hellmunsonfire

[hellmunsonfire]

Hi! Nice to see you back!

Thank you, nice to see you too!

[hellmunsonfire]

Rockstar! Eddie catching you snapping a pic of him. And maaaaayyybe you get invited backstage after the show 😏

My edit, please don't repost on any other site ♥️🩷♥️

[hellmunsonfire]

Blue Terror (Pirate Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader)

⚠️ Warnings: This fic contains themes that may be disturbing or triggering to some readers, including: violence, slavery, captivity, physical abuse, death mentions, degradation, non-consensual power dynamics, psychological manipulation, blood and barbaric acts, themes of war and trauma, and morally ambiguous characters. SMUT +18. ROUGH SMUT. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

I would like to remind you that English is not my first language, and part 2 will be written on request.

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Year 1672.

They say the sea holds more secrets than the sky ever will. Whispers of vanishing ships, blood-soaked decks, and names cursed by both wind and wave. And yet, nothing ever touches your quiet shore. Not until it does.

You grow up in a village so small, it doesn't even appear on most maps. Hidden among the cliffs and tangled trees of the northern coast, it smells of brine and fresh earth, of woodsmoke and rosemary. Your cottage is crooked but warm, tucked between hills that cradle your world like an old lullaby. You and your father—he with calloused hands and a voice like gravel soaked in honey—grow vegetables in the hard, stubborn soil. You sell them at market twice a week, your cart creaking along the muddy path, wheels humming a song of routine and survival. Life is simple.

You’ve heard stories, of course. Everyone has. Blue Terror, they call him—the captain who carves his name into the ocean with a blade of smoke and thunder. A man who sails with ghosts and answers to none. You don’t believe it. Or maybe, you simply choose not to.

Because believing means fearing, and fearing means acknowledging that peace is always borrowed, never owned.

Your nights are quiet. You fall asleep to the crackle of firewood, your father’s snores in the other room, the soft chirr of insects serenading the dark. And you wake each morning with sun on your skin, dew on the window glass, and dirt already under your nails. There’s a rhythm to everything. A comfort in knowing where each step will land before it touches earth.

But comfort is a fragile thing.

You remember that morning well—the one that unravels your world like thread from a torn hem. The wind shifts. The birds fall silent. The air smells wrong, like metal and fire and the breath of something ancient rising from the deep.

You’re just returning from the market, your basket still heavy with coin and leftover herbs. The path curves toward your home, and for a moment everything feels normal—until it doesn’t. Smoke curls above the treetops. The sound of shouts—low, guttural, foreign—rip through the quiet.

You run.

You run until your lungs burn and your feet slip on the gravel. But it’s too late.

The garden is trampled. Your home—splintered wood and ash. And your father…

You don’t let your mind go there. You can’t.

Rough hands find you before you even make it to the threshold. You're dragged backwards, your screams swallowed by the chaos. Faces you don’t recognize, speaking a language you don’t understand. Symbols you’ve only seen drawn in red ink on old sailors' maps. The mark of the Blue Terror.

They tie your wrists with thick rope. Your feet stumble against stone and splintered roots. And all you can think, all that echoes in the hollow behind your ribs, is this:

You’ve heard the stories. But you never thought you’d become one.

They drag you through the ruins of what once was your home. Smoke coils around broken rooftops like fingers refusing to let go. Flames dance in doorways, licking old wooden beams until they collapse into embers. The screams of your neighbors echo through the air—raw, panicked, animal. Mothers clutching their children. Men trying to fight with farming tools, only to be cut down or slammed into the mud. The stench of burning hay, of sweat and iron and salt, clings to your skin.

You stumble past the market stall where you and your father once sold rosemary and turnips. It’s overturned now, crushed beneath the boot of a man shouting in a tongue you don’t know.

Others are tied up like you, their hands bound in rough rope that digs into skin, already turning raw. Some are younger than you. Some older. All with the same wide, unblinking eyes, all walking toward the same unknown horror. A girl near you sobs so hard she can barely breathe. A man falls to his knees and is kicked until he gets up again. One pirate laughs, sharp and cold like broken glass, as he yanks on someone’s rope to make them move faster.

“Move,” another snarls behind you, the command punctuated by a shove between your shoulders. You nearly fall, your knees buckling, but you manage to keep walking. If you fall, you might not get up.

The docks are chaos. Fires reflect on the dark water, turning the sea to molten gold and shadow. And rising from it, like something pulled from a fever dream, is the ship.

It is monstrous.

The hull is made of dark, weather-worn wood, reinforced with iron plates that gleam dully in the firelight. Thick ropes and heavy nets hang from its masts like webs spun by a god. Its sails are down, but you can see the edges—blackened and patched with leather, worn by wind and war. Lanterns hang from the sides, their light swaying gently with the tide, casting ghostly glows on the faces of the men waiting to load spoils. And there—high above, fluttering in the hot breeze—is the flag.

A skull wreathed in red fire. Teeth bared. Empty eyes staring straight into your soul.

The mark of the Blue Terror.

Your breath catches. For the first time, you stop walking. But only for a moment—another shove sends you stumbling forward, onto the gangplank that groans under the weight of so many stolen lives.

Once your boots touch the deck, someone grabs your arm and hurls you forward.

You hit the wooden floor hard, your knees screaming in pain. Splinters bite into your skin. You don’t dare cry out. You barely even breathe.

Above you, the sky spins, grey smoke curling toward stars you can’t see. The world rocks beneath you, and you realize—it’s not the world. It’s the ship. Already shifting with the tide. Already carrying you away.

Around you, pirates bark orders and haul crates onto the deck—crates stolen from your neighbors, filled with food, tools, jewelry, even children’s toys. One man laughs as he holds up a silver mirror, admiring his reflection before tossing it into a barrel.

You're pulled up again, this time into a crooked line of prisoners along the center of the deck. There’s no speaking, only the sound of footsteps, chains, the creak of wood, and the occasional whimper.

They begin to inspect you.

One man lifts your chin with the tip of a dagger, muttering something under his breath. Another tugs at someone’s hair, checking the roots. Teeth are examined. Wrists. Eyes. Bodies.

They sort through you like fruit at a market—testing, prodding, calculating. You can feel it. They’re not just looking for strength or beauty. They’re searching for something else. Value. Use.

You stand still. Your heart pounds so hard it threatens to break your ribs. You want to disappear, to wake up, to run—but the sea waits, endless and black, and the ship holds you like a mouth that has already begun to chew.

You close your eyes. Not because you want to shut out the chaos—though God knows, you do—but because your mind is screaming for stillness. Just for a breath. Just for a heartbeat.

