Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader / Eddie Munson x You / Eddie Munson x Y/N

Summary: It’s Easter. It’s 4/20. And Eddie Munson has declared it a new hybrid holiday.

Eddie Lives AU

-

The trailer smells like weed and chocolate, which, in Eddie’s words, is “how God probably scented Eden.”

Sunlight filters through his tattered black curtains—one ripped at the corner, flapping slightly in the spring breeze. You roll over groggily, only to find Eddie crouched next to the bed like a feral raccoon. He’s holding a pink Easter basket and grinning like he’s just invented fire.

He’s already pulled out a crushed pack of Peeps, a half-melted chocolate rabbit, and a Ziploc that smells unmistakably skunky.

“Happy… uh… Weedster? Easton? Whatever,” he says brightly. “It’s Easter and it’s 4/20. I made you a hybrid holiday.”

You sit up, both confused and incredibly entertained. The basket is filled with jellybeans, Reese’s eggs, and—of course—pre-rolled joints tied with pastel ribbons.

You raise an eyebrow. “Is this what Jesus died for?”

“Absolutely,” Eddie says, dead serious. “That man knew a good comeback story.”

You laugh, and it’s real—which feels weird and kind of wonderful, considering how this time last year Eddie was presumed dead, Hawkins had literally cracked open, and nobody was exactly in the mood for holiday cheer.

Now? Now it’s all weird attempts at normal. Half-repaired buildings. Conspiracy theories still swirling like leftover smoke. Some of the kids leaving town for good.

But Eddie stayed. Or rather, you, Dustin, and Robin convinced him to. Off the radar, mostly. But alive. And trying. Trying to live a little.

Which is how today happened.

“I call it the Blunt Bunny Special,” Eddie says proudly, climbing back into bed beside you. “There’s also a chocolate cross in there, but I bit the top off accidentally. Sorry if that’s sacrilegious.”

You’re already laughing as he lights one of the joints and offers it to you like it’s communion. “This is so dumb,” you say, taking it anyway.

“Dumb?” he gasps. “This is cultural fusion. A celebration of resurrection and reefer.”

He exhales and leans back against the headboard, still grinning. “Robin helped me sneak into the store last night. Steve was on lookout. I think he just wanted something to feel morally superior about.”

You take a drag and blow out slowly. “You should’ve worn bunny ears.”

Eddie tilts his head. “Don’t tempt me. I have a soft side.”

You know. You’ve seen it. In the way he keeps the trailer door unlocked for Dustin. How he checks that Max has her headphones. How he picks up broken guitar strings even though no one’s booking him for gigs—not yet, anyway.

The silence settles. Comfortable. Fuzzy. Sunlight and smoke curling through the trailer like something holy.

Eddie leans his head against your shoulder, voice quiet now. “Thanks for not letting me disappear.”

You smile, resting your cheek against his curls. “Thanks for coming back.”

So you sit there, tangled in a weird in-between holiday—part holy day, part high day—letting it all be a little messy, a little sacred, and exactly what it is.

Characters: Spencer Reid & BAU (Garcia, Morgan, Hotch, JJ, Prentiss, Rossi)

Summary: Spencer Reid unexpectedly embraces Easter when a team-wide egg hunt—crafted with hidden patterns and heartfelt notes—reminds him that sometimes, connection is the best kind of logic.

---

Spencer Reid doesn’t really celebrate Easter.

He grew up with a mother who loved spring — the flowers, the sunshine, the changing seasons — but not the holidays that came with them. Still, Diana Reid had once taken him to a community egg hunt at the park in Las Vegas when he was five. He remembered that clearly, because he'd spent most of the time reading the flyer for the event rather than looking for eggs.

So no, Easter wasn’t a big thing for him. But that didn’t stop Penelope Garcia.

She burst into the BAU bullpen with her usual fanfare and a tray of pastel-colored cupcakes. "Happy springtime, my loves!" she declared, placing a small basket on each desk. Reid eyed his suspiciously. Inside were foil-wrapped chocolates, a plastic egg, and—was that a Peep?

"You will be participating in the egg hunt," she said, pointing at him. "Don't make me assign you a buddy."

"I wasn't aware that was a tradition in federal offices," he replied, adjusting his scarf. "Technically, Easter egg hunts have roots in pagan spring festivals, long before the modern Christian adaptation. The egg is a fertility symbol—"

Morgan walked by and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Reid. Just take the chocolate and go with it."

So he did.

—

Later, when the hunt began (Garcia had commandeered an entire floor and filled it with clues and candy), Reid found himself getting...oddly into it.

JJ and Will had brought Henry by, which made it harder to resist — the kid was all joy and jellybeans. Emily and Morgan got wildly competitive. Rossi pretended to be above it all until he spotted a vintage coin tucked into one of the eggs and became deeply invested.

Reid, naturally, started spotting patterns in where the eggs were hidden. Every third cubicle. A Fibonacci spiral down the hallway. Garcia had absolutely done this on purpose.

“You’re reading way too much into it,” she said when he confronted her, smiling.

“You used the golden ratio as a layout guide.”

She winked. “And you found the golden egg, didn’t you?”

He had. Tucked into the bookshelf in the BAU library — one of the few quiet places he actually considered sacred.

Inside was a small piece of paper, neatly folded.

“For the one who finds truth in everything — thank you for always seeing the patterns the rest of us miss. Happy Easter, Dr. Reid.” — PG

He stood there a long moment, blinking down at the message.

It wasn’t a case. It wasn’t a crisis. It was...nice. Quiet. Personal. Maybe a little silly. But he realized, as he tucked the note into his pocket and walked back toward the others, that he kind of loved it.

Not for the candy. Not for the competition. But for the fact that, even in a place where death and tragedy often ruled the day, someone had taken the time to see him.

To see what made him tick.

—

That night, as he left Quantico, he paused at the front desk and offered the security guard one of his extra cupcakes.

“Happy Easter,” he said awkwardly.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader | Eddie Munson x Y/N

Summary: On a cold Halloween night in 1980s Hawkins, Little Red Riding Hood trades her basket of cash and cherry lighters for weed, warmth, and a dangerously charming vampire metalhead named Eddie Munson.

---

You’re pretty sure the cape was a mistake.

Not because of the look—Little Red Riding Hood is bitchin', actually.

The black corset you borrowed from your sister (she doesn’t know, don’t worry), the ripped red tights, and the tiny picnic basket you’ve repurposed into a stash box all work together like a weirdly hot horror movie ensemble.

No, the problem is that Hawkins, Indiana is windy. And October is cold. Your knees are practically blue and you're not about to show up to the trailer park looking like a Popsicle.

You should’ve been at Tina’s party.

Everyone else was—dancing to Madonna, drinking flat wine coolers from a bathtub, pretending they weren’t all gonna peak at twenty-one.

But no. You’ve made it this far. The leaves crunch under your combat boots as you march up the gravel path toward Eddie Munson’s trailer. Halloween night. No school. And more importantly—

You knock three times, basket clutched to your chest.

“Trick or treat?” you call out, smirking.

The door swings open with a creak straight out of a B-movie, and there he is.

Eddie Munson.

His hair is a mess of curls, he’s wearing black leather pants (a crime against God and teenage hearts), a ripped Metallica tee, and vampire fangs. Plastic, obviously. His eyes widen the second he sees you.

“Well, well, well,” he grins. “If it isn’t Little Red in the flesh. Did the Big Bad Wolf send you my way, sweetheart?”

You tilt your head and step into his space. “I’m looking for something a little more… relaxing? Than Grandma’s house?”

His brows rise, clearly impressed. “You came to the right woods, Red.”

You step inside, the door clicking shut behind you. The trailer smells like sage, cheap incense, and whatever weed he probably just smoked. Dungeons & Dragons books are scattered across the coffee table, and there’s a vinyl spinning softly in the corner—some deep-cut Black Sabbath.

