix this; it’s entirely irrational, but you’re lost, and surely someone somewhere has to take responsibility for this, fix it so you don’t have to feel anything anymore. Remove Eddie, replace him with someone lifeless and unfunny and ugly, hand you a beautiful, attentive husband on a platter and, most of all, take the pain away.
But it doesn’t work like that. You know it doesn’t.
“Your Highness,” Eddie says in a raised voice from beyond your door. “It’s time.”
You look at Robin, who looks back at you, her eyes wide.
“I’ll be a minute,” you shout back hesitantly as she rises and rushes over. You let her help you adjust your dress and she dips a cloth left behind by a maid into the basin of cool water by your bedside, wiping it gently over your cheeks in an attempt to reduce the blotches there.
Neither of you say another word. She takes your hand firmly and squeezes.
-
You hate this.
Although you’re desperate for anything but a pre-arranged marriage pact, part of you had quite genuinely hoped for some kind of miracle, that one of your suitors would be The Guy. In your restlessness the evening prior, you’d even let yourself fantasise that one of them, strikingly handsome in your daydreams, would appear at the foot of the throne and you’d feel it in that instant: love.
But in every version of this delusion, The Guy was faceless, nameless, a blur of a person until he wasn’t. Until he was Eddie.
In reality, your knight is out of sight for once, and you’re nearing hour three in the gardens, where the court musicians entertain the countless guests and wine is flowing freely for everyone except you. (With your father at your elbow all afternoon, it’s impossible to get a second cup. Your mouth is dry and your boredom inflating.)
You know better than to assume Eddie’s left the gardens completely, but there are too many people for you to see him.
Suddenly, you feel a sharp elbow nudge your rib.
You turn to your father and find him wide-eyed and pink in the nose - a tell-tale sign of frustration - nodding to the man standing opposite the two of you.
“Hm?” you hum, painfully aware of how obvious it is to the both of them that you weren’t paying a lick of attention.
“Lord Carver was telling us about his hunts,” your father says through gritted teeth.
“Oh,” you sigh, turning to the stranger. “How… Interesting. What do you hunt?”
“Deer, mostly,” he responds, puffing out his chest. His cheeks are blotched with pink and the caramel blonde of his hair is unpleasant. The pleasure of your attention is clearly feeding his ego. “Started on pheasants when I was ten. They’re far too easy now; I’m heading out tomorrow to try for a stag. Say, care to join me?”
“Oh, I’m flattered,” you say with a saccharine giggle and hand to your chest that your father can certainly see straight through. “But I don’t hunt. Thank you, though, Lord Carver.”
Lord Carver seems to take this somewhat personally, despite your almost sincere attempt at a polite curtsy. He comes over stoney, steel-eyed as though you’ve wounded him.
“No matter. Your highness,” he says flatly, bowing quickly to your father before turning on his heels and marching away.
You barely listen as you are accosted by the king for being so blatantly rude. Lord Carver is far from your mind because across the heaving mass of strange bodies, you can see your knight, looking straight back at you.
Your father hisses your name but you do not listen.
“I’m taking a walk,” you tell him. “Sorry, father, I just need a break. And… A glass of water.”
It must have rained this morning. The grass is damp beneath your feet, soaking slowly through the velvet of your lilac slippers as you push your way between bodies as politely as you can manage.
With your focus on the ground you do not see Eddie’s eyes following your figure through the crowd; you also do not see Lord Carver six steps behind.
The latter reaches you first, by quite a margin, a moment after you’ve broken free of curious strangers and can finally breathe again. Everything happens very quickly. In the shadow of a high wall, the man reaches for your arm like a viper. His fingers coil and the fresh garden air is replaced by his coddling breath on your cheek. He spun you so quickly you feel momentarily winded, enough to catch you off guard as your face scrapes the old brickwork. Spit hits your cheek and mixes with fresh blooms of blood as his pink face looms, dominating your field of vision - like a bear in a trap you feel helpless, his fingers around your wrist so tight you fear he may break your bones. In a moment you’re frozen stiff and he takes his chance, his lips pushing angrily into the stretch of bare skin above the collar of your dress.
“You’re a bitch,” he says, muffled by the skin under your jaw. You writhe and whimper but you cannot scream. “You humiliated me. See what happens to cunts like- Ungh-”
The force of your knee between his legs is enough force to knock him back. Stumbling, he lurches forward again, only to meet your elbow, sharp and swift at his throat. The pathetic choking sound he makes mixes with the familiar sound of heavy boots; you turn to find Eddie, pink in the face, fist on the handle of his sword.
“Christ,” he pants, “Are you okay?”
Lord Carver coughs as he struggles to regain his balance.
“You-” Cough. “You bitch,” he spits, hand at his collar.
“Watch yourself,” Eddie growls, towering over the spluttering lord, his sword pulled only a few inches from its sheath - a warning: I will not hesitate. “I suggest you take your family home, Sir.”
Lord Carver looks up at him, red eyes watering and breath still catching. For a moment he seems to contemplate fighting back, but even you almost find yourself laughing at the possibility, until you look to Eddie and find a version of the man you’ve never seen before.
Your life, which Eddie tails endlessly from a few paces behind, always, is quiet. Mundane, boring, unadventurous; you rarely leave the castle grounds and when you do, it’s inside a carriage. Your bravest adventure since you were sixteen was taken barefoot, that evening after dinner, up on the balcony where you’d stumbled across your knight, bare-chested and panting.
You’ve teased Eddie before about how the lack of danger in your life must mean his own is boring. Though he never once gave into you, deep down you worry that it’s true.
Now, though, your knight is coloured a shade unknown to you. He’s come over like a shadow, eyes hard and brow set, and there’s a vein visible above the collar of his cape. Lord Carver seems to halve in size beneath his frame, and though he has never shown himself like this in front of you before, you’re sure of one thing.
Your pleading cry is too late, too weak - before you can intervene, Eddie’s fist makes contact with Lord Carver’s cheekbone. There’s a crack that, to you, is as loud as thunder, though the skies are as blue as they’ve ever been. As his back hits the floor, Lord Carver yelps like a wounded dog, and Eddie moves in on him.