You whisper a prayer, though you’re not sure to whom. Maybe to the sea. Maybe to whatever god is cruel enough to let this happen but kind enough to let you survive it. Your fingers tremble against the rope binding your wrists. Your knees ache from where you fell. And yet, somehow, your thoughts race louder than the screams around you. If I run now, they’ll cut me down. If I jump…

Your eyes flick toward the edge of the ship. The water churns below—black and vast, stretching to the ends of the world. Could you make it? With your hands bound, your legs weak, your lungs tight with fear… could you hold your breath long enough to disappear? To sink before they find you?

But the thought dies as a sharp splash cuts through the night air. Then another. And another. You turn—just in time to see one of the prisoners, a man, hurled over the side of the ship. His scream is strangled mid-air, swallowed by the sea before it can even echo. A woman follows next, her arms tight at her sides, hands tied. She doesn’t scream. She just closes her eyes before the dark water claims her. One after the other, they are tossed like useless cargo, vanishing into the depths without so much as a second glance from their captors.

You feel bile rise in your throat as the brutal reality settles in. It’s barbaric. Inhuman. The kind of cruelty you thought only existed in stories meant to frighten children by firelight. And yet here it is—blood-warm and breathing all around you. But more terrifying than the ones discarded… are the ones they decide to keep.

When it’s over, there are only six of you left.

A pirate walks by, dragging a thick chain that clinks with every step, the sound sharp and final. His face is half-covered in tattoos, his beard tied with clacking beads. He grunts something to another, jerking his head toward your group. You can’t understand the language, but you understand the tone. A moment later, another voice—rough and accented, but in your own tongue—confirms what you already fear. “They’ll go below. Chain them up. We’ll clean them for market when the time comes.”

Market.

The word alone is enough to hollow you out. Your stomach turns to ice. Around you, the others begin to break. One girl collapses in on herself, sobbing. A boy pleads through tears, offering to work, to fight, to do anything if they just let him go. No one listens. No one even looks at him.

You’re pushed forward, toward the ship’s lower deck. The steps are narrow and slick, and the deeper you go, the heavier the air becomes. It smells of rust, damp wood, and despair. And then you see them—cages. Real ones. Iron bars, bolted to the ship’s floor, some already occupied, most waiting.

One by one, you’re shoved inside.

Your cage is barely large enough to sit, let alone stand. Your wrists are still bound, your breathing shallow. The door slams shut behind you with a metallic finality that leaves you hollow.

Above, the ship groans as it begins to move, drifting from the dock, slipping into the sea’s current. Through a gap in the wooden planks, you press your face to the hull, heart pounding. In the distance, you can still see it—your home. Smoke billows into the sky like a mourning shroud. The crooked roof of your cottage. The outline of the garden. The soft hills that once cradled your world.

And then, slowly, it all begins to disappear.

The village gets smaller and smaller, until it is just a smudge of memory swallowed by the dark horizon. You watch it vanish, ash on the wind.

Days blur into one another down there, in the bowels of the ship. You lose count after the third. Time has no meaning beneath the waves. There's only the creaking of the wood, the groans of metal against the tide, the faraway thunder of footsteps above, and the occasional screech of gulls reminding you that the world still exists outside these walls.

You’re fed once, maybe twice a day—stale, sour bread so hard you have to soak it in your own spit just to chew. Sometimes a sliver of dried meat. Often, nothing at all. You’re thirsty more than you’re hungry. Your throat stays dry, your lips cracked. No sunlight touches your skin. The air smells like wet rot and rusting chains. Your hands have started to blister from the ropes that remain around your wrists, and your ankles ache from crouching in the cage that never lets you stand fully upright.

You dream of warmth. Of your father’s voice. Of earth under your fingernails. But even dreams begin to fade when hope starts to die.

Then one morning—if it even is morning—two pirates descend into the dark.

They don’t speak. Just unlock your cage with a screech of iron and grab you by the arms. You barely resist. There’s no point. You’re too weak, too cold, too tired. You’re dragged up the stairs, feet slipping, knees scraping along the worn wood. The sudden brightness stabs into your eyes like daggers. You squint, hiss, nearly cry out as the sunlight pours down on you, unfiltered and blinding.

It takes a long time to adjust.

You feel like a creature pulled from the underworld. Everything is too loud. Too bright. The sea, impossibly vast and blue, stretches in every direction. The sun blazes overhead, gold and cruel. The ship rocks gently beneath you, no land in sight. Just waves. Endless, glimmering waves.

Then something heavy lands at your feet. A bucket. A dirty rag.

One of the pirates kicks the bucket toward you and snarls, “Clean.”

You don’t argue. You don’t even speak. You drop to your knees and dip the cloth into the bucket. The water is lukewarm, tinged with blood and salt. You press it to the deck and begin to scrub.

The rope on your wrists remains tight. Every motion burns. But you keep cleaning.

Around you, the pirates pay you little attention. They drink from metal flasks, loud and rowdy, their laughter sharp and ugly. Some sharpen their blades, dragging whetstones along the curved steel with a sound that turns your stomach. Others throw bones or coins, their games loud, aggressive. The air reeks of sweat, gunpowder, and rum.

You keep your head down. You don’t want to be noticed.

But then—something shifts. The air itself seems to pause. Laughter dims. A hush ripples across the deck like the first breath before a storm.

You feel it before you see him. Boots—black, worn, marked with symbols you don’t understand—step into view. Slow, steady, deliberate. You look up.

And there he is.

Eddie Munson. The Blue Terror. The Ghost of the Tides. Devil of the Azure Wake.

His reputation came long before his face. You’d heard whispers in the market, drunken warnings from sailors leaning too far over barrels of ale. They said his ship hunted without mercy. That he painted his sails with the blood of those who defied him. That his smile came only after screams. And when the wind carried his name, it did so in fear.

But no one ever said he looked like this.

Sunlight catches in the wild halo of his dark curls, tied back loosely with a blood-red bandana. Silver rings gleam on his fingers, worn over calloused hands that rest casually on the hilt of a curved cutlass. Beads and bone trinkets hang from his ear, some braided into his hair. His coat is deep navy, nearly black, lined with faded embroidery and burn marks. It flares behind him like wings, swaying with each step. Around his neck, a chain clinks gently, fastened to a stone medallion the color of a storm cloud.

And his eyes.

Dark, endless, unreadable. They scan the deck like a predator. Slow. Unhurried. Unbothered. When they land on you, your breath catches in your throat. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks.

But you feel it in your spine—the sense of being seen, not just as a prisoner, not just as another unfortunate soul caught in a net… but as something else. Something worth pausing for.

Your hands tremble. You don’t know if you should bow your head or meet his gaze. You don’t know if this is salvation or the edge of the blade.