You drop the picnic basket dramatically on the table.

Is this full of cookies? Or…” He trails off.

“No,” you say, popping the basket open and revealing:

A lighter

A $20 bill

One (1) very stale packet of Gushers

A note that says I’m not here for conversation.

Eddie whistles. “Damn, Y/N. That’s either a proposition or a threat.”

You toss your cape over one shoulder and drop onto his couch like you own the place. “I’m here for one thing and one thing only.”

“Gushers?”

“Weed, Munson.”

He mock gasps, fangs still in. “My dear, sweet Red. Are you trying to buy drugs on Halloween?”

You shrug. “Better than candy.”

He plucks the twenty from your basket and winks. “For you? I’ve got something that’ll make the moon look like it’s dancing. Consider it a Halloween special.”

Eddie disappears into his room, returns a minute later with a joint tucked behind his ear and a grin on his face. He lights it with your lighter, takes a hit, and hands it to you.

“Careful,” he says, “This stuff’s called Ghoul’s Breath. Not for the faint of heart.”

You raise an eyebrow, exhale. “Is everything you sell named like it’s in a heavy metal horror flick?”

“Obviously.”

You plop down on his couch, cape billowing, and kick your feet up.

“So tell me,” you say, “What’s a metalhead vampire like you doing alone on Halloween?”

He flops beside you, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. “Hiding from real monsters. Cheerleaders. Jocks. Reagan’s America.”

You smirk. “I thought you liked cheerleaders.”

He grins, looking you over. “Only the ones who come asking for weed dressed like fairytale bait.”

You snort, trying to play it cool as the Ghoul’s Breath starts to settle in behind your eyes. “Fairytale bait, huh?”

Eddie leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and theatrical. “You’re telling me this doesn’t scream ‘final girl with a twisted backstory’?”

He gestures at you with the joint—corset, cape, and all. The flickering TV light catches in his eyes, making them gleam like he’s about to narrate a haunted house tour.

You take another hit and lean back. “I’m more of a ‘knows where the bodies are buried’ kind of girl.”

Eddie whistles, impressed. “Well, shit. Guess I better behave then.”

You grin. “Too late.”

The smoke is thick now, curling around you like fog on a VHS horror set. The music warps a little in your ears, bass fuzzier, Eddie’s laugh echoing slightly like you’re in a tunnel—or maybe just very, very high.

You glance around. Posters of Dio and Judas Priest stare down from the walls. There’s a giant skull candle on the TV stand. The place is a mess of dice, empty soda cans, and one very haunted-looking Ouija board peeking out from under the couch.

“Okay,” you say, shifting toward him. “Real question. You dressing up tonight for the party, or is this vampire thing just... your vibe now?”

He adjusts the fangs, gives you a mock-bow. “This is Count Munson, thank you. I was going for ‘gothic seduction meets taxidermy chic.’”

You squint. “That’s not a thing.”

“It could be.”

“You look like Lestat got kicked out of high school for selling weed in the parking lot.”

Eddie beams. “Exactly the goal.”

There’s a beat of quiet—comfortable, lazy. Somewhere outside, fireworks go off. Or maybe a car backfires. Either way, it fits the soundtrack. You watch as Eddie fidgets with the rings on his fingers, and he watches you watching him.

Then, softly: “So what’s really up, Red? You could’ve gotten high with, like, a dozen other freaks tonight. Isn’t Chrissy having a thing? Why come here?”

You pause. The joint is a glowing stub in the ashtray now. The air feels warm, too warm, but not bad.

“I like the company,” you say. “And Tina’s party has too many skeletons I haven’t buried yet.”

Eddie tilts his head, curious. “And I don’t?”

You grin. “Yours are more fun. And stoned. Plus, you don’t make me pretend to be someone else.”

Something flickers in his expression—something soft, just for a second, before he covers it with a grin and flops sideways onto the couch dramatically, head landing on your lap.

“Oh no, Red,” he groans. “You’ve fallen for my dark charms. You’re doomed.”

You roll your eyes and playfully tug at his curls. “I’m doomed if I catch frostbite in this skirt.”

He cracks one eye open. “There’s a blanket in my room. I could be persuaded to share it... y’know, for your health.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That your version of a vampire’s lair? Lure them in with weed, charm them with Dio, and seduce them with flannel sheets?”

“Works every time,” he says.

You pretend to consider it, poking his cheek. “Fine. But if you try to suck my blood, I’m calling your uncle.”

He sits up, mock-offended. “Wayne would be thrilled to know I’m finally bringing girls home.”

You laugh—really laugh—and Eddie joins in, the sound of it spilling out of the trailer like music from a B-side love song no one knows exists yet.

Outside, Halloween rages on.

Inside, you’re warm, a little high, and maybe, maybe, already planning your Thanksgiving costume.

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairings: Matthew Gray Gubler x Reader | Matthew Gray Gubler x You | Spencer Reid x Reader | Spencer Reid x You

Summary: Matthew Gray Gubler discovers a fanfiction about Spencer Reid that hits too close to home, igniting an anonymous, irresistible connection with its talented author.

-

It started innocently enough.

He was on Reddit. Just scrolling.

...which he shouldn’t have been doing, frankly, because the comments there either told him he looked like a Victorian wet cat or a “fine wine, if the wine also solved murders.”

The latter, oddly, felt a bit too specific.

Was he wearing a cape in that particular edit? Because that one definitely could have been a thirst trap — if thirst traps came with footnotes about obscure 17th-century literature.

Matthew shook his head. One fan edit titled “Matthew Gray Gubler as a vampire, but make it cute” was more confusing than anything else.

How does one even make a cute vampire? Was he going to be sipping a smoothie in a Victorian parlor while discussing existentialism? It was just a lot to process.

But then a username caught his eye. A link.

Curiosity, his lifelong and possibly most problematic trait, pushed him forward, so...he clicked.

And then he read.

And then he kept reading.

For three hours.

Without blinking.

He wasn’t even sure how he got there. One second, he was Googling whether giraffes sleep standing up (they do sometimes, it turns out), and the next he was elbows-deep in a 20k-word Criminal Minds fic titled “Late Night at Quantico (And Other Terrible Ideas)” by someone named softestsidearm.

It was an x Reader.

About Spencer Reid.

And somehow, impossibly, it felt like it got him. Not just “him” the character — but him. Like whoever wrote this had cracked open his ribcage, peeked at the neurotic little sparrow-heart inside, and whispered, “Yeah. That tracks.”

He set down his phone.

Picked it up.

Set it down again.

Laid down on the floor for a while, like a Victorian woman recovering from scandal.

Then, at 2:41 a.m., Matthew Gray Gubler created a burner account.

Username: drfactsandfeelings

Bio: “probably overthinking it”

Profile pic: A blurry owl in glasses.

He didn’t comment right away. He couldn’t. He spent a full hour typing and deleting:

“This was really great. Your Reid is so in character.”

“Hi, I’m... a fan. Of this. Not in a weird way. Unless you think it’s weird. In which case I’m not.”

“Are you a time traveler?? How do you know what he’d say in literally every situation?? I—” (he deleted that one fast.)

Finally, he settled on something safe. Casual. Normal.

“This was lovely. Beautifully written. You really captured the heart of him. Thank you for sharing.”

He hit post.

Threw his phone across the room.

Regretted everything.

-

Within twenty minutes, he saw a reply:

“OMG thank you 🥺 comments like this keep me going. I’m literally pacing my room like a regency wife who just got a letter from war rn. Thank you thank you thank you.

He reread it four times. His ears turned red.

But then… curiosity gnawed at him again.

He clicked on her profile.

And that's when he saw it.