“Eddie,” you plead, voice weaker still, your hands grasping his arm, “Leave him alone, I’m okay, please.”
In the commotion, you’d failed to notice your growing audience. You’re sure that if you let him, Eddie would give another punch, and another, but the man on the floor is bleeding from his nose and from a wide gash under his eye and your slippers are drenched through and so is the collar of your dress where your tears, unbeknownst to you, have been soaking the cotton.
“Please,” you hiccup, your hands squeezing, pulling Eddie backwards with as much strength as you can manage.
“Asshole!” Carver spits, his voice broken. Two men who resemble him are helping him up off the ground, the small crowd murmuring between themselves as they watch him stumble away. “You’ll regret this!”
It’s an empty threat. You barely hear it, in fact, because Eddie is finally turning to you, his shoulders dropping. His face softens the moment he looks at you.
“Are you okay? Did he- Where did he hurt you?” He asks again. People are dispersing but you pay them no mind because Eddie’s hands hold your face and it stings when he runs his gloved thumb over the gash on your cheek. You wince and his grip on you tightens, as though you might slip away if he lets you.
As his arms wind around your shoulders, you push your face into the embroidered crest that sits by his heart.
“You’re okay,” he tells you firmly, sweet words murmured into your hair. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
Your father’s booming voice cuts through whispering strangers like a whip. Eddie moves away from you so quickly that you almost choke.
Tears mix with old blood and you want to scream. You want these strangers to leave your garden, you want Eddie to clean your wounds, you want to run away.
You cannot have what you want.
-
Two and a half weeks ago, your father replaced your knight via a letter.
Ser Munson has been reassigned.
After two nights of bed-rest in your chamber, wherein you were seen only by your mother and two alchemists, your new knight - an older man, as old as your father and then some - made himself known at your door. He informed you of his new appointment as your sworn protector. When you asked after Eddie, he closed the door.
Two lonely weeks entailed many downward spirals. One evening after countless days spent rotting, refusing the attendance of your mother or father, you find yourself staring blankly at your reflection in the glass beside the chest that houses your dresses. The girl looking back is gaunt and her eyes are bloodshot. There’s an old cut on her bottom lip, close to healing but you’re sure you’ll bite it open again soon enough, splitting the skin so that deep red plumes can burst through and begin the process again.
You think about Eddie. What would he say if he could see you now? Over the weeks you’ve spent more hours than you can count thinking about how he’d held you, the words spoken into your hair, low enough to avoid unwelcome ears. His hands had gripped you so firmly that you’d almost felt whole again after Lord Carver’s grubby paws had violated you so horribly. Now you’re hollow.
His reassignment was surely your punishment: how dare you let yourself be so distracted that you humiliate a noble Lord to the point of such anger? How dare you humiliate him such that he wants to hit you, bite you, kiss you, hurt you?
Meals delivered by your maids go uneaten. You do not speak to your new knight, only catching a glimpse when he opens the door for attendants.
At the dawn of a Thursday, your mother delivers the news that you are to stay behind while your parents visit your sister. You’re not sure which one of the four it is, but you do not care. With them gone, maybe you can go out; it’s early summer, after all, the weather is glorious, and you’re gasping for some sunlight and some respite from this stupidity.
-
When the sandbag splits, old hay spills onto the muddy ground.
Eddie’s sword is freshly sharpened and slices through the woven material like a hot knife through butter. He imagines Lord Carver’s face where the bag is tied together with string and watches it fall limply to the floor.
Outside in the courtyard, the sun is hot and shade is rare, and sweat beads on his forehead and drips to his chin. Other knights spar around Eddie, practising for nothing. His new position in the Kingsguard is, quite obviously, a downgrade, but only a few of his fellow knights have tried to get the why out of him: why have you stopped tailing the eldest daughter around? Why are you now forced to watch the southern walls in the dead of night? How did it happen? What did you do?
He chances a glance upwards, to the higher balcony along the wall, squinting under the sun. He doesn’t know if what he sees is you, standing in the shadow, or a trick of the light.
-
Your parents have been gone for two days, and the castle is like a ghost town. It’s never like this; even on late night escapades through the hallways, there are always maids at work, cleaning ladies and cupbearers. Guards on constant rotation, your father’s advisers wandering the halls having hushed conversations.
Tonight, though, there’s nothing. Your family’s absence is a moment of respite for the staff, who get a rare few evenings off to venture into town for some fun. You’re completely alone.
The long corridors look almost blue. The full moon is rising over the horizon and you’re enjoying an evening of freedom.
With most of the court staff out of the castle walls, you can’t be sure if you’ll find what you’re looking for tonight. He may have gone off with them, with his friends in the guard, down to a pub, getting drunk because he can, stumbling half-blind into a brothel like the rest of them do.
You shake the thought off because it turns your stomach, despite having no claim over the boy. It’s true that he may have gone but you’re searching anyway, because you’re driving yourself mad with guilt, and secretly you’ve missed him horribly.
You miss knowing he’s right outside your door, only ever a few paces away if you need him. You miss the blooming pink across his cheeks whenever you tease him, his stumbling answers and poor attempt at staying stony-faced and stoic. And you miss the smirk, though you’re sure he thinks he hides it well, that creeps across his face whenever you finish your teasing.
It’s your first time in this corner of the castle. Almost twenty-two years of living here, you’ve never had a reason to venture to where the knights stay. It’s a long way from your own wing - you’ve been walking for ten minutes and you’ve only just spotted a door. You’re treading softly in your favourite ruby slippers which, though you’d never admit it even to yourself, were surely chosen on purpose. You dressed yourself this evening, so there’s no use blaming your maids for the decision to drape you in scarlet.
As you come to a stop outside the room, you hold your breath and listen. You haven’t seen a single knight - not even your own new one - this whole time, but there’s somebody in there, and it sounds like they’re pacing.