By the time the sun begins its slow descent into the sea, your body is beyond exhausted. Every muscle aches, your skin burns where the chains have rubbed raw, and your knees are numb from hours spent crawling, scrubbing, lifting. They bark orders, and you obey. Not because you’re obedient—but because you’re desperate. You’ll clean bloodstains off the planks, haul damp crates from one end of the deck to the other, carry firewood under your arms until splinters bloom across your palms—anything, anything, to avoid being dragged back into that cage again.

You're too afraid to hope. But still, somewhere deep in your chest, buried beneath the filth and fatigue, a tiny ember flickers.

Just before twilight, you’re led below deck—past the cannons, through the narrow corridors that creak and groan with every shift of the ship—and finally brought into a room that smells of onions, smoke, and old salt. The kitchen, you assume. Or what passes for one on this floating prison.

A woman stands at the far end, hunched over a wooden table where she’s chopping vegetables with a dull iron blade. Her sleeves are rolled up, her greying hair tied back with a piece of old cloth, and her face is lined with years of sun, salt, and sorrow. She doesn’t look up at first. Just gestures vaguely with her knife. “Water’s in the bucket. Start with those,” she says, nodding toward a crate of limp carrots and root vegetables.

You approach slowly, uncertain, and kneel beside the crate. The water in the bucket is cloudy but cool. You begin scrubbing the dirt off the carrots, your fingers working automatically even as your mind races. The woman says nothing for a long while, the only sounds in the room the rhythmic thud of her knife and the distant cries of gulls outside the porthole.

After a while, her voice cuts through the quiet, soft but pointed. “You lasted longer than most. Most break by midday.”

You glance up, unsure if she’s mocking you, but her eyes remain fixed on her task. You swallow, your voice rasped and dry. “Where are we going?” The question comes out barely above a whisper.

She hesitates. Just a beat. Then resumes chopping. “Nowhere you’d want to be.”

A pause. You wash another carrot, your hands moving slower now. “What will they do with us?”

The woman’s blade stills.

She leans slightly closer, her voice dropping into a whisper so low you can barely hear it over the creak of the ship. “Depends. If you’re lucky, you stay here. Work in the kitchens, clean the captain’s boots, empty the piss pots. The ones who survive and keep their heads down—sometimes they get to stay.”

“And if you’re not lucky?”

Her eyes flick toward you then—quick and sharp, like a knife slipping between ribs. “Then you’re sold. Shipped off at the next black market. Or worse.” Her voice softens again, but this time it’s not pity you hear. It’s memory. “I came aboard this ship seventeen years ago. My husband and two sons were killed when we were taken. I was given to the crew as entertainment.” Her hands keep moving, but her gaze is somewhere far away. “I survived by becoming useful. Quiet. Invisible.”

You don’t speak. There’s a sour taste in your mouth that has nothing to do with hunger.

She sets the knife down and moves toward a shelf, gathering ingredients into a wooden tray—bread, a wedge of cheese, a small roasted bird, and something that smells like honey and spice. It’s more food than you’ve seen in days. Her movements are methodical, practiced. She balances the tray carefully, then turns and looks directly at you.

“You’re taking this to the captain’s quarters.”

You blink. “Me?”

The tray is heavy in her hands. She thrusts it toward you. “Yes. You. Don’t drop anything. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t look where you shouldn’t.”

Your heartbeat thunders. “Why me?”

She tilts her head. “Because you’re not broken yet. And because someone noticed.”

That sends a jolt through your chest—but before you can ask what she means, she’s already turning away. “Clean yourself first,” she adds over her shoulder, pointing toward a wooden basin and a frayed sponge on the shelf. “Captain doesn’t want to smell the lower decks.”

You step toward the basin slowly. The water is cold, sharp against your skin, but you wash anyway. Your hands, your face, the dirt smudged along your neck and collarbone. You scrub until your skin is pink, until the salt and filth are peeled away and you almost feel human again.

Almost.

You return to the tray, fingers trembling as you slide your hands beneath it and lift. It’s heavier than it looks. The scent of warm bread and meat rises around you like a cruel joke.

The woman opens the door and nods toward the hallway. “Straight ahead. Last door on the left.”

You stand in front of the heavy wooden door, the tray trembling slightly in your hands. The hallway behind you is quiet, the air thick with heat and salt and the weight of what you’re about to do. You hesitate for a breath, then lift one hand and knock—twice, firm and deliberate.

A muffled voice answers from within. “Come in.”

You push the door open with your shoulder and step inside, the scent of cedar, rum, and old smoke washing over you instantly. The room is dimly lit by a series of lanterns swinging gently from the ceiling beams. The wooden floor is smooth but scuffed from years of boots and battle. The walls are lined with iron hooks, some bearing weapons—curved cutlasses, rusted pistols, a strange-looking crossbow. A dark blue coat with gold buttons hangs from the back of a high-backed leather chair.

And at the center of it all is a massive desk, carved from black oak and scarred by time and flame. Papers and maps are spread across it like a fan of secrets. And there he is.

Captain Eddie Munson.

He stands over the desk with one hand braced against the map and the other toying with a small, wickedly curved dagger. His curls are loose now, framing his face in wild shadows, and a single silver ring glints as it catches the lantern light. His brow is furrowed, his focus unshakable, the tension in his jaw sharp as steel. He doesn’t look up when you enter.

You move silently, every footstep calculated, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs. You place the tray on a smaller side table beside the desk without a sound. Your eyes never leave the floor. You can feel your own heartbeat—loud, shaky, insistent. And your stomach lets out a low, humiliating growl.

You flinch. He doesn’t seem to notice.

You take a step back, ready to turn and leave as quietly as you came, when his voice slices through the stillness.

“Hey. You.”

You freeze.

“Come here.”

You hesitate, every warning from the kitchen woman screaming in your ears. Keep your head down. Don’t speak. Don’t get involved. But your body obeys before your brain does. You step closer, slowly, until you're standing at the edge of the desk.

He finally looks up.

His eyes are darker than the ocean outside. Piercing. Curious. Calculating. But not cruel.

He taps the edge of the map. “What do you think?” he asks, his voice low and rough like gravel soaked in wine. “If we cut across this current, we save two days. But the waters are... tricky.”

You blink, unsure if you’ve heard him right. Is he asking you?

You open your mouth, then close it. You glance at the map, then at him. “I... I’m not sure I should say.”

One dark brow lifts slightly. “And yet, here you are. Looking.”

You swallow. Your heart is galloping. “If you go that way,” you say quietly, carefully, “you might save time, but the wind shifts in that region often. You could be stranded. Or worse. I think you should stay along the outer path. It’ll take longer... but you’ll arrive intact.”