Age: 25

25.

Matthew blinked, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. Not because she was 25, of course — that was perfectly fine — but because he was 44.

He scrolled down, slightly distracted now. So she was close(ish)…well, not really…. to his age... but still, he shouldn’t be on Reddit at 2:41 a.m., really shouldn't.

Yet here he was, spiraling down a rabbit hole of fanfic, somehow emotionally invested. He tried not to overthink it, but his brain immediately started overanalyzing everything.

What was it like being 25 in this wild world of fanfiction and anonymous fandoms? Was she a professional writer?

Or just someone with an extraordinary ability to read between the lines of a fictional character?

Was this weird?

It didn’t help that the more he read your replies, the more he realized just how you understood Spencer. It was almost eerie. He couldn’t help but feel a little… flustered?

Like he was being admired in a way that was a little too... honest.

so, naturally, instead of sleeping like a person with functioning social instincts, he went back and read all your other fics. All of them.

By sunrise, he had developed:

A deeply parasocial crush on your brain.

An aggressive respect for your metaphor usage.

And a secret favorite line that he screenshotted and saved in Notes. (It was from the fic where Spencer couldn’t sleep, and Reader said, “Then I’ll keep watch. Someone should guard the genius.”)

He paced.

He spiraled.

He made tea and forgot to drink it.

And then he did something wild.

He DM’d you.

drfactsandfeelings: Hi. This is random, but I’ve been reading your work and I think it’s… really, really special. You understand Spencer better than most writers I’ve read — like you’re not just writing him, you’re listening to him. Sorry, that’s weird. I just wanted to say thank you. For putting something like that out there. (Also, you made me cry a little with the “guard the genius” line. Rude.)

He turned his phone screen-down on his nightstand. Turned it off. Put a hoodie over it. Just in case it glowed at him in the morning light like some digital Eye of Sauron.

(Which, in Gubler Language, translated directly to: "I'm catch up on sleep and pretend it never happened.")

...

He did not sleep.

But he tried.

Part 1 | Part ?

Pairings: Steddie x Reporter!Reader | Steddie x Reader | Steddie x You | Eddie Munson x Reader | Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: You came to Hawkins chasing the truth of what happened in 1986, but what you found was more than you bargained for—Steve and Eddie, haunted by their past and each other, pulling you deeper into the wreckage of secrets that refuse to stay buried... (AU)

---

You didn’t mean to find them.

Well...that wasn't entirely true.

Tracking down survivors of Hawkins—the real ones, not the polished mouths or half-mad truthers—was already next to impossible. Half the town had moved, changed names, or buried the past so deep it might as well have been fiction.

But you had a scent.

A hunch.

And fifteen years worth of clipped interviews and government-redacted reports told you to trust that feeling.

The fires. The “earthquake.” The missing kids. The sudden evacuations. The way the government came in and scrubbed everything down with bleach and charm and plausible deniability. The few people who tried to speak up got shut down or written off as local flavor—small-town grief spun into ghost stories.

You were fourteen when it happened. Now you're twenty-nine, and still chewing on the same mystery.

And that’s how you end up at the edge of some sleepy, overgrown lake town three hours south of Indianapolis, standing in front of the kind of house you’d only ever call “lived-in” if you were being polite.

You double-check the name on the mailbox.

Harrington.

The door creaks open before you can knock.

He’s older, of course. Tan, broader than the photos from '86. But the hair is unmistakable, even if it’s shorter now.

“Can I help you?” he says, cautious but not unkind.

You introduce yourself, flipping open the badge that says you write for The Courier. You catch the shift in his jaw when you say Hawkins.

“I’m not interested in talking about the past,” he says automatically, already stepping back.

“You’re not the only one I’m here to talk to,” you say. “I know Eddie Munson’s alive.”

He pauses.

That gets the door fully shut—locked, too. You stand there for a long moment before you hear a voice from inside. It's faint, but urgent.

“Steve. Steve. You told me you threw out the mail with the return address.”

“I did. She must’ve found it some other way.”

There’s rustling, then: “If she knows about me, she knows everything.”

The door opens again.

This time it’s Eddie.

Hair tied up, tattoos peeking out from a flannel that’s seen better days, and eyes that are sharp—too sharp for someone who’s supposed to be dead.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader | Spencer Reid x You

Summary: A quiet morning, a warm blanket, and the kind of stillness that makes time feel like it’s standing still. Who could ask for more?

-

It was the kind of Sunday morning that moved like honey. Slow, golden, and sweet.

The apartment was quiet except for the occasional sound of pages turning and the rhythmic hum of the city just beyond the window. You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tangled with Spencer’s under the weight of a shared knit blanket that had definitely seen better days.

Spencer's reading glasses were slipping slightly down his nose, his face scrunched up in concentration as he skimmed the page of whatever dense book he’d pulled off the shelf this morning

You couldn't even pronounce the title. Probably something philosophical. Or quantum-y.

Your own book was much lighter. A medieval-fantasy novel you’d been meaning to start for weeks—soft and poetic, the kind that made you highlight every third line.

But instead of reading, you found yourself watching him instead.

“Technically,” Spencer said, without looking up from his book, “this is one of the most efficient ways to spend a Sunday morning.”You glanced over at him, tucked into the opposite end of the couch, legs stretched out so his socked feet barely brushed your thigh under the blanket. “Reading?”

“Reading in the morning,” he clarified, adjusting his grip on the worn paperback in his hands. “The brain retains information better during periods of rest. Or… semi-rest. There was a study in Cognitive Neuroscience Review that found reading comprehension and emotional processing increased by almost 14% when participants read during low-stimulation hours like early morning or right before bed.”

You smiled into your pages. “So you’re saying we’re smarter right now.”

Spencer’s mouth twitched into the smallest smile. “Relatively, yes.”

You set your mug on the side table and tugged the blanket tighter around your legs. “What are you reading this time?”

He turned the book so you could see the cover. The Fabric of the Cosmos. Of course.

“Light reading,” you deadpanned.

Spencer looked sheepish. “I—I can summarize it for you, if you want. There’s actually this fascinating section on how time might not be linear, which could explain a lot about memory perception and déjà vu, and—”

You scooted over before he could spiral further, sliding in next to him and resting your head against his shoulder. “I’d love that,” you said softly.

He paused, a little startled at the closeness, but then let his body relax under the weight of yours. You felt the way his breathing slowed, syncing unconsciously with your own. He cleared his throat, his voice quieter now.

“Okay. Um… so in classical physics, time is this forward-moving constant, right? But quantum theory—especially string theory—suggests that might not be the whole picture. Time could be more like a… like a loaf of bread, where all the moments already exist and we just move through them one slice at a time…”

His words faded in and out, comforting more than academic, his cadence familiar and safe. You didn’t fully follow the theory, but that wasn’t the point. The point was this: the steady sound of Spencer Reid explaining the universe while you leaned against him on a quiet Sunday morning, your book long forgotten.

Eventually, his words slowed. “Are you still awake?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, even though your eyes had been closed for a while now.

“Okay,” he whispered, letting the book fall to his lap. “I’ll just… stay like this for a while.”

You didn’t say anything, but your hand found his under the blanket and held it.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader | Eddie Munson x You | Eddie Munson x OC

Summary: As you gently brush through Eddie’s hair, he quietly admits how much he misses his mother, even after all these years...

CW: Emotional trauma, childhood loss, self-loathing

-

The room was silent, save for the sound of your fingers running through Eddie Munson’s wild hair.

Tonight felt...different. He sat rigid, trying to hold it all together.

His body was still, eyes shut, attempting to relax, yet you could feel the tension, the weight of something he was keeping inside.

Eddie never let anyone in like this. Especially not this way. But here he was, allowing you to comb through his hair.