Your hand reaches for the handle but just as you touch the iron, it twists on its own and the door flies open. You stumble forwards, losing your balance, but a familiar hand steadies you.
“Your highness?” He breathes, helping you back up. “What the- What are you doing here?”
You look at him. The man staring back at you is wide-eyed, those browns as pretty as ever but framed by new, dark circles. It’s difficult to see in the low light but he’s more tired than you’ve ever seen him. And though he seems sleepy, he’s dressed up in most of his on-duty getup, without the cape and sword.
“Eddie?”
“I thought the- Aren’t you supposed to be seeing your sister?”
“No, I… I stayed behind,” you tell him. A half-lie.
He looks back at you blankly. “Well,” he sighs. “We should… I should escort you back to your chamber.”
“No,” you say firmly. He does not invite you inside but you step over the threshold anyway, pushing past him into what you assume must be his bedroom.
It’s a plain room. The bed is low with old sheets, and there’s one candle burning on a table by the window. On the wall above his bed, he has hammered what looks like a letter into the plaster. And to the left of that-
“Is that mine?” You point plainly to the embroidery hoop. Even in the near-darkness you cannot miss the rosy flush you ignite across his face.
He scratches the back of his neck nervously. “Yes.”
It’s a small hoop, one you must have done years ago. A deep red rose, your favourite.
You look at it for a moment, and then to him. “Where have you been?”
He drops his hand. “I was reassigned,” he tells you.
“Why?”
“I don’t-”
“Why?” you press. He sighs and leans in the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest.
“After the… Incident with Lord Carver, your father thought it best that I be moved.”
“And now?”
“Now,” he sighs, “I’m on the nightwatch.”
“The nightwatch?!” you parrot. Even you, with only superficial understanding of the mechanics of your father’s guard, know that that’s one of the worst jobs. “But you… Why would he punish you?”
“Ask him,” he says bitterly, and so quickly that you know he regrets it instantly. “Sorry,” he corrects, “That was out of order.”
“Don’t apologise,” you say back, stepping past him into the wide hallway. It’s a brighter blueish-grey now, the moon nearing its highest spot in the night sky. You stop, turning to look at Eddie, and there’s a beat of silence.
He’s watching you quietly, and it takes him a moment to realise that you wish him to follow you. Under the moonlight you’re effervescent, your skin almost sparkling. The soft glow of the moon reflects a million times in your eyes like tiny diamonds. You’re so pretty it’s difficult to look away.
Eventually he closes the door behind him and falls into a familiar step, just behind your left foot. You walk and talk as you meander through random hallways, clearly unsure where you’re going but he says nothing, silently grateful to see you again and willing to walk every hall of the castle if it means stretching out the time before he has to leave you again.
“Why do you say that?” he asks. You turn your head to look at him, lost. “You told me not to apologise.”
You huff, striding forward. “You don’t have to respect my father around me, Eddie. It’s not like he respects me, or anything.”
“I don’t understand,” he says quietly. You bristle, frustrated that you’ve allowed the conversation to move to you. You’d intended to find out where he’d gone, not tell him about this.
“He can quite easily forget about me,” you tell him over your shoulder bitterly. “I’m happy to forget about him for a few days.”
“I… I don’t understand,” he repeats, and it irritates you double.
“For God’s sake,” you spit, stopping so abruptly that he almost crashes into your back. You spin and stare him down. “I’m a disappointment, okay? They left for their trip, and they left me behind. I’m useless. No man likes me, not enough to marry me, only stupid stableboys have ever come close to me. Something went wrong somewhere and now I’m here, heir to the throne and without a husband. And it’s. Your. Fault.” You jab your index finger to his chest for emphasis, but it’s meagre because you can feel the tears returning and you want nothing less than to be seen crying by Ser Munson.
You cross the remainder of the hallways alone, Eddie left behind. Whether by choice or because of shock you don’t know, and frankly you don’t care. When you finally return to familiar halls, you push your way into your chambers and slam the heavy door as hard as you can behind you.
After a few minutes of pacing, having make-believe arguments with yourself in hushed tones, there’s a soft knock. So soft you almost miss it, but the eerie quiet of the castle has you jumpier than usual.
“Sweetheart,” you hear through the thick wood. “Let me in? Please?”
Maybe it’s your fear in the silence, or maybe it’s the way the rare sweetheart makes your stomach drop; either way you cave, rushing over and heaving the door open.
On the other side of the threshold, Eddie stands, hair unruly like he’s run his hands through it a few times. The curls stick out at odd angles and stand out dark against his alabaster skin.
Something in his eyes makes you break. The tears come thick and fast and before you can hide or apologise or close the door, arms wrap you up and his hand is on your back, smoothing patiently up and down.
It’s not the most comfortable hug; his armour is mostly leather and cloth but the toughness of it all makes it difficult to completely lean into him. As though he senses that, he pulls back, though his hand lingers on your arm where he gives you a squeeze.
“I’m sorry,” you hiccup, palms smudging wet tears across your face in an attempt to dry your eyes. “That was so mean of me, I’m sorry.”
“I just want to know what you mean,” he says, his eyes sadder than you’ve ever seen them. You dreaded this inevitability the moment you let the blame fall from your lips, but you owe him that much.
You sigh, look down at your feet, and resign yourself to truth.
“Father… He loves me, but he loves the throne just as much. And I’m the eldest, and I’m almost twenty-two, so…”
In your peripheral vision you see him sag, his shoulder dropping in premature realisation.
“He brought all those men here, and not one of them was even slightly as interesting to me as you.”
Eddie looks at you, at the tears that periodically drop from your cheeks to the floor, listens to you sniff and hiccup, and wonders how on Earth you exist, let alone how you’ve landed here, with feelings so profound for him of all people.
“That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about me,” he tells you honestly. You look up at him and the sight winds him: you’re crying, and it’s sad and stressful and difficult but you’re so beautiful.
You giggle and to him, it’s the ringing of a thousand bells by a thousand angels. It’s golden and brilliant. “I’m surprised,” you say, your smile lingering. “You’re really very lovely.”