Silence falls between you. You curse yourself internally. You were supposed to be invisible. Quiet. And instead, here you are, giving tactical advice to the most feared pirate on the sea.

But then—he smiles.

Just a flicker. Barely there. But it softens his face in a way that’s almost disarming.

“Interesting,” he murmurs. “Most of my crew can’t even read a map.”

You drop your gaze again, your stomach churning with dread and something else—something warmer, sharper, dangerously close to intrigue.

“Are you hungry?” he asks suddenly.

You shake your head. “No, Captain.”

He leans back in his chair, grabs a goblet of deep red wine, and gestures to the tray. “Sit. Eat.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Captain, I—”

“That’s an order.”

There’s no bite to his tone. No cruelty. But it’s firm.

You nod, slowly lowering yourself into the smaller chair across from him. Your fingers tremble as you tear a piece of bread and bring it to your lips. The warmth of it feels unreal. After days of stale crumbs, it tastes like salvation.

Eddie watches you. Not like a hunter. More like a scholar. He takes a sip from his cup, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make your skin prickle.

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate, then offer it—softly, like a secret you’re afraid to let go of.

He nods. Repeats it once, like tasting the sound of it. “And when did you come aboard my ship?”

You glance down. “A few days ago. From the last village.”

“Ah.” His fingers trace the stem of his goblet. “That was a good haul. Shame about the fire.”

You say nothing. You’re not sure you can speak.

He gestures toward the map again. “Ever sailed before?”

You shake your head. “No, Captain.”

“But you read the stars? The wind?”

You look at him, cautious. “I read books. My father taught me. I listened. I remembered things.”

Eddie hums, thoughtful, as he leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “You might be useful,” he says softly, but not to himself.

To you.

And you don’t know if that’s a promise, or a threat.

It’s been two weeks since your cage opened and the sea became your ceiling.

Two weeks since the floor stopped rocking under your knees and started rocking under your feet instead. Two weeks since Captain Eddie Munson—Blue Terror, Ghost of the Tides, the name whispered like a curse along every broken shoreline—called you into his chambers and didn’t send you back.

Since then, you’ve spent most of your days—and too many of your nights—within those walls. Studying maps. Reading stars. Learning currents, wind patterns, routes carved by blood and time. You trace inked lines with trembling fingers while he leans over your shoulder, smelling of salt and steel and something darker you can’t name.

He gives you space, but not distance. Kindness, but not trust.

Still, you’ve earned something.

A room of your own.

Small, windowless, tucked deep beneath the captain’s quarters, but it’s clean. The straw-stuffed mattress doesn’t smell like mold. The bucket isn’t shared. And the door doesn’t lock from the outside. It’s not freedom. But it’s a kind of illusion—and for now, that’s enough.

You’re not a prisoner. Not exactly. But you’re not one of them either.

And they know it.

The crew watches you like a splinter under their skin—always there, always itching. You catch it in their eyes when you pass. In the way conversations stop when you walk by. The way they mutter under their breath, clench their knives tighter, throw buckets harder than necessary when they hand them to you. You're protected. Untouchable, even. But you're not welcome.

To them, you’re the captain’s pet. A soft thing with soft hands, whispering advice over maps while they bleed and sweat for the same man.

You don’t defend yourself. Let them think you’ve surrendered. Let them believe you’re playing house in the captain’s quarters like some tamed animal. Let them underestimate you. It’s easier that way.

Because you’re not here to belong.

You’re here to remember.

You think about your village often. At night, especially—when the lanterns go out and the ship groans with sleep. Nightmares. You see the smoke curling above the rooftops. The gardens trampled. The old man who taught you to read the stars crushed under rubble. You see your father’s hands, calloused and trembling as he tried to fight for you. And you feel it all again, fresh and raw.

Eddie Munson sends you clothes now. Silks, leathers, sometimes stained in places he pretends not to notice. He leaves them folded at your door with a strange sort of reverence. Necklaces too—pearls, rubies, emeralds—and you wonder whose throats they were ripped from. You wear them when you must. Smile when he studies you with those unreadable eyes. Say thank you.

But you don’t forget.

You never forget.

Because these aren’t gifts. They’re evidence. Spoils. Everything around you was stolen—from someone, somewhere. Every ring on your fingers, every thread on your back, bought with someone else’s blood.

Still, you play the part. You study the man behind the mask. You watch the way he speaks to his crew—half warning, half performance. You count the number of times he lets his mask slip around you. The way he softens when he laughs. The way he says your name like it belongs in his mouth. The way he listens when you speak, really listens. As if you have something to say that matters.

You wonder if it’s an act.

You wonder if his kindness is a kind of rope, braided with patience and silk, just waiting to tighten.

But part of you wants to believe—no, needs to believe—that there’s more to him than the stories. Because how can a man so feared, so monstrous, look at you like he’s trying to understand you? Like he’s waiting for you to tell him who you really are?

The ship moans softly as it nears the dock, its massive hull slicing through the morning mist like a blade. You’ve grown so used to the rocking of the waves beneath your feet that when the motion begins to settle, your balance stutters—almost as if the world itself has stilled in anticipation.

After dressing, you eat your breakfast in silence, heart pacing with the odd rhythm of something changing. Something ending, or perhaps beginning. The soft roll of bread feels strange in your mouth, the tea too warm for your suddenly dry throat.

You make your way to Eddie’s quarters, feet light against the floorboards. You don’t bother knocking anymore. You just open the door.

He’s already there—standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders relaxed but alert, as though every bone in his body is coiled with knowing. His silhouette is haloed by the thin streaks of morning sun filtering through the dusty glass. He turns his head slightly when you enter, the ghost of a grin curving across his lips.

“Today’s the day,” he says simply.

You blink. “What day?”

Eddie’s smile spreads, slow and knowing. “The day you touch land again. I figured your feet might’ve forgotten what solid ground feels like.”

Your stomach flips. “You’re letting me off the ship?”

He raises an eyebrow. “We all are. There's business to tend to. You didn’t think I’d keep you in this floating coffin forever, did you?”

His tone is casual, teasing—but you’ve learned not to mistake ease for safety when it comes to him.

“Where are we?” you ask, trying to sound curious instead of desperate.

He moves away from the window, stepping over maps and scrolls strewn across the desk. “A small coastal town in Northern England,” he says, casually tossing a leather pouch onto the table with a clink.

You freeze for a moment. So that was it—collections, threats, blood. “Business.”

Eddie notices the shift in your breath, the stiffness in your jaw. And just when you think he’s about to turn away, he lifts something from the chest beside his desk and steps toward you.

You see it glint before it’s fully revealed: a necklace—no, a masterpiece. A heavy silver chain strung with deep green emeralds, blood-red rubies, sapphires dark as the ocean at midnight. Stones cut to catch every flicker of light, glowing with a stolen kind of royalty. It looks like something a queen would die wearing.