Eddie had always been self-conscious about it—tangled, falling in his face, usually hidden under a bandana. But tonight, there were no defenses. He was just... Eddie. Vulnerable.

You worked the brush through his curls, the silence stretching between you. Each stroke made his body twitch, like he was holding something back.

“I don’t like people touching my hair,” Eddie mumbled, his voice low, almost embarrassed. “Feels… too personal.”

You didn’t stop. “I’m not ‘people,’” you said softly but firmly. “I’m not gonna judge you.”

Eddie didn’t respond, but you felt his shoulders relax slightly.

He was letting go, just a little. His breath evened out, and the quiet grew thicker.

Then, without warning, his breath hitched. You froze, brush still in hand.

"Sorry...it's just..." Eddie sighed deeply. “...my mom used to do this.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unintentional. You stopped brushing. “What do you mean?”

His jaw tightened. Memories flickered in his eyes, ones he wanted to bury but couldn’t. “She was a stylist. Did hair. I don’t know, it sounds dumb, but... I loved the way she’d do it. Just... gently. Like this. Like she had all the time in the world.” His voice cracked but he pushed through. “She’d sit me down like this. Not like it mattered, really... but it did. It mattered to her. And it mattered to me.”

A pause.

“So...” Eddie whispered, raw, “Haven’t let anyone do this in… a long time.”

You could see the fight in him, the struggle to keep it together, but you didn’t push. You just listened.

Eddie’s eyes closed for a moment. “She had this big chair... in the living room. She’d make me sit there and comb my hair for hours. The only time I didn’t mind her touching me. The only time I wasn’t squirming. I didn’t know what it meant then.”

You didn’t speak. Your fingers slipped through his hair again, brushing out the tangles.

“She’d hum a tune while she worked. Stories about when she was younger, how she wanted to open a salon, how she’d cut hair for everyone in the neighborhood. She’d laugh about it, like it was a silly dream. But she had that dream, you know? And I never told her I was proud of her. Never told her I loved those damn stories.” His voice wavered.

You felt his pulse under your touch, quick and erratic.

“I kept a photo of her for years,” he said, his words spilling out. “She’s smiling, holding scissors at some cheesy family barbecue, laughing with the neighbors. I still have it. Buried in a box, under my bed. I don’t want to think about it. Don’t want to miss her more than I already do.” His voice faltered, a moment of vulnerability. “I don’t talk about her. Don’t let anyone know I still care, but I do. I fucking care. God, I miss her, and I don’t know how to deal with it.”

Each stroke of your fingers was slow, deliberate. His hands clenched the bed, holding on to something real.

"Eddie..."

“I’m sorry,” his chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. “I shouldn’t have said any of that. You don’t—”

But you cut him off, your voice steady, warm. “You don’t have to apologize, Eddie. Not for this. Not for anything.”

“Stop,” Eddie hissed, voice breaking through the tension. His body jerked beneath your touch, a desperate plea. “You don't have to do this. I'm not your charity case.”

Your fingers shifted to the back of his neck, pressing into the soft skin. He tensed again, but this time, you didn’t stop. You weren’t backing down.

“I don’t pity you,” you said, your voice steady, with a hint of steel. “I’m not here to fix you, Eddie. I’m here. With you. For you.”

You continued brushing, smoothing his hair down, as if it was something precious.

Eddie’s shoulders relaxed, just a little. He wasn’t ready to let everything go, but he was letting himself be here, even if just for a moment.

“Sometimes, when I’m alone,” he continued quietly, “I take out that photo. Just to remember her... how she smelled like hairspray and lavender. How she’d hum while she worked, even when she was angry at my dad. She was still that soft... gentle woman, even after everything.”

You didn’t answer. You just let him breathe.

“God, I don’t know what I’m doing,” he muttered, his voice distant. “I’m not... I’m not her, you know? I’m nothing like her.”

You felt a spark of frustration, but instead of letting it spill out...

"You’re not like her?" you asked softly, your voice barely a whisper. “You’re her son, Eddie. And that matters more than anything. She’s in you. Always. And I don’t want you to ever forget that.”

Eddie’s shoulders tensed under your touch. His eyes flickered with something frantic.

“No,” he growled, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to push your hand away. “I’m not like her. I’m not good. She was kind. She had dreams. I—I’m just… a fucking mess. I'm like him. Like my dad."

A sting in your chest. His bitterness grew darker. “I never could measure up. Not to her, not to anyone. She was the good one. And then there’s me. I’m just..."

"Eddie, please—"

"This mess," he continued. "This—this freak who can’t get it together.”

His anger shifted. Now, it was more than just about the world. It was about everything he couldn’t change inside himself.

“My old man used to say... I’d never be good enough for her. Or anyone. He made it sound like there was something wrong with me from the start. He’d always come home drunk, shouting about how much I messed up, how I was never gonna be anything. You ever heard someone make you feel like you were born broken?”

His anger was different now—raw, self-directed.

You didn’t stop. You just kept brushing, holding him in this moment.

“You’re not him, Eddie,” you said softly but firmly. “You’re you. You’re not your dad. You’re not the guy who—” You stopped, catching your breath. “You’re not him. You’re not broken.”

Eddie turned his head just enough for his eyes to meet yours. A storm in them—pain, regret, anger.

“I am like him,” Eddie said finally, bitterness creeping into every word. “I’m... exactly like him. A loser. A screw-up. I’m never gonna be the guy my mom hoped I’d be. I’m not gonna fix this.”

His anger overflowed. He wasn’t done yet.

"She was my mom. She was the one who cared. But I—I can’t even be that. I can’t. And I won’t pretend like I can be this hero. I’m not her, and I’ll never be. I’m like him. And that’s just the way it is."

His breath was sharp, as though trying to convince himself.

You could see the turmoil, the self-loathing. For a moment, it felt like he was unraveling in front of you.

"I’m bad, you hear me? I’m bad like him. I’m not some fucking knight in shining armor. I’m just... a guy who messes everything up. And you—you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t even be close to me. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you."

You stood there, frozen, unsure whether to keep going. You wanted to say something, but the words stuck.

He didn’t believe it. He didn’t believe you could want him—want this—when all he saw was chaos.

He looked at you, eyes wild. “You’re not the one who’s gonna fix me,” he said, voice low. "I'm not gonna be the guy you want. I can't be. So don't try. Don't pretend this is something it’s not."

And you felt the truth of his words settle heavy in the room.

Maybe Eddie wasn’t good like her.

Maybe he was bad like his father, lost in rage, incapable of seeing the worth in himself that you did.

And yet…

"You're right," you said quietly. "You're not her. And you might not be the person you think you are. But you're not your dad either, Eddie. Not in the way you think you are."

His eyes flickered, confused, opening his mouth to speak. You held up your hand.

"You don’t want to be fixed. You don’t want to be saved. I get it. But you need to stop thinking you’re destined to mess everything up just because of who your dad is. You’re not him. You’re you."

"I’m not leaving," you said softly. "But you can push me away if you want. It won’t change how I feel."

Eddie’s hands clenched at his sides, eyes torn between anger and desperation. “You’ll regret it. You’ll hate me for it.”

"I won’t," you said firmly.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, but this time, you can see the softness in his eyes. Slowly, his shoulders loosen, and he exhales in a way that feels like surrender.

Not giving up, but allowing himself to be a little bit more vulnerable...a little bit more himself.

He looks at you again “I never thought I could be this… open. Not even with her. Not with anyone.”

You smile, a soft, understanding smile.

And as you continue brushing his hair, you don’t feel the need to say anything else.

You’re here. With him.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader | Eddie Munson x Y/N

Summary: You, a flustered classmate, get roped into Hellfire—and Eddie Munson’s full attention—whether you're ready or not.