He steps forward and reaches up, taking your chin in his gloved hand. You look back at him and sigh without meaning to as he moves his hand to cup your cheek and wipes stray tears away with his thumb. It takes your mind back to loud music, seven goblets, and a wine-stained thumb between his teeth.
“You’re beautiful,” he tells you quietly. There’s no one around but this still feels painfully scandalous, like glass that could - and will - shatter at any moment. No sudden movements.
You smile into his palm. “Stop it.”
“It’s true,” he says as his thumb moves across your skin, over the remnants of the cut across your cheekbone, over expanse of skin to your lips.
You watch him as he takes a deep breath in.
“I wasn’t reassigned,” he admits to you. You match him, breathing deep through your nose, preparing for the truth. “Well, I asked to be reassigned. I had to plead, really, because your father… He’s a good man.”
You roll your eyes without thinking and feel your bottom lip quivering again, the tears reemerging.
“He told me I’d never be able to see you again,” you tell him in a whisper.
“That’s my fault.”
“What?” You lift your head upright and he drops his hand, bringing it to his hair instead to run it through the curls again.
“I asked that I be kept away from you.”
“Why?! Why on earth would you… What could possibly possess you?”
“I couldn’t go through that again,” he says. “I couldn’t be near you. It was too… Too painful, and I let it get the better of me when I punched Lord Carver.”
“You were protecting me,” you say flatly. “That’s- That was your job.”
The emphasis hurts. “I know,” he sighs, “But… I wanted to kill him.”
“I don’t understand,” you tell him. You despise the whimper your words come out with, the way your jaw clenches to hold back more tears. What you can see of his neck above the collar of his thick tunic and under the cover of ringlets of tired hair is blotchy, coming up rosy in uneven patches. Is he stressed? Nervous? Both?
Your vision blurs with tears and your nose burns. He looks back at you softly, just like always, his eyes dark and inviting. Your lip wobbles again and you hear his breath hitch in the quiet.
“Let me show you,” he offers as he holds your cheek again. You cannot help but lean in, head tipping to the left to feel the expanse of leather over your cheek, his thumb dancing softly across your skin.
“No, I- You have to explain yourself, I don’t-”
“Please?” He looks at you with those fucking eyes of his and you want to kick him and kiss him all at once. “Do you trust me?”
The urge to kick him persists but you nod anyway. Perhaps the kicking is not a frustration aimed at him but at yourself instead: why can you not tell him how you feel? Why does the possibility of what he’s about to do scare you so much?
“I don’t know what to do,” you admit to him in a whisper. You feel naked before him, though there’s layers of thick velvet and scuffed leather between the two of you, a hundred barriers of material, an aching yawn of distance that you find yourself disliking immensely.
Can Eddie read your mind? It feels that way right now - you only uttered six words but he seems to understand you entirely at this moment. He drops his hand from your face, takes a step back, and as you watch him wordlessly unbuckle his armour, your stomach contracts and your soul becomes hollow in anticipation. He removes the belt that the sword usually sits on, and then his leather gauntlets, pulling each finger from the gloves and placing them, too, on the table. As he peels off each piece of his uniform, creating a growing pile on the wood and on your floor, you see, for the first time since that night when you were nineteen, the bloom of his flesh under his billowing undershirt. He’s paler now than he was then, though the moonlight seeping in through the cracks between heavy curtains over your windows is no match for the golden wash of colour he had once basked in. If you had any sense you’d laugh at the display before you: endless metal defences and leather covers come away from his body and pile noisily beside him. But you’re transfixed, fingers fidgeting, bottom lip absentmindedly between your teeth.
You do not notice him glance at you every so often. Between removing each greave, he looks up at you again, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the flurry of blood to his cheeks. He’s baring himself, and you’re looking at him like he’s edible; perhaps, to you, he is.
After many minutes filled only by the sounds of deconstructed armour, metal and leather, he’s free of it, and he stands before you in a loose shirt and cotton slacks. His pale chest is visible behind the deep, un-tied collar and your fingers itch, fidgeting still, yearning to know what it feels like.
“Talk to me,” he whispers. “Don’t go quiet on me now.”
“I saw you like this, once,” you say quickly, voice so low it’s almost a whisper. You’re looking at everything - his arms, his legs, neck, chest, hands - except his eyes.
He’s taken aback. “What?”
“Years ago. I was nineteen. You were outside-” You turn to look through the open balcony door behind you, at the bright white gleaming down on the stone beyond. “-polishing. It was so beautiful out there, but I remember watching you for ages.”
You turn back, eyes on his finally. As ever, they’re wide and deep brown and beautiful. “Sorry. I know that’s strange. And forbidden, I guess.”
“No,” he breathes, taking a step towards you. “No, it’s fine- It’s okay.”
The air is thick and between that and your corset, you can barely breathe. He’s inching closer and it’s difficult to know where to look.
Nobody has ever been this close to you before. Not truly; you kiss your father and mother on the cheek before heading to bed each evening, you give your sisters fleeting embraces, you've fooled around with stableboys and, of course, you once loved to lean into his space whenever you teased Eddie, but this is different. Someone electing to be so near, choosing to breathe your air and not flinching or pulling back, instead lingering just to let his eyes dance over yours once more - it’s new, and it’s addictive.
He’s breathing your air but you’re also breathing his. The hills of his cheeks are mere whispers from your own, and his nose, crooked at the bridge where it once broke, nudges yours so lightly that you ought not feel it. It takes your breath away anyway.
At the sound of your gasp he smiles, only slightly, but you’re so close you see it in his eyes. Crows' feet emerge, wrinkling happiness beside his temples, and you can’t help but return it. As you fight the urge to close your eyes you watch him as he watches you, bated breaths and whimpers. All of a sudden he meets your gaze and you stumble where your foot had been resting on your other ankle. The heel of your slipper slides across bare skin and your balance goes, but before you can panic or cry out, you are pulled in breathless by his strong arm around your back. There may be layers upon layers of fabric but you feel it anyway, the electric jolts up your spine where his palm presses firm into your waist. Whether he means to or not is unclear, but you’re chest-to-chest with him now, the firm bones of your corset pushed against his shirt.