Your lips part slightly. “What is that?”

He doesn't answer.

Instead, he moves behind you.

You feel the heat of him first. His body so close, not quite touching—but there, surrounding you. The scent of salt, leather, and something unnameable fills your lungs.

Then his hand brushes your hair aside, slow and deliberate. His fingers graze the back of your neck, calloused and rough, sending a jolt down your spine. He gathers your hair over one shoulder, and you swear his breath ghosts against your skin as he leans in.

Goosebumps rise along your collarbone.

Your heart hammers.

The chain slides against your throat like a cold whisper. His fingers clasp it behind your neck with quiet precision, but they linger—just a second too long. His thumb brushes the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck, a touch light as air, but devastating. And he stays there. Close. His presence heavy against your back, lips nearly grazing the curve of your ear.

“This suits you,” he murmurs, voice low, velvet-wrapped and laced with danger. “Makes you look like you belong to the sea.”

Or to him.

You can’t speak. You’re not sure you’d know how. You feel like your body is betraying you—skin too hot, breath too shallow, heart pounding a rhythm between fear and something darker.

He doesn’t ask for thanks. He just steps away, letting the silence hum between you like a wire pulled tight.

“I sent a new dress to your room,” he adds casually, already turning back toward his desk. “Put it on. We make landfall within the hour.”

You nod, silent, and slip out of the room with the weight of the necklace pressing against your throat like a promise you didn’t agree to.

You return to your quarters with your heart caught in your throat, the weight of that jeweled necklace pressing against your collarbone like a silent anchor. As you open the creaking door, the scent of citrus and smoke still lingers faintly—someone has been here recently.

Your eyes fall instantly on the bed.

Laid out with reverence atop the rumpled blankets is a dress unlike anything you've ever seen.

It's made of midnight-blue velvet, so deep and dark it shimmers like still water under moonlight. The sleeves are long and slit open at the shoulders, revealing skin in sharp, elegant lines. Silver embroidery dances across the bodice like waves catching starlight, delicate vines swirling toward a corseted waist cinched with fine, silken threads. The skirt flows in layers, pooling like ink around your feet when you lift it. At the hem, tiny sapphire-like beads catch the light—tiny constellations stitched into fabric.

You don’t know how he expects you to wear this and blend in.

But then again, maybe he doesn’t.

As you begin to undress, your thoughts race with one single word, loud and pulsing: Escape.

If the ship is docked… if you're on land… maybe, just maybe, this is your chance.

You run through the options in your head like a frantic calculation. If you step away—just for a moment—could you lose yourself in the crowd? Slip between shadows? How long before they realize you’re missing? Ten minutes? Five?

Could you find a weapon before then? Maybe something small, something forgotten—like a knife left on a kitchen table. You’ve been in the galley enough times. You know where the drawers are. But would they notice? Would he?

And even if you made it away—what then?

You don’t speak the local. You don’t know this country’s laws or its streets. And you have nothing but stolen jewels hanging from your neck. Everyone knows pirate plunder. No merchant in their right mind would buy it. They’d report you. Maybe even collect a bounty.

You swallow thickly, pushing those thoughts down like bile, trying to calm your trembling hands as you pull the dress over your body. The velvet clings in all the wrong ways—too soft, too exposed, too not you. But you lace it tight. Stand tall. If you’re going to run, you need to look like you belong.

There’s a knock at the door. You turn sharply, startled, heart skipping. Then you hear it. His voice.

“Ready?”

You open the door. And there he is.

Captain Eddie Munson—Blue Terror—in full form. But this time, he’s not the shadow leaning over a map. He’s not the voice in the dark, or the hand on your neck. He’s myth, legend, and man all at once.

His dark hair falls in wild waves past his shoulders, some strands intricately braided with thin chains and beads that glint like sea glass. A black bandana is tied tightly across his forehead, and atop it, a weather-worn leather tricorn hat casts a rakish shadow across his features. One eye—the good one—is lined with kohl, intense and unreadable. The other is hidden behind a black eye patch, making him look even more dangerous. More untouchable.

He wears a white silk shirt, so bright it almost glows, the first few buttons undone to reveal a constellation of old scars across his chest—faded and brutal. Around his neck, silver chains and sharp-toothed pendants jingle softly when he moves. His black leather trousers are tight, slung low on his hips, and his boots are worn, but polished. Every step he takes is like thunder wrapped in silk.

And the rings—God, the rings—they flash when his fingers move. One bears a serpent. One, a skull. One, a sapphire as deep as his gaze.

He looks you up and down slowly, appraising, not like a man studying a prisoner… but like a king admiring his most precious weapon.

“You wear it well,” he says, voice dipped in smoke. “Let’s make them stare.”

The dock is alive with noise—ropes tightening, sails flapping, wood creaking, seagulls screaming. The moment your booted foot touches the ground, you feel it—stillness. No more rocking beneath your legs. Just solid, unmoving earth.

You almost stumble from the sudden change.

Eddie chuckles beside you. “Feels strange, doesn’t it?”

You don’t answer.

Your eyes scan the crowd. Merchants. Townsfolk. Sailors. Guards. You catalogue faces. Alleyways. Escape routes. Possibilities. Could you disappear here?

He leads you through streets and shadowed alleys until you reach a weathered inn. Its sign creaks above the doorway, half-hanging by rusted chains. Music filters through the wooden walls—lively, off-key, accompanied by the rhythmic pounding of boots against floorboards and the clink of mugs.

But the moment Eddie opens the door and steps inside with you at his side, everything stops.

The music falters.

Conversations die mid-sentence.

Every head turns toward you.

And then the whispers start.

“Blue Terror…”

“Munson.”

“Gods be good—it’s him.”

Eddie smiles like he owns the silence. Like it bends for him.

And maybe it does.

He places a hand lightly on the small of your back and leans in, voice low against your ear.

“Welcome to Crowhaven.”

As you step further into the inn, the initial hush begins to fade, replaced once again by the warm swell of life. Wooden mugs clink against battered tables, laughter erupts in pockets, and the music—faster now, wilder—spills from the corner where a ragged group of musicians plays a furious tune.

It’s something rooted in old lands and older hearts—fiddles slicing sharp through the smoke-thick air, bodhráns pounding like war drums beneath them, a wooden flute dancing somewhere high above it all. Irish, you think. The rhythm of fire and footfall. Of sea spray and spilled ale.

You feel eyes still trailing after you, some curious, some lecherous, some wary—but you’re not sure if they follow you or the man beside you.

Captain Eddie Munson draws every gaze.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. He walks like a man who owns the floor, the air, the tension between each heartbeat.