-

Monday

You wake up with Eddie Munson’s jacket still draped over your desk chair like it belongs there.

It doesn’t.

Neither does the note—creased and slightly smudged from where you pressed your thumb over the number too long—or the ghost of his rings still imprinted into the backs of your fingers like they left a mark. (They didn’t. You checked. More than once.)

You thought about calling over the weekend.

You don’t.

You stare at the number, over and over again. More than you want to admit.

You wonder if he’s the type to pick up on the first ring. Wonder if he’s the type to let it ring on purpose, just to mess with you. Wonder if he’s even awake right now or if he’s sprawled across his bed in some half-demon pose, dreaming about dungeon maps and new ways to make you blush.

Because that’s what he did the other day. Repeatedly.

And now your body has declared mutiny and decided to feel the sensation of his voice every time you blink too hard.

You make it through the first half of school by the sheer power of caffeine and panic.

You skip lunch.

You avoid the drama room.

You flinch when someone drops a textbook too loud because for half a second it sounds like dice hitting the table.

And worst of all?

He’s nowhere.

Not in the hallways. Not lurking outside the cafeteria. Not pretending to nap in the library, one boot kicked up like a middle finger to authority.

You shouldn’t care.

You really shouldn’t.

But by the time the last bell rings and your locker is a mess of unsubmitted homework and misplaced sanity, you’re almost certain you dreamed it.

The look. The voice. The jacket. The scrap of paper with instructions disguised as invitations...

Until—

“Hey.”

You nearly throw yourself into your locker.

He’s leaning against the one beside yours, all lazy limbs and calculated chaos, eyes raking over you like he’s re-reading a favorite paragraph.

“Still jumpy,” he says, voice smug enough to slap.

“And you’re still—”

“Charming? Devastatingly handsome? A national treasure for both women and tabletop fantasy campaigns?”

You scowl. “I was going to say annoying.”

He smirks. “So we’re still lying to ourselves. Noted.”

You should walk away. You should. Instead, you slam your locker shut and hold your ground.

“What do you want, Munson?”

His grin stays, but sharpens. “You kept the jacket.”

Your arms cross. “It’s warm.”

“So am I, sweetheart.”

Your face goes thermonuclear.

He laughs—real, raspy, unfair. Then, softer: “You coming Friday?”

You hesitate. He steps in. Just a little. Just enough. Close enough to blur out everything that isn’t him.

“If I say no?” you ask.

He doesn’t blink. “Then I wait. A week. A month. However long.”

Your brow arches. “You’d wait?”

“For the right person?” He shrugs. “Every damn session.”

And that’s it. You're toast. You're dust. You're myth and legend and ruined.

He shrugs like he didn’t just drop a line that could kill a Victorian poet. “But if you do come... I’m already writing you a quest. Custom. Just for you.”

You stare. “You’re bribing me with fantasy plotlines?”

“Obviously.”

You try not to smile. You fail. Epically.

“I’m not making any promises,” you mumble, fingers brushing the note in your pocket.

He tips an invisible hat. “Good thing I’m excellent at unfinished business.”

Then he turns. Walks away. No drama. No slow motion. Just one last glance over his shoulder.

You can hear him running the second he’s out of sight—shouting something excited at his friends like he just rolled a natural twenty on life.

And here you stand, still rooted to the spot, cheeks flushed and a grin plastered on your face.

Completely, hopelessly doomed by the nerdiest boy alive.

--

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader | Eddie Munson x You | Eddie Munson x OC

Summary: Eddie swipes your glasses just to see you squirm... and maybe to keep you a little closer.

-

You never thought you'd find yourself in this situation—practically blind and at the mercy of Eddie Munson, of all people.

You were hanging out in his trailer, trying to catch a break after a long week, when Eddie had started doing what he did best—teasing.

You were sitting on the couch, your glasses perched on your nose, trying to read a book, but Eddie wasn’t having it. He plopped down next to you, nudging you with his elbow. "Hey, what’s up with this?" he said, snatching your glasses off your face before you even had a chance to protest.

"Hey! Give those back!" you protested, squinting at him, your vision now a blurry mess.

Eddie chuckled, tilting the frames between his fingers. "I think I’m gonna hold onto these for a bit," he said, his grin devious. "You look cuter without them anyway."

You groaned. "Eddie, seriously. I’m blind as a bat without those!"

His grin only deepened as he leaned in closer, the mischievous twinkle in his eyes growing. "Funny you mention bats... I’m kinda like one, you know?" His voice was low, almost growling, and it made a shiver run down your spine.

You felt a small tremor in your hands as you leaned forward, trying to reach out for your glasses, but Eddie was already holding them just out of reach. You could hear his breathing, just a little faster now. "Eddie, come on. I can’t see anything."

He tilted his head, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke. "Well, that's the point, isn't it?"

Your heart thumped in your chest. "What do you mean?"

Eddie's voice dropped even lower, and you could almost feel the predatory edge in his tone. "You can't see. Just like a bat. And I can... hear everything."

A thrill ran through you, a tinge of nervousness creeping up your spine as he leaned in closer. You were completely blind without your glasses, and the vulnerability of the situation wasn't lost on you. You were suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was, his warmth radiating against your skin.

"You feel that, don’t you?" Eddie murmured, his lips grazing the side of your neck. "The way your body tenses when you can’t see what’s coming? The way you can only hear me, feel me?"

Your breath caught, and you nodded despite yourself. You did feel it. The way his presence made everything else blur in the background, how the hairs on your neck stood on end with anticipation.

Eddie’s hand slid down to your wrist, keeping you just close enough but still not letting you get your glasses back. "You know, I think you look good like this," he purred, his fingers trailing down your arm. "So vulnerable. So helpless. Can't see a thing, huh?"

You swallowed thickly. "Eddie…"

His fingers tightened around your wrist, and you could feel the tension in his body as he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. "Don’t worry, sweetheart," he said with a growl, "I’ll take care of you. All you need to do is trust me."

You could feel the primal edge in his voice now, the way it vibrated with an intensity that had your heart racing. You could almost hear the playful predator in him—Eddie Munson, the wild thing, teasing and toying with you, but still keeping you safe, keeping you close.

"Can’t hide from me when you're like this," Eddie continued, his hand brushing your face lightly, tracing the outline of your features. "I know exactly where you are. And I know exactly what you want."

You could hear the way his breath hitched as he ran his fingers down your neck, a slow, teasing touch that had your pulse racing. He was enjoying this—knowing you were blind to everything around you, completely at his mercy, the feeling of his dominance washing over you with each touch.

The quiet hum of the trailer seemed to drown out everything else, the world narrowing down to just Eddie and his hands on you. You felt his lips ghost over your skin, his breath warm and slow. "You’re gonna let me take control tonight, right?" he whispered, his voice dark with something you couldn’t quite place.

You nodded without thinking, the primal instinct within you rising in sync with his words. You could feel his grin against your neck, smug and satisfied.

"Good girl," he said softly, his hands now tracing the curve of your waist as if committing the feel of you to memory. "You know, I think we’re gonna have a lot of fun like this."

His fingers finally released your wrist, and you felt a rush of relief. But then his hands were on you again, guiding you gently, his touch soft but commanding.

"Just follow my voice," he murmured, his lips brushing yours softly at first. Then, with a low chuckle, he pressed his mouth fully against yours, kissing you deeply as his hands roamed freely over your body. His kiss was slow and possessive, each movement calculated, his every breath filling your senses.

You couldn’t see a thing, but with Eddie’s touch, you didn’t need to. You could feel his dominance in every slow, deliberate movement, his body pressing against yours with a primal hunger. The world might have been blurry, but with Eddie Munson, you knew exactly where you stood.

He broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, "You’re mine now, sweetheart. Don’t worry about anything else."