Your fingers spread across the fabric of his shirt. Without meaning to, you venture upwards, fingertips meeting the small smattering of coarse hair there, under the cotton. You watch your hands like they’re moving on their own, until his finger, hooked beneath your chin, tilts you up to meet his eye again.
It’s happening, you think to yourself. But then his arm, still around your middle, tightens briefly and he’s gone.
You watch him cross your room, the few steps he takes to your bed suddenly a criminal distance, too far, far too far. He sits upright on the edge of it, legs parted.
“Come here,” he says, his voice a melodic tug at your core. You move to him, sliding each of your slippers off on the way, and stand hesitantly between his knees, holding your breath without thinking to.
You can’t look at him. You caught a glimpse of his eyes and the way they’re looking up at you and you can’t. It’ll surely kill you.
He thinks you’re perfect, standing here, towering over him, relenting. His tough palms smooth over the layers of deep red velvet that lie over your hips, and for a moment he allows himself to relish in the small noises of shock you’re making before he urges you to turn around.
“You know,” he begins as his deft fingers untie and release the intricate ribbons at your back. “It wasn’t your fault.”
You turn your head towards him, as far round as you can. “What?”
“The… What happened, that afternoon. The way he spoke to you…” Eddie’s fingers still for a moment and you hear him take a deep breath. “The way he touched you. I don’t know what your father- what His Majesty said about it, but it wasn’t your fault.”
His left hand begins pulling at the ribbons again, but his right rests safely on your waist, as though he’s demonstrating something: how you should be touched, the way you deserve, soft and kind and gentle and wanted.
You hum in agreement.
“And I truly am sorry I punched him,” he says. “It- If I’d just told him to back away, it never would have become such… Such a thing, a big deal.”
“Eddie,” you breathe, grateful that you can get a lung-full again. You turn back to him in his grasp and take his face in both hands. Your palms are warm but they’re nothing compared to the flames of his cheeks, which almost burn under your touch. “I’m not mad that you punched him. I wish I’d done it, truly. But I’m never mad that you want to protect me.”
Your hands on his face startle him. You both sense it in the moment, how unlike you this is, to touch him so willingly and so carefully.
“I don’t think you needed me to protect you,” he says quietly, a smile emerging though he tries his best to hold it back. “Your elbow seemed to do a good enough job of that.”
Ah! The sound of your feather-light laugh fills a yawning gap in his chest that appeared two and a half weeks ago. It sounds even more beautiful than before, a twinkling spark of a sound, just for him.
“You’re funny,” you tell him. “I’ll always need you, Ser Munson. Don’t worry about that.”
He looks up at you from his seat on the edge of your bed with eyes that sparkle like the sky outside. Perhaps it’s the reflection of the faded stars painted onto your ceiling, or perhaps it’s just the sight of you.
Both of his hands are on your waist, now, as you stand between his legs. There’s a lot of material in your skirt, though, and it feels too distant still, so you reach behind your back to pull the remainder of the ribbons keeping your corset on, and pull it over your head. Eddie helps where he can from such a low vantage point, and as soon as it’s off and disregarded on the floor, his eager fingers are pulling the velvet dress down and away from your body.
“Fucking hell,” he heaves, “How many things do you have on right now?”
“You’re one to talk,” you giggle. “It took you five whole minutes just to free your arms.”
“Okay, but that’s important. I don’t want to lose my arms. This must weigh a tonne, and… For what?”
You hold his cheek in your left hand again while he unties various laces and undoes buttons. Your skirt has fallen away, as has the underskirt and the other, thicker layers. You’re left in your underdress, a simple white cotton embroidered at the collar. It’s nicer than the one he caught you in all those weeks ago, moments before your life seemed to tilt and slip away beneath you.
Under the fabric, your nipples harden in the cold, jutting out and catching Eddie’s eye.
“Is this okay?” He asks, pulling you in anyways, standing you safely between his knees, his wide hands tentative on your hips. “We don’t have to-”
“Yes,” you say firmly. “Please, yes.”
His hands slide over the hills of your behind to the backs of your thighs. He’s still looking up at you, eyes drooping when your fingers dance through his hair.
“I meant it, though,” you say. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“That’s okay,” he sighs, standing slowly. “I have all the time for you.”
The moonlight bleeds a sharp bluish hue but it doesn’t matter. Right now, as he says those lovely words, the boy is a golden ball of light, humming pinks and warm ochre. Your yearning arms wind over his shoulders as his breath mixes with yours once more, his nose nudges the swell of your cheek, his hands press firm into your waist. He’s slow with it, tantalising, keeping you whimpering and desperate, until he finally dips into you, lips on yours with a surprising urgency.
It’s magic, you are so sure of it. His mouth moves over yours with certainty: he wants to be here, he wants to kiss you. He’s wanted to kiss you.
All those fairytales that your wiry old school teacher told you were real, about spells and conjurings and spirits: it’s all real, surely, and it’s in this feeling. There’s no other way you can understand it, though in truth your brain isn’t entirely clear because his fingers are smoothing lower, bunching your dress in his fists to pull the fabric up over the stretch of your legs. All the while his kisses never cease; in fact, once you feel the cool air over the material of your underwear, you gasp and welcome his tongue with your own. Air is worthless to you now; all you want is Eddie.
Much to your dismay, he seems to disagree, pulling back from you to take a breath and lift your dress over your head. He whispers up and you raise your arms, letting him undress you quietly, and once he has, you daren’t open your eyes, instead winding your arms across your chest. You feel the nighttime breeze across the backs of your thighs and you tense knowing that you’re bare in front of him.
There’s a slow beat before you feel his hands again. You hear the dress discarded on the stone floor and then his rough fingers are gently, oh so gently, holding your waist. It’s like he thinks you could break.
“Can I touch you?” he whispers.
“Yes,” you breathe. “Of course you can.”