He returns to your side with two mugs, frothy and thick. The scent of licorice and dark herbs rises from the surface—licorice beer. You take it with both hands, unsure whether to sip or throw it back like medicine. Eddie watches you over the rim of his own cup, smiling slightly, as if amused by your hesitation.

“Strong,” he warns.

“Everything with you is,” you mutter under your breath.

He laughs softly. Then, without a word, he reaches out and takes your hand.

You startle.

“What are you—”

He jerks his chin toward the center of the room where the space between tables has become an impromptu dancefloor. “Come on.”

“No—I don’t—I don’t know how to dance.”

“You don’t need to,” he says. “Just listen.”

And then he pulls you in.

You're suddenly among the swirl of bodies, of boots stomping and skirts spinning. The music coils around you, fast and urgent, and for a second, you can’t breathe.

Eddie’s hand slips around your waist, firm and unapologetic. His other hand wraps around your fingers, grounding you.

“Feel the rhythm,” he says, his lips close to your ear. “Let it drown out everything else.”

You want to protest, but your feet are already moving—awkward, hesitant steps that somehow fall into sync with his. He guides you with ease, like he’s done this a thousand times. His fingers press into your waist, not harsh, but commanding, pulling you closer as the music rises.

He spins you.

The room blurs.

You stumble, laugh, catch yourself on his chest—and he catches you like it’s nothing.

“See?” he grins. “Told you.”

You shake your head, breathless. “I still don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re dancing,” he says simply. “That’s all that matters.”

Then his arm tightens. You’re lifted—effortlessly, like you weigh nothing. For a moment you’re in the air, skirt billowing, hair loose and flying, your heartbeat louder than the music itself. He lowers you gently, but with a wild grin and a glint in his eye that makes your skin tingle.

He twirls you again, twice this time, until your body forgets to resist. And suddenly you're laughing—actually laughing—not because anything is funny, but because your body is alive. Because for the first time in weeks, you aren’t just surviving.

Eddie watches you with something close to awe. His good eye sharp, burning, like he’s trying to memorize your joy. And when the music slows just slightly, he draws you in—closer than before. You feel his breath against your cheek. You feel every inch of him, the warmth of his chest, the coarse fabric of his shirt, the chain around his neck brushing against your collarbone.

You don’t dare look up.

Because you’re not sure what you’ll do if you see him looking back.

But you feel it—the shift. Something between you flickering in the candlelight. No longer prisoner and captor. No longer pirate and pawn.

Everything else melts away the moment your eyes meet his. The music, the noise, the flickering candlelight, even the trembling of your own body—all of it dissolves, slipping into the background like a dying echo. There’s only him now. The way he looks at you like you’re the only soul in this damned place that still has a heartbeat. His gaze pins you in place, sharp and raw and hungry, like a flame curling around paper, waiting for permission to burn.

Your chest rises in shallow, unsure breaths, your pulse pounding in your ears so loudly you can barely hear yourself think. You’re afraid—and not of him, not really—but of what’s about to happen. Of how badly you want it to.

He leans in slowly, like a wave drawing back before it crashes. His hand slides from your waist to your jaw, rough fingertips ghosting over your skin with a reverence that contradicts the chaos of who he is. His thumb brushes your lower lip, and your breath hitches—then, without a word, his mouth meets yours.

It starts gentle, almost careful, as if he’s afraid you’ll break. But then your lips part—whether from instinct or desperation, you don’t know—and that’s all it takes. His hand grips the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into him, and suddenly the kiss turns molten. Urgent. Starved. His lips move against yours like they’re trying to memorize the shape of your breath, the taste of your name, the sound of your soul cracking open. He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that’s ever felt like air.

Your hands fist in the fabric of his shirt as he presses closer, chest to chest, hip to hip, the warmth of his body searing through the layers between you. His other hand curls around your waist, pulling you flush against him with a growl so low and raw you feel it in your spine. There’s nothing delicate left in it now—only teeth and tongues and the heat of something too big, too wild to control.

He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, biting down gently on your lower lip before soothing it with the slow drag of his mouth. The sensation shoots straight through you, every nerve ending awake and electric. His kisses are not just passionate—they're devastating, filled with something darker, something that feels like possession and longing and fury tangled into one.

And when he pulls back, just for a breath, his forehead rests against yours, and you realize your legs are shaking. His thumb strokes your cheek like he’s trying to anchor you there, keep you from floating away.

“You taste like fire,” he murmurs against your lips, voice hoarse and almost reverent.

And then he kisses you again—harder this time. Hungrier.

Like he doesn’t care who’s watching.

Like he’s waited a lifetime for this.

Like he’ll burn the whole world down if you ever pull away.

He pulls back just long enough to whisper against your lips, “Come with me.”

You stumble into the inn room, your bodies tangled together as they make their way towards the bed. Eddie doesn't bother to stop kissing you even as he strips off his shirt and tosses it aside. His fingers deftly work open your buttons, revealing skin that's already flushed from desire.

As you fall onto the mattress, Eddie rolls you over so he can pin you beneath him. His hips grind against yours in a slow circle, building pressure and tension until you feel like you're going to combust from need.

"You're so beautiful when you're angry," he growls into your ear before nipping at your lobe with his teeth.

Eddie's fingers dig into your skin as he kisses his way down your back, leaving a trail of gentle bites and nips in wake. He starts at the base of your neck, working his way down to the curve of your spine, where he pauses to drop tiny kisses on either side of the vertebrae.

As he reaches the small of your back, his hands slide around to cup your buttocks, squeezing gently before releasing. He gives them a few soft slaps, making you jump with surprise.

He then wraps his arms around you waist and pulls you close, dipping low enough that you feel like you're being pulled over him rather than up against him. As you settle into this position, Eddie drops to one knee behind you and begins to kiss along the crease where thigh meets buttock.

The sensation is almost too much for you can't help but feel overwhelmed by the intensity of Eddie's touch. You're acutely aware of every movement he makes - every brush of lips against skin or stroke of hand through hair - and it leaves you feeling breathless and wanting more.

Eddie continues to kiss and nuzzle his way along your backside, his fingers digging gently into the flesh as he explores every inch of you. You can feel him trembling with desire, his body straining against yours in a way that makes you feel like you're being consumed by him.

As he reaches the base of your spine once more, Eddie pauses for a moment before dipping low enough to claim your ass with his mouth. The sensation is electric - it's like nothing you've ever experienced before - and it leaves you feeling helpless but for one thing: wanting more.

As Eddie's tongue dips into the crease of your buttocks, you can't help but feel a shiver run down your spine. He's teasing you, drawing out the anticipation before finally giving in to his desires. You feel his warm breath on your skin as he pauses for a moment, savoring the sensation of being so close to you.