You could feel him, so close, so in control. It was intoxicating, thrilling—being blind, being completely at his mercy, trusting him in a way that only intensified the feeling of being wanted.

And maybe you were just as wild as he was, craving the power he had over you, enjoying every moment of being his bat.

--

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Mean!Reader

Summary: She wants to kill him, he wants to kiss her — unfortunately for everyone, those two urges might be the same thing.

-

You hated Eddie Munson.

Loud, smug, grungy Eddie Munson, with his stupid chain wallet and his mouth that never shut up. He walked around like he was the only person in Hawkins with a personality. Like the world was his stage and everyone else was just background noise.

You wanted to punch him in the throat.

Unfortunately, your body hadn't gotten the memo. Because every time he got under your skin (which was often), your hands curled into fists and your heart kicked like it was trying to escape.

And he? He loved it.

“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart,” he crooned, blocking your locker with one boot planted against the frame. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“I hope you choke on your own hair,” you snapped.

“You’d miss me.”

You grabbed him by the collar before your brain could catch up with your body. Slammed him against the metal with a clang that echoed down the hallway.

A few freshmen scattered.

Eddie just grinned like a lunatic.

"Careful," he murmured, eyes flicking from your hand on his shirt to your clenched jaw. “People are gonna start thinking you're into me.”

You shoved him harder.

“I’d rather set myself on fire,” you hissed.

“I volunteer as kindling,” he whispered.

Your breath caught. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to notice. His grin widened, eyes glinting with something dangerous.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, backing off like he was radioactive.

“That's the first time you've touched me without punching,” he called after you.

You turned. "Don't tempt me. I will put you through a window."

"That's not a threat, that’s flirting."

Later that week...

He tripped you in the parking lot.

Not by accident.

So you keyed his van. Just one little line across the door — like a love letter written in malice. He found it during sixth period, ran down the hallway holding up the parking lot security photo like a wanted poster.

“You scratched my baby,” he shouted.

You leaned back in your chair. “Be glad it wasn’t your face.”

“Oh, I am glad,” he said, slamming the photo on your desk. “Because now I can look at you while I plan my revenge.”

“You won’t do shit.”

He leaned down until your faces were inches apart. “Try me, princess.”

You should’ve hit him. You almost did.

Instead, your eyes flicked to his mouth.

Just for a second.

He noticed.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader | Eddie Munson x Y/N | Eddie Munson x You

Summary: Eddie Munson notices you’re struggling and refuses to let you go hungry, even if it means dragging you to the diner.

-

Eddie Munson wasn’t the type to notice subtle things.

No, he was loud, he was in-your-face, and he was a complete disaster when it came to anything that wasn’t music, D&D, or annoying his friends.

But there was one thing he had down to a science—you.

He’d been watching you for a while now, and he noticed all the small stuff. The way you avoided eye contact when you were stressed, the way your eyes went a little glassy when you were trying to hold it together, and most recently, the way you kept rubbing your temples and not touching the bag of chips on the table.

He couldn’t ignore it.

“Okay, seriously,” Eddie said, leaning in closer to you during lunch. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, watching as you poked at your food, but didn’t take a single bite. “What’s going on?”

You looked up, blinking a little too fast, your hand instinctively moving to your temple like you were trying to fend off the headache that was undoubtedly creeping in. “I’m fine, Eddie. Really. Just not hungry today.”

Eddie raised a brow. “You’re telling me you’re not hungry and you—” He pointed dramatically at the untouched chips. “—you’re not eating this? The greatest snack in the entire school? Come on.”

You sighed and pushed the bag away. “Just not feeling it today, alright? Too much going on.”

“Bullshit,” Eddie said, and there was something in his voice that made you pause. He wasn’t messing around. “You’re about to go full-on migraine mode and you haven’t eaten? Are you trying to die on me or something?”

Your mouth opened and closed, like you were trying to come up with a smart reply, but nothing came out. You were caught.

“I—I’m not trying to die, Eddie,” you muttered, your voice small as you rubbed your temples again. “I just… haven’t had the chance, y’know? With everything going on, I just—"

“You haven’t had the chance?” Eddie interrupted, his voice raising a little. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall and then back to you. “It’s already past noon. That’s your problem right there. You can’t go through the whole damn day on empty. You think the migraine is bad now? It’s about to get a hundred times worse.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Eddie was already standing up, pacing back and forth like he was the one having a full-blown meltdown. “Nope, not today. I’m not letting you turn into a zombie over a stupid lunch. You know what? I’m doing this the Eddie Munson way.”

Before you could even blink, Eddie grabbed the chips from the table, tossed them into his bag, and then grabbed your wrist. “Come on. We’re going. Now.”

You looked at him, confused. “Where are we going? I told you, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Eddie pulled you to your feet, his hand still holding yours like he wasn’t about to let you go. “We’re going to the diner down the street. And you’re going to eat something that’s not chips. You can fight me on this all you want, but I’m getting you food, and you’re gonna love it. End of story.”

“Eddie, no, really—"

“Nope, don’t even try it.” He shook his head, grinning now, the edge of his earlier seriousness fading into his usual goofy confidence. “I’m your personal food knight in shining armor, and I will not be defeated by the likes of you.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. But damn, he wasn’t giving up. Eddie was absolutely stubborn, and it wasn’t like you could argue with him when he was pulling the ‘don’t make me drag you’ routine.

“Okay, fine,” you sighed, the migraine throbbing in your head now, the light still making everything too sharp. “But if we’re going to the diner, I swear to God, you better let me have some peace and quiet while I eat.”

Eddie’s grin got wider, practically splitting his face in half. “Deal. But you gotta promise me something. No skipping meals again. You can’t keep pulling this stunt. No more skipping breakfast or lunch on my watch, alright?”

You nodded, trying to hide the way your heart did that weird little skip. Eddie Munson, the guy who was always a little too loud, a little too in-your-face, was always pulling stunts like this for the people he cared about. And as much as it annoyed you, you also couldn’t help but feel that ridiculous sense of warmth in your chest.

“Alright,” you said, dragging your feet slightly as he led you down the hallway. “I’ll eat. But I swear, if you talk about how much food I’m consuming, I’m not holding back.”

Eddie winked at you, already pulling open the door. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Now, come on. Let’s get you fed before you turn into a real-life zombie.”

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Chacter | Aemond Targaryen x Y/N | Aemond Targaryen x Lowborn Maid

Summary: He wraps her in silk, but she’s the one who holds the thread that keeps him from unraveling.

CW: Obsession, mutual possession, emotional enmeshment

--

She is the last to touch him each night, and she knows it.

The court may gossip, the ladies may flutter, the knights may kneel and scheme, but when the torches outside his chamber flicker and dim, when the heavy door creaks shut with a finality that echoes through the stone halls, it’s her hands that reach for him.

Only hers.

Aemond Targaryen sits, stone-faced, before the fire like a statue carved from ice, his long silver hair wild—matted with sweat from battle, training, or just the sheer defiance of the wind. He doesn’t look at her when she enters. He doesn’t need to.

He knows she’ll come.

And she always does. Called or not. Dismissed or not. She comes.

Tonight is no different.

The room is stifling, the heat pressing against her like a heavy, unyielding blanket. The fire crackles in the hearth, twisting and snapping, as though it, too, wants to escape the suffocating air. But nothing moves in the room except for her hands—slight tremors just barely perceptible in her fingertips as she reaches for the silver brush laid out beside the basin.

Its bristles are carved from boar's hair. Its handle, chased in dragonbone. She lifts it carefully, reverently. She’s heard it once belonged to Queen Alicent, but now... it belongs to him.

And it belongs to her.

The tiny strand of Aemond’s hair caught in the bristles is proof of that.