You expect more solid grabs of flesh, hands smoothing over the expanse of your stomach, maybe even venturing upwards, but you take in a surprised breath when you feel his mouth on your sternum.
His rough hands hold your lower back and he kisses, framing each of your breasts with rows of feather-light pecks, dancing blossoms of affection. You drop your hands to his hair as you let out a breath of satisfaction, tangling your fingers in the curls as his mouth rises.
The whine of your name that leaves your lips is met with his hands tightening, fingers almost curling into the flesh of your back. His kisses turn eager, frantic, crossing the mounds of each of your breasts. His hands leave you to pull his shirt over his head and it’s too much all at once: too much to see, feel, know. You can’t take it in before he’s kissing you again, less than kind as his arms pull your bare chests flush.
Your fingers explore new terrain, which is littered with freckles and white, years-old scars that stretch over his alabaster skin, each one a story that you hope he will tell you one day.
“Eddie,” you pant. He returns the sentiment, breathing your name over and over into your mouth as he sits back down and pulls you into his lap.
The rough of his slacks sends an unfamiliar jolt up your spine when your hips meet his. In the heat of the moment he’s pulling at you a little rough but your gasp draws him out.
“You good?”
“Just… Slow down,” you tell him, resting back on your heels with your hands on his broad, bare shoulders.
“Sorry,” he says. His face is flushed pink and his dark eyes are drooping. “Want to stop?”
“No,” you respond, too quickly to keep your cool. You shake your head. “No, I just- I’m scared I’ll go too fast. I like you too much.”
“I told you,” he says, moving in with his eyes on you. You nod, almost imperceptibly. He kisses your collarbone and then your shoulder. “I have all the time in the world for you.”
“What if someone catches us?”
He pulls back again and reaches up, moving hair from your face and putting it behind your ears. Tidying you up. Fussing over you. It’s nice.
“I promise that everybody who would even think to come anywhere near this room tonight is gone until at least tomorrow afternoon.” He kisses under your jaw, and it returns the shivers back down your spine. “They’re too busy getting drunk. Nobody’s thinking about us.”
“You promise?”
He kisses your chin. “I promise.”
A few years ago, your father entertained a visitor from one of the bigger cities. They had been on a ship for some years and they brought goods the likes of which you’d never seen before: round, vibrant, sharp fruits, powders that made food taste wildly different, and, your favourite, a small collection of fireworks.
In the light of a small bonfire, your father helped the visitor set the wooden tubes alight. They flew off into the air and sparkled, fizzed, popped. It was a display that you couldn’t help but gawk at, enjoying the sizzles and the colours in the deep January sky.
That’s what this feels like. His lips plotting a map across your bare neck, up over your jaw, until they reach your mouth, it feels like seeing fireworks. You keen into his mouth as he licks across your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth gently before letting go, meeting your tongue with his own. His hands at your back pull you in and that flush returns between your legs. He keeps you moving slowly, a lethargic push and pull across his crotch. The dips and folds of the tough fabric there, paired with the growing hardness beneath, give you a friction that you chase instinctively. It’s coupled with a litany of praises whispered into your skin between kisses, and the combination is clearing your head and sending you dizzy.
“That’s it, you’ve got it,” he coos, “Nice and slow for me, yeah? Just-”
Through drooping lids you watch him, his face scrunching in pleasure as you rock against him. It is not lost on you that this feels just as good for him, but you can tell he’s holding something back.
His face relaxes, and he meets your eye. “Hey.” He nudges your nose with his own and takes a deep breath. “You have to breathe, deep breaths. Doesn’t feel half as good if you stop breathing, promise.”
You let out a sigh and a twinkling giggle and he smiles, wide enough that you can see his dimples. He continues showering you with sweet praises, urging you towards oblivion. Look at you. I don’t even need to tell you what to do. You’re so beautiful.
“Fuck- My god.”
The pace quickens as you chase the abyss. His hands don’t move, keeping you anchored to him, moving you back and forth. It’s bliss like you’ve never felt; your own hand could never get you this far. The friction of his pants between your thighs is perfect and your need is ferocious as your stomach winds like a coil.
“C’mon,” he encourages, “You can do it. You’re doing such a good job, c’mon-”
You fall forwards and rest your forehead on his shoulder, whimpering something desperate into his neck as your stomach tenses and bends. Please, Eddie, please, please, please.
A white-hot light sears the darkness behind your eyelids as you come apart for him. He’s calling you all sorts of filthy things but you can barely hear him, brain too occupied by the burning in your belly and his hands, which are seemingly everywhere all at once.
“Good girl,” he whispers into your hairline. He scatters kisses there as you catch your breath.
“Thank you,” you sigh. “Thank you.”
He laughs and you feel it reverberate through his chest.
As you slouch into him, feeling returning to each limb, you feel a foreign yearning in your gut, a relentless feeling that prompts you to squirm. Wriggling, your restless hands paw at his arms and his back and they move lower, until you meet the waistband of his slacks.
You whine into his neck when he won’t move to accommodate your impatience. His hands lure you back from your resting place so he can look at you, with your kiss-swollen lips and happy eyes.
“I need to know that you want this,” he whispers. He rests your foreheads together, the tip of his nose nudging yours.
All you can do is whine. You’re too elated to care to form words, but Eddie’s not having it.
“I need to hear you say it,” he tells you sternly. His eyes do not betray him: they’re steely and suddenly darker than ever.
You dip your head to kiss his jaw, nosing at his cheek, lips and teeth dragging along his skin.
“I want you, Eddie,” you tell him. His fingers tighten at the nape of your neck and pull you back, gentle but firm, as he watches you speak through obsidian eyes. “Please.”
He says nothing as he gives you one more kiss, soft as anything to the pillows of your lips, before helping you off his lap and laying you between the pillows at the head of your bed. You curl up there, the breeze colder still against the wetness between your thighs, which you squeeze together as you watch him stand.
He’s all lean muscle and long limbs. You let yourself gawk for the first time since that night on the balcony; you usually have to ration your glances at him, and he’s always covered by so many layers, so you allow yourself this luxury.