Then, without warning, he dives in with gusto. His tongue is like a flame that sets fire to every nerve ending it touches. It's slow and deliberate at first, tracing the curves of your ass and then dipping lower to explore the tender flesh between your folds. You can feel him licking up every drop of moisture that gathers there, his tongue darting back and forth with an intensity that leaves you gasping for air.

As he continues to eat at you like a starving man at a feast, you start to bend forward slightly, trying to give him better access. Your body is responding instinctively now - it knows exactly what Eddie wants from it - and before long you're practically folded in half over his head.

Eddie takes full advantage of this new position, his tongue and lips working in tandem to drive you wild. He's eating at you like a man possessed, his movements rough and primal as he tries to consume every last drop of your desire. You can feel him trembling with need, his body straining against yours as he tries to get closer.

As the sensations build inside you, you start to feel like you're going to explode from the sheer intensity of it all. Eddie's mouth is everywhere - on your ass, between your cheeks, even dipping down into the crease where thigh meets buttock, on your pussy, in your pussy - and yet somehow it still feels like there's more than just this one spot that needs attention.

You try to push back against him, trying to give him better access or maybe just trying to slow things down a little bit. But Eddie won't be deterred - he's too far gone now for anything but pure unadulterated pleasure. He keeps licking and sucking at you until finally - oh so sweetly - he gives in and lets out a low groan of satisfaction.

Eddie's hands wrap around your waist, pulling you back onto the bed, rolls you over as he climbs on top of you. He claims your neck with a firm bite, his teeth sinking deep into the tender skin before releasing with a soft pop.

As he lowers himself down, his eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat. His fingers brush against the delicate chain around your neck, and for a moment it seems like he's going to rip it off again. But instead, he simply wraps his hand around it once more and gives it a gentle tug before moving lower.

His fingers dance across the fabric of his pants, slowly undoing the belt and revealing inches of thick, veined cock beneath. The sight is almost too much to take in - Eddie's body is honed from years of hard work and dedication to fitness, but there's something primal about this moment that makes you feel like you're staring at something truly wild.

He doesn't bother with finesse or subtlety as he pulls out his cock and holds it up like a trophy. It's long and thick and pulsing with desire, and for a moment you can't help but feel like you're staring at something truly magnificent.

Eddie's eyes never leave yours as he moves back up the bed, his cock bobbing gently in the air. He dips down to claim your breasts, his mouth closing around them with a soft suction that makes you shiver.

He teases out each nipple in turn, rolling them between his fingers before pinching them hard enough to make you gasp. His tongue darts out to lick away any tears or whimpers that might escape your lips, leaving behind a trail of saliva and need.

As he continues to feast on your breasts, Eddie's hands move lower still. He cups your belly button with one hand while using the other to massage your thighs. The sensation is almost too much - it's like being wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold winter night.

He just keeps going down.

Eddie's tongue darts in and out of your pussy like a snake slithering through the grass, leaving a trail of wetness and desire in its wake. He sucks gently at first, his mouth closing around your folds like a warm hug on a cold day. But as he continues to feast on your sweetness, his suction grows stronger, pulling harder and harder until you can feel herself getting closer and closer to the edge.

His fingers join the party soon after, slipping inside you with ease as if they've been there before. They dance against the walls of your channel, rubbing against that sensitive spot deep within that makes your shiver with pleasure. The pressure builds and builds until you're sure you'll burst apart at any moment.

But Eddie isn't done yet. Oh no, he's just getting started. He runs his tongue around your clit in slow circles, each pass sending shockwaves through your body like an electric current coursing through wires. "You taste so good I needed to taste you again" becomes "I'm going to eat your pussy all day long" as he laps at you with reckless abandon.

He's a master of the tongue, using every trick in the book to drive you wild. He flicks it against your G-spot, then darts it back and forth across your clit like a madman. The sounds you make are music to his ears - moans, gasps, and pleas for more all blend together into a symphony of desire.

As he continues to ravage your pussy with his mouth and fingers, Eddie can feel himself getting harder by the second. His cock is throbbing with need now, begging him to take things further. But for now, he's content to just keep eating away at this sweet little treat until you come screaming his name…

Eddie's eyes never leave yours as he positions himself between your legs, his cock throbbing with anticipation. He takes a moment to tease you, rubbing the head of his dick against your pussy lips before finally sinking inside. The sound that escapes yours is music to his ears - a low moan of pleasure and need.

He begins to move slowly at first, each stroke deliberate and calculated to drive you wild. His hips flex and twist as he pounds into you, the friction building until you're gasping for air. Eddie can feel himself getting lost in the sensation, his own pleasure growing with every passing second.

As they settle into a rhythm, Eddie starts to pick up speed. His strokes become harder and faster, sending waves of ecstasy crashing through their bodies like tsunamis on shore. You wrap herself around him like a vice, holding him close as he buries himself deep within you again and again.

The room around them fades away - all that exists is this primal connection between two people consumed by desire. Sweat drips from your faces as you writhe together on the bed, your bodies moving in perfect sync. Eddie can feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge, his orgasm building like a storm on the horizon.

Eddie's powerful strokes drive deeper into you, his cock a piston pumping in and out of your pussy with reckless abandon. Your legs wrap around him like a vice again, holding him close as he buries himself to the hilt within you. The sound of your bodies slapping together is like thunder on a summer day, growing louder and more intense with every passing moment.

Eddie's hips flex and twist, his body undulating like a snake as he pounds into you. His balls slap against your hips with each stroke, the sensation sending shivers down his spine.

And then it hits - a wave of pleasure so intense it threatens to consume him whole. His vision blurs and his senses fade away as he comes hard inside you. The feeling is almost too much to bear - it's like being electrocuted by pure bliss.

He holds still for an instant, savoring the sensation before slowly withdrawing from your warm embrace. As he pulls free from between your legs, a stream of cum erupts from the tip of his cock, shooting high into the air like a fountain. It lands with a soft splat on your belly, leaving behind a trail of creamy white goodness.

Eddie's eyes never leave yours as he gazes down at you, his chest heaving with exertion. He can feel himself getting softer by the second, but his gaze remains locked on yours - it's like they're connected by some unseen force. For an instant, time stands still as they simply look at each other…

It doesn't take long for Eddie to fall asleep, his arms wrapped around your waist, his warm breath on the back of your neck. He's probably at his most vulnerable right now, and so are you. You have one chance to seize this opportunity, maybe you can take the dagger from his pants pocket on the floor and plunge it right through his heart, or you can quietly slip out of this room and disappear as quickly as possible, before he wakes up.

And maybe you'll just stay there, in his arms.