He sits before her now, shirtless, damp from his bath, his hair flowing down his back like molten moonlight. His posture is regal, proud. Perfectly princely. But his gaze doesn’t meet hers. Not yet.

He doesn’t need to acknowledge her. She doesn’t need him to. Not when she has already claimed this small corner of his world.

The first stroke is always the hardest.

With deliberate care, she brushes through the first few strands, the rhythm slow, measured, but the tension between them thick enough to choke. She knows what she’s doing. She always does. The brush digs into his scalp, the pressure of her fingers against his skin sending a ripple of something—not pain—but something much worse, more familiar.

He’s alive. He’s hers.

And with each pull of the bristles, she drags him closer, holds him tighter, binds him further with the strings of her obsession.

He doesn’t look at her. Not yet.

But she knows when it’s time.

The brush is in her hand. The same one that’s never touched anyone else’s hair. Only his. She grips it a little too tightly, just to feel the pressure. To remind herself that this—this power—is hers. Hers to wield.

She steps closer.

“You don’t get to ignore me,” she whispers, her voice low, biting with venom.

Aemond’s lips twist into a smirk, half his face contorting in mockery. "And what will you do, little maid? You think you can control me?"

The words land like a slap, sharp and stinging. They cut deeper than he knows. But they don’t break her. Not this time. The rejection only fans the flames of need in her chest, makes the fire hotter, more insistent.

Without hesitation, she kneels before him, her movements fluid, determined. She presses the brush to his scalp, feeling the soft strands of his hair slip through her fingers, silk-like, cool like moonlight.

“I’m not the one who needs controlling, Aemond,” she murmurs, her voice hushed but certain. “It’s you. You belong to me.”

Her fingers curl into his hair, tugging hard.

His eye flares with irritation, but there’s something else lurking beneath it. Something darker. Something raw. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t protest. He knows this game. She knows this game.

This is her claim.

She tugs again. His jaw tightens, a sharp intake of breath. His hands grip the arms of his chair, knuckles white with the strain, but he doesn’t speak. Not yet. Not when he’s so close to breaking.

Her hands work with more urgency now, each brush of the silver comb feeling like a deeper mark, a deeper wound. The need within her twists and grows with each stroke. His pulse thunders beneath her fingertips, the fight in him rising, but she won’t let go.

“I’ve been patient,” she says, her voice laced with sweet satisfaction. “Too patient.”

Aemond’s head jerks back in annoyance, but she forces him forward again, her fingers digging into his scalp, her grip iron-clad.

“You’ve been so strong, Aemond,” she continues, her voice soft, but there’s something dark beneath it, something seductive. “But you don’t have to be strong anymore. Let me be strong for you.”

He shudders, breath quickening, and for a moment, just a fleeting moment, she sees a crack in his facade. His defenses are crumbling. And the moment he lets go—he will fall into her. Into her arms. Forever.

“You don’t need to be so angry, my love,” she breathes against his ear. “Let me make you whole again.”

Aemond’s face twists, fury flashing across his features as he turns toward her, a bitter laugh bubbling in his throat. “Don’t touch me.”

She presses harder against him. His gaze flickers with rage, but also something else—something unfamiliar. His pulse is frantic against her touch, but she isn’t afraid. She doesn’t flinch. She’s already won.

Her fingers slide gently, but insistently, down his jaw, holding him captive, forcing him to look at her. His gaze narrows, the scar beneath his eye pulling tight as he glares at her. He’s still angry, still defiant, but something in him is cracking.

“No,” he growls, his voice grating with the force of everything he wants to say. “I won’t be fixed. You can’t fix me.”

Her laugh is soft, but it’s sharp—almost predatory. “I don’t want to fix you, Aemond. I want to protect you.”

He sneers, shaking his head violently. “Protect me?” His hand shoots out, grabbing her wrist with savage force, but she doesn’t flinch. She’s unbroken, untouched.

She holds his gaze with an unshakable certainty, her voice low, unwavering. “I’m not going anywhere. You can fight me all you want, but I’m not leaving you.”

Aemond pulls her against him, shoving her toward the wall with all the force of his anger. His breath is ragged, hot against her skin. His chest is heaving with the rage that’s boiling over.

“I’ll break you,” he spits, low and guttural, his words like a challenge, a warning. “I’ll burn it all down before I let you control me.”

But she smiles. Dark. Knowing.

“Aemond,” she whispers, her voice dripping with something sinister, something intimate. “I already have.”

His defiance is still there, flickering in the depths of his gaze. But there’s something else too. A flicker of... understanding. Of fear. Of acceptance. And for the first time, Aemond isn’t quite sure if he wants to break free, or if he wants to let her pull him deeper into the tangled web she’s spun.

He feels it, doesn’t he? The way she has already claimed him. Not with force. Not with violence. But with a softness so deadly, so relentless, he can’t escape it.

For the first time in his life, Aemond Targaryen is not sure if he’s the one in control anymore.

Her fingers barely graze his scalp as she lifts the brush again, tracing the curve of his skull. Aemond doesn’t speak, his silence as thick as the tension in the room. 

Her heart beats faster, more erratic as she leans in, the scent of him overwhelming her senses—soap and sweat, leather and something darker she can’t quite name.

She knows the power of touch. Knows how it can bind, how it can tear.

“I know you’re here,” she murmurs, her voice low, like a secret she’s only willing to share with him. “I know you want this, even if you won’t say it.”

His lips press into a thin line, but she can see the way his chest rises with every breath, how his body betrays him in the quietest of ways. He’s never been good at hiding what he truly feels, no matter how much he pretends.

She leans closer, brushing her cheek against his, feeling the heat of him. “You want me to leave?” she asks, the brush held in her hand like a weapon, though the weapon is never in the brush. It’s in her words. It’s in the way she can break him without lifting a finger.

“No,” he mutters, the word strangled, barely audible over the crackling fire. His eye flicks toward hers for a split second, filled with an emotion he quickly shuts down. “But you need to.”

She stops for just a moment, letting the silence fill the room like a thick fog. The brush hovers just above his head, its bristles trembling in her grip. His words hit her like a slap, but she doesn’t back away. She never does.

Instead, she leans in further, breath hot against his skin. “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers, her voice as soft as the brush against his hair. “Not now. Not ever.”

Aemond. You need this. You’ve been through so much."

His jaw tightens. No. He doesn’t need her. Doesn’t need anyone. He’s the prince, the last Targaryen with the blood of dragons coursing through his veins. He doesn’t need comfort. He doesn’t need care. He needs nothing from anyone.

“No,” he grits through his teeth, his words sharp as daggers. “You don’t get to fix me. I’ll never let you fix me.”

Her fingers tighten in his hair, pulling sharply. He winces, but it’s nothing compared to the rage inside him. He leans in, his breath hot against her face. “If you think you can control me—”

“I don’t want to control you,” she interrupts, her voice low and dark. “I want to protect you.”

Aemond laughs—bitter, low, an animalistic sound. “Protect me? You can’t even protect yourself.”

His hand flies out, grabbing her wrist with an almost brutal force, but she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t back down. She just watches him with that same, unshakable certainty in her eyes.

“I don’t need your protection,” he says, his voice hoarse with rage. “I’ve never needed anyone.”

His body shudders with rage and something else—something darker, something twisted. Her touch is maddening, her love suffocating, but he can’t escape it. He’s trapped between her insistence and his own volatile nature.

With a growl, he grabs her by the shoulders, forcing her back, pushing her against the wall. His breath is wild, his chest heaving with a primal fury.

“I’ll break you,” he warns, his voice a low growl. “I’ll burn everything down before I let you control me.”

But she only smiles, her eyes dark and knowing. She’s already won.