He knows you’re watching, so he makes a little show of it, bending down to get rid of the slacks. Before he does, you notice that the brown has deepened around his crotch with the stains of your pleasure. Acknowledging this makes you shiver, and though you feel you should be disgusted, it’s oddly comforting instead.
When he looks over at you, finally bared and unflinching, he takes a moment to take you in.
You’re still glowing, perhaps more so than before. Some of your hair is stuck to your face, plastered there in the heat of your first orgasm, but the rest of it is laid out around your head like a halo. It’s unfair that you can be so casually magnificent. You’re also not looking at him - well, not meeting his eye, anyway. The tip of your index finger is between your teeth as you take in the sight before you, Eddie as hard as he’s ever been, just for you.
“You sure about this?” he asks.
You look up at his face and break out in a grin. “Absolutely.”
He’s slower than you want, leaning over you, his knees on the comforter beside you, mouth lazy as he gives you kisses. You take and take, happy under his touch.
His hands are everywhere again. Your skin is on fire, aflame from the praise and the affection and the attention. The sensation of being so close to another person while naked like this is achingly unfamiliar but learning it is nice, new, natural. Though it’s nothing like anything you’ve ever experienced before, you’re finding that you like it. You like smoothing your hands over his back, feeling the dips and peaks of his muscles there, or around to the slight pudge of his stomach, just above a thatch of hair similar to your own. You like the feeling of his palms on your shoulders, down your arms, across your waist. You like that when he kisses you, you feel the nudge of his nose beside yours. You like that he appears breathless to you, like your kisses are preferable to air, especially when he becomes restless and impatient.
Above you, his hand moves south, fingers burying their way between your legs. Without realising it, you’ve been squeezing them together, desperate for any relief you can find, but his fingers are certainly better. They push your knees apart so that he can climb into your space, his waist framed by your thighs, the weight of him crashing into you as he dips again to kiss you silly. You wind your arms around his neck and pull him in, enjoying the proximity rather than fleeing from it, and feeling desperate without shame.
One hand hooks under your thigh while the other plants firmly on the mattress beside your head.
“You ready?”
You nod. “Yes.”
“I’m going to go slow,” he tells you, his lips moving against yours lest he get too far away. “Just tell me if you want to stop, please?”
“Yes,” you pant, “Yes, of course, please-”
The hand beneath your thigh escapes and he holds himself as you wind your arms under his, around his chest, pulling him in tight.
It’s definitely slow. A slow, tantalising push between your thighs, filling that gaping yearning within your gut. He’s big, though it barely takes you by surprise because of course he is.
He’s panting, biting his lip above you. “Fuck-” he gasps, “Shit- You okay?”
You nod as fervently as you can because words are escaping you and all you can think about is him, hovering over you, pushing into you, breathing your air and nudging your cheek.
“You feel- You feel so good,” he breathes, pushing further. You nod in agreement and tug him closer still, until he’s in as far as he can go, filling you to the hilt.
The proximity dazzles you as you open your eyes and examine his face. The scrunch between his brows, the freckles across his crooked nose, his teeth biting firm into his lip. It feels only natural to lean up and plot a path of kisses across the hills of his face, bright, happy kisses that relax him until he can kiss you back. He lets the weight of his body fall into yours, keeping some pressure on his arm so as not to crush you entirely, but the feeling of closeness is too comfortable for him to forego.
He speaks into the flesh of your cheek when he says, “I’m going to start moving, okay?”
“Yes,” you pant, and he does, pulling slowly away before pushing back. The friction of the movement over your clit adds to the swelling feeling of fullness each time he returns to you, and the pleasure is almost overwhelming. You take heavy breaths until they become moans, matched by his own noises. Your head is empty and all you want to do is become him; being here, underneath him, is never quite enough. Instead you wish you could, in this moment, under the stars and the moon and wrapped in the night breeze, merge with your knight and stay here forever.
Your lazy daydreams are interrupted when he groans and mutters some kind of praise into your hairline: You’re doing so well. Fuck, so good. And then, to your surprise, you feel his free hand traverse the expanse of your body, between the two of you, over the hill of your stomach until the pads of his fingers find your clit.
Holy shit. Holy shit. Perhaps you haven’t melted together, but this somehow got even better. His cock moves just as quick as he draws lucid circles with his middle and ring fingers over you. He kindles the flame like an expert as his mouth drops kisses messily across your own lips. That’s it: everything is messy, lazy, desperate. He moves and kisses and whispers please, come on, come for me, are you okay? I know you can do it, you feel so good, you’re beautiful.
The hot wire returns. It burns as it coils, tighter and tighter around an abyss in your gut, tugging on each limb like you might implode and become a black hole right here in your bed.
“Eddie, oh my god-”
“Come on.”
“Unngh- It feels s- So good-”
“Come on, sweetheart.”
His movements never relent as you come, the wire burning out in a white-hot bang. You yelp, moaning his name, and he keeps going through it all, kissing you silly all over your face. It’s only when you start to squirm that he slows, brings his busy hand out from between the two of you and smiles. He allows himself a moment to watch you, face lax and mouth agape, sweaty brow and hair a mess, before he taps your hollow cheek with his knuckles.
You open heavy eyes to look back at him and watch as he smirks down at you and brings two messy fingers to his mouth. He’s still inside you and he feels it, the way you squeeze him just slightly as he tastes you on his tongue, making a little show of it for you. He hears you gasp, panting like a dog, and even the moan that leaves you when he pulls his fingers free and they glisten in the low light.
“Holy shit,” you breathe, and he breaks out in a grin before he can stop himself. “Holy shit, Eddie.”
“Happy?” he asks.
“Happy? Fuck yeah, I’m happy.”
His laughter is deep and loud, a rumble from his chest that makes you grin back at him.
“What about you?” you ask, eyes drooping again, bringing the back of your hand to your forehead. It burns there, like you have a fever. You must look a state.
“I’m more than happy,” he says, smiling. “You up for a little more?
You look at him. “Hm?”