Aemond is still staring at her, his face flushed, his chest heaving. His lips are bruised. His eye is wide—confused, angry, but also... intrigued. A flicker of something other than contempt.

s. There’s something maddening about the way she looks at him. Something unyielding, like she knows she has him trapped even though he’s still fighting.

“Aemond,” she whispers, her voice a soothing balm against his anger. “I want you to understand.”

He feels the brush of her hand against his face, soft, but there’s nothing gentle in the force of her touch. Her fingers trail down his jaw, then grip his wrist with surprising strength, pulling his arm up as though it’s weightless. Aemond's heart pounds in his chest—each beat a painful reminder of his humanity. She’s forcing him into something he doesn’t want, but he can’t escape it.

He tugs at his arm, but she doesn’t let go. Her fingers tighten, not painful, but insistent—commanding. She’s pushing him into a space he doesn’t want to enter, but she’s too close, too strong. Her eyes never leave his as she pulls his hand to her chest.

His fingers brush against the fabric of her gown, and then—her heartbeat. It thrums beneath her skin, steady and relentless. She presses his hand harder against her chest, forcing him to feel it.

“You feel that?” she murmurs, her voice a breath in his ear. “It’s yours now, Aemond. My heart. I’m yours.”

Her voice cracks, thick with desperation. “Feel it. Feel how it only beats for you, Aemond. You think I don’t see it? I see you. I’ve always seen you—I’ve always been here.”

Aemond’s heart is pounding too now, but it’s not from the passion of her words—it’s because of the rage that claws at him from the inside. He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want her love. Doesn’t want the weight of…of whatever this was.

For a moment, he stands there—completely still—his forehead pressed against her shoulder, his breath shaky. His chest heaves with the weight of everything he’s kept hidden. The mask of the fierce prince, the warrior, the unbreakable Aemond One-Eye, shatters in an instant. All of it collapses into her arms.

And he crumples.

He crumples like a child—like the broken boy he’s always been. Tears sting his eye, but he’s too proud to let them fall. Yet the sobs are there, raw and jagged, building in his throat. The rage, the pain, all of it rushing out in the quietest, most vulnerable way he’s ever allowed himself to be.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. Her arms tighten around him, holding him close, letting him collapse into her, letting him break. She murmurs soft, soothing words, stroking his back in slow, calming motions.

“You’re safe,” she whispers, her voice a gentle hum against the pounding of his heart. “I’m here. I’m always here, Aemond.”

For a long time, they stand like that—just holding each other—her warmth wrapping around him like a blanket. The walls he’s built up for so long crumble to dust, piece by piece. And in her arms, Aemond allows himself to just be. He doesn’t have to be a prince. He doesn’t have to be angry. He doesn’t have to be strong.

In her embrace, he is allowed to be fragile. To be human.

Series: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader | Eddie Munson x Y/N

Summary: You, a flustered classmate, get roped into Hellfire—and Eddie Munson’s full attention—whether you're ready or not.

-

Hellfire Club — Later That Night

You're there.

You almost weren’t—you spent twenty minutes pacing your bedroom like someone trapped without a door—but somehow, against all odds and panic spirals, you showed up. And now you're seated at the long table in the drama room, surrounded by too many dice and not enough oxygen.

Eddie hasn’t looked at you yet.

Which is rude.

He invited you.

You’re just about to leave (read: fake a bathroom emergency and run) when the chair next to you scrapes back. Boots. Rings. A leather jacket brushing against your arm. Eddie.

“Good,” he murmurs, low and firm. Not loud for the group—just for you. “You listened.”

Your breath catches.

He leans in, one hand braced on the table, the other casually resting on the back of your chair—like he's caging you in without even trying. You realize immediately: he isn’t playing around tonight.

“You were about thirty seconds from getting a very public call-out, sweetheart,” he says, lips curving into a smirk that knows exactly what it’s doing. “And I don’t think you want that. Do you?”

You don’t. God, you don’t.

His hand drifts down—the back of your chair, not your body (yet)—and his voice drops again. “Sit. Still.” It’s a command, not a suggestion.

You obey.

“Good,” he says again, and it sounds so damn smug. Then, loud and light and back in gremlin mode, he claps his hands and calls out to the group: “Alright, my little freaks, let’s roll for initiative!”

You try to focus. You really do. But every time you glance to the side, he's already looking at you—with this calm, knowing gaze that says, You're not here to play a game. You're here to learn how to follow orders.

And then?

Halfway through the session, he leans over, rolls a die into your lap, and murmurs in your ear: “Be a good little elf and hand that back to me.”

You nearly drop it.

Your fingers fumble as you reach under the table, cheeks blazing. The die is warm from where it bounced off your leg, and so are your palms. You grip it like it might explode, then place it in his outstretched hand without looking up.

But Eddie doesn’t take it. Not right away.

Instead, his fingers close over yours, slow and deliberate. Heavy rings pressing into your knuckles, his palm completely enveloping yours. He leans in again, this time letting his hair brush your shoulder as he whispers:

“Atta girl.”

And just like that, your brain forgets every spell, stat, and basic concept of English.

You swallow hard. “W-what’s my roll?”

He smirks as he pulls back—finally—letting your hand go with maddening reluctance. “Doesn’t matter. You passed.”

You blink. “But I didn’t—”

“You followed orders,” he says, interrupting without apology. “That’s all I care about.”

The table erupts in laughter around you—someone’s barbarian just tried to seduce a dragon—and Eddie turns his attention back to the chaos like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just short-circuit your entire central nervous system with one line and a six-sided die.

You try to breathe. You try to refocus. You try to not stare at the way he lounges back in his chair, tapping that same die against his bottom lip while watching you out of the corner of his eye.

You fail.

-

By the end of the session, your character’s half-dead, your party’s on fire (literally), and you’ve contributed exactly three lines of dialogue and one weak suggestion to cast Light on a torch someone already lit.

Eddie doesn’t seem to care. Every time you speak, even if it’s just to roll, his gaze flicks to you. Calculating. Hungry. Patient.

And then the game ends.

Players scatter, chairs scrape, Jeff’s already outside lighting a cigarette, and you’re stuffing your notes into your bag with trembling fingers when you feel him behind you again—warm, too close, too casual.

“You’re jumpy.” He says it like a compliment.

You don’t turn around. “You’re smug.”

He laughs, low and fond. “Only when I’m right.”

Then—his hand slides over your shoulder. Not a grab. Just a drag of fingertips across the fabric of your sleeve as he steps in front of you. Blocking the door. Smiling like the devil knows he’s beautiful.

“Walk you out?”

You nod, because words are gone now, scattered across the floor with the d4s and what’s left of your dignity.

-

The hallway’s quiet. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. You both pause at the school’s back doors, breath misting in the cold. Your ride won’t be here for fifteen minutes.

“You cold?” he asks, already shedding his jacket.

You start to shake your head, but he’s draping it over your shoulders before you can finish the motion. His hands linger a second too long, steady on your arms.

You try again: “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he cuts in softly. “That’s not why I do things.”

You stare at him. He stares right back.

And then, with devastating ease, he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a scrap of paper, and presses it into your hand. You look down:

“If you’re brave enough to come back—Friday. Same time.” Below it, a phone number. Written in bold, scratchy Eddie-handwriting.

You glance up. “And if I’m not brave enough?”

He shrugs one shoulder, half-smirk curling on his lips. “Then I guess I’ll just have to come find you myself.”

just as your knees start to turn to smoke—he backs up.

Leaves you there blinking in the cold, jacket heavy on your shoulders and your pulse pounding like you just escaped something... or were marked by it.

He’s halfway to his van before he calls back:

“Keep the jacket. I’ll get it when I collect you.”

No room for misinterpretation. No maybe. Just when.

He drives off with the window cracked, hair whipping in the wind, music you can’t make out bleeding from the speakers.

And you? Still standing there.

Still red. Still stupid.