“I, uh… I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock,” he admits, flushing, “And you… You feel so good, and I’d like to… Y’know.”
He feels bad for a second when your eyes widen and you look down quickly. “Oh, Eddie, shit, did you not- Oh my god, I’m so selfish, are you okay?”
Your hands are everywhere all of a sudden, pawing at his arms and his chest, your fawning interrupted by another bellowing laugh. When you giggle back, he winces, feeling it in the way your body pulls him tighter.
“I’m fine,” he assures you, “But I want to try something.”
“Of course,” you say.
“You sure you’re okay to keep going?”
“Yes,” you sigh, “I want to help you, I want you to feel good too.”
“Hold on, then,” he says, threading an arm between your back and the sweat-damp mattress. You wind your arms back around his neck and yelp when he swings you around, all the while keeping his cock firmly inside your walls.
“Fuck,” you splutter, planting your hands either side of his head.
He likes this view. Your face hovering over his, your knees either side of his waist. He holds you by the hips, feeling the curves and dips, pushing impatient fingers into the flesh at the base of your back.
“God, you are gorgeous,” he says. He likes this view, too, watching you flush and bat your eyelashes, made nervous under his gaze and by his lovely, genuine words.
“Not too bad yourself,” you respond, smiling, lifting one hand to push curls from his warm face.
This feeling is new but it’s lovely. Gravity pulls you onto him and it feels as though he’s somehow even deeper than before. His hands at your ass fist at the flesh there and he tells you he’s going to help you, that you may be worn out and that’s okay, and as he helps you lift yourself upwards, you get the hang of it.
You plant your hands firmly on the expanse of his chest and drop yourself down before pushing yourself back up again. It helps to sit upright so you do, letting him hold you and watch you and god, his face is a picture.
He’s scrunching his nose again, eyes tight as he huffs each time you drop onto him. He’s droopy and blissful as you move up and down, circling your hips just a bit, letting him guide you. It burns after so long but it’s nothing compared to the warmth in your chest watching him near the edge. His stomach tenses, the muscles flexing between your thighs, as his breathing becomes more ragged. And suddenly his arms come up your back and pull you down flush and inside your walls, his cock sits as far in as he can push it. You feel him stiffen and shudder and the warmth as he comes inside, hugging you close, his forehead on your shoulder.
He warns you as he pulls out, and then you lie still, spent, limbs going soft together. The sky is a pale blue-green now, the sun soon to cross the horizon. You can hear birds, and the soft morning light coats your skin in a kind of effervescent glow.
Eddie’s breathing lulls you into a doze, but after a short while he stirs. The space between your core and his is sticky and damp and it’s uncomfortable for a short moment, until he tells you quietly that he’s going to get up and get a rag. He moves you softly onto your back and you sigh, a happy, contented sound, watching him move around your space so comfortably.
He returns from the water basin with a damp cloth, cleaning the remnants of your night from between your legs. You wince when he does, only because you’re tired and sore and the cloth is cold, but he apologises and kisses the inside of your knee.
“Eddie?”
He’s at the basin again, rinsing the rag. “Mhm?”
“Do you really think everyone will be gone until the afternoon?”
You catch him smiling at your question, like he knows what’s coming.
“If you want to play it safe, lets say noon.”
“And what time is it now?”
He looks over to the clock, which sits above your mantlepiece, ticking softly.
“Early,” is all he says. “Early enough.”
“Stay with me?”
He drops the rag over the side of the basin and pads over to you. The mattress dips as he rejoins you, this time lifting your sheets to bury the two of you beneath them.
“I told you,” he says quietly, kissing the peak of your shoulder and pulling you in, his arm around your waist, “I have all the time in the world for you.”
-
The castle is bustling. People rush here and there, carrying armfuls of floral arrangements, buckets of wine, heaving plates of food. Your home is lively and noisy and your mother is pacing, directing the placement of each bouquet and chair.
In your chamber, the noise seems far away. Your maids finish tying your corset and your shoe ribbons before filtering off to complete other tasks. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror above your fireplace. Red really is your colour.
There’s a resolute knock at your door. The maids stand to attention and move out of your way as your knight pushes the doors open and you step through to the hall.
“Thank you, Dustin,” you say to him.
Your new knight, a replacement both for Eddie and for the man who took his place all those months ago, bows kindly at your regards. He’s young, younger than yourself and Eddie, but keen and worthy and you’re more than happy.
And then he appears, your beacon, a gorgeous vision of handsome beauty.
Eddie, Ser Munson, your knight. Or, rather, your former knight. He’s been promoted to fiancé.
He stands at the top of the stairs, looking back at you like you hung the stars. To him, you may as well have. You are all he has eyes for now, especially now, after giving up his duties and telling your father: Your daughter is my true and only duty.
“My god,” he breathes. You step over to him, too giddy to maintain any air of grace or class. Your step is more like skipping, your love for him giving you far too much energy to merely walk to him.
He holds his arm for you and you take it, leaning up on tip-toes to give him a chaste kiss to the cheek.
“How do you do it?” he says in a low voice, dipping his head so you can hear him as the two of you descend the stairs, Dustin in step behind you.
You’re smiling while you cling to his arm. “Hm?”
“How do you keep getting more beautiful?”
“Just think, Munson,” you say in a whisper, “By the time we’re one hundred, think of how beautiful I’ll be by then.”
“I dread to think,” he says sarcastically, squeezing your arm with his. You look up at him and the noise and fervour of the castle falls away. He looks back down at you and smiles, and it’s truly the only thing that matters.
The engagement party, your sisters, your parents, your birthright - what is any of it for, what does any of it mean, when you have the one thing you ever wanted?
-
author’s note
Hey! Thanks for reading (or scrolling all this way). It's been so long since I uploaded my last fic and I’ve been lurking ever since - I miss u all but there isn’t really any room in my life for writing anymore. I have loved doing this and thank you all so so much for reading everything! I’ll be about, so the blog will stay and you can read whatever you want whenever you want. I love ya, I’ll miss ya, see ya l8r!