Will you make your own destiny, or will you stay where fate has brought you? dividers: @/thecutestgrotto

[hellmunsonfire]

Fracture

part 1

You fall in love with Eddie Munson the way you fall asleep—gradually, then all at once.

He smells like peppermint cigarettes and cheap whiskey, his voice is a gravel-coated melody, and when he leans against the hood of his van with those sharp cheekbones catching the moonlight just right, he doesn’t look real. He looks like the kind of boy your parents would’ve warned you about, if your parents had been around enough to warn you about anything.

Eddie calls you “trouble” with that crooked smile of his. You call him reckless. But he’s soft when you least expect it, careful with the way he touches your shoulder or laughs too loud at your terrible jokes. In his eyes, you’re not the mess you feel like—you’re the spark. The magic. The one worth writing songs about. And you love him for that. Even if you’re lying to him every day.

Because back home, nothing feels magical.

Your house isn’t a home; it’s a minefield. Every creak in the hallway floorboards makes you flinch. Your brother slams doors like it’s a sport, shouts like he’s being paid for the volume. He blames you for everything—your mother leaving, your father working himself to the bone, the silence that settles in the kitchen like dust. You don’t fight back anymore. You just absorb it.

Eddie doesn’t know any of this.

You craft stories like paper cranes, delicate and fleeting, each one meant to keep him at bay—away from the truth. He’s asked about your family a hundred times, probably more. Wonders why he’s never met them, why you always change the subject. He says it gently, with real curiosity, not suspicion. But the questions are becoming harder to dodge. And the excuses? They're running dry.

You tell him your cousin is staying over and you have to keep an eye on her.

That your dad’s an early riser and hates noise past nine.

That the dog pees everywhere when left alone too long.

That the landline is broken and someone might call with an emergency.

That you’ve got an early rehearsal with a classmate, a babysitting gig, a sick neighbor, a night class, a migraine.

Eddie raises an eyebrow now. He doesn’t buy it anymore—not really.

One night, as you’re leaning against the cold brick wall behind The Hideout, your arms crossed and breath fogging in the winter air, he turns to you and says, “You know… sometimes I think you’re secretly out there fighting crime at night. Like, you disappear right after the show. No warning. Very vigilante of you.”

He’s teasing.

But not entirely.

You force a laugh, make some vague comment about being mysterious. But your heart isn’t in it. Because there’s a question hanging in the air between you—one he’s too kind to press, but you feel it every time his eyes linger a little too long, every time he reaches for your hand and you hesitate just a second too late.

Eddie doesn’t want to push you. He never does.

You’ve done a decent job holding it all together until now. All the little lies you’ve told, the stories you’ve spun, they’ve worked well enough to keep the truth at bay, at least for a while. But tonight isn’t like the others. Tonight is different. Tonight is the night that might change Eddie’s life forever—if things go right, if the scout likes what he hears, if Eddie plays like you know he can. If he gets chosen, he’ll be working with the record label he’s dreamed about since you first met him, when he was still just a boy in a dusty garage with a guitar covered in stickers and hands that shook from too much caffeine and not enough belief in himself. A few weeks ago, when he told you about the audition, his voice was trembling—not from fear, but from how badly he wanted this. He said he didn’t care about the crowd or the lights or what he was wearing or even the label guy sitting in the back row with a clipboard. He only cared about you. He needed you there, no matter what, no more excuses, no last-minute disappearances or strange, half-finished explanations. He wanted to look into your eyes while he played, wanted to pull courage from the way you look at him like he’s more than he thinks he is. You said you’d be there. How could you not?

But the audition is at 9 PM. And that’s already hours past when you’re supposed to be home. It’s the kind of thing that makes your chest tighten even before the sun sets. All day, you try to come up with a way out. Maybe you can say you’re sleeping over at a friend’s house, though you know your brother would never believe it. He keeps a mental list of all your friends and judges them as if their names alone are crimes. Maybe you can say you have a group project, or that you got asked to babysit, or that someone’s dog got loose and you had to help find it. It’s all ridiculous. And you know it. But you also know that you’re running out of options. You think maybe, just maybe, you could sneak out, slip through the side door, walk the two miles to The Hideout and be back before anyone even notices. It’s risky. Insanely risky. But you’ve rehearsed every step in your mind like choreography—how fast you’d move, how quietly you’d shut the door behind you, where you’d hide your shoes so they don’t make noise on the tile. You even plan out which streets you’d take, which alleyways are dark enough to shield you from the world, how to breathe through your panic without turning back. Still, none of it feels real. Not yet.

What does feel real is the look on Eddie’s face when he talked about tonight—the way his whole body seemed to light up, like he could already see the stage and hear the applause and taste the freedom he’s been chasing his whole life. He doesn’t even care if he makes it or not, not really. He just wants to know he tried, and he wants you to be the person who sees him do it. The person who remembers how far he’s come. You know that to him, this is more than an audition. It’s a declaration. A moment he’ll carry with him forever, whether it ends in a record deal or not. And the fact that you might not be able to give him what he asked for—the fact that you might break your promise again—makes your skin feel too tight for your body.

It’s almost nine.

You’re still in your room.

Not where you’re supposed to be—not where you need to be.

You’ve already changed into the outfit you picked days ago, folded it under your pillow so it wouldn’t wrinkle, hid your shoes behind the curtain where he wouldn’t look. Your jacket’s zipped halfway. Your fingers tremble a little as you reach for the window latch. The cold from the glass bites your skin, but it only sharpens your focus. Your heart races. It’s not fear, not entirely. It’s adrenaline. A rising, shaking kind that threatens to spill from your chest.

Down the hallway, your brother’s music is blaring. Something angry and loud, distorted guitar riffs that rattle the picture frames on the walls. You hope it stays that loud. You hope it drowns out the sound of the window creaking open, the shift of your weight on the sill. If you’re lucky, he won’t even notice you’re gone until you’re already blocks away. Maybe not even then.

Just once. Just one night.

You want to do something for yourself.

You’ve spent your whole life under the shadow of other people’s choices, locked inside rules you didn’t make, punished for things you couldn’t control. You’ve never really had a moment to claim as yours. Not a birthday. Not a celebration. Not even a quiet second that felt like it belonged only to you. There was always a door slamming, always someone yelling, always a reason why you didn’t deserve it.

Eddie’s the only one who never treats you like you’re broken. The only one who doesn’t flinch when you go quiet or weird or anxious. The only one who’s stayed. And tonight, he asked for something. Just one thing. "No excuses," he said, cupping your face with both hands, his forehead pressed to yours. "I need you there. Just you."

And how do you say no to that? How do you let him play without the only person he asked for?

You open the window. And that’s when the door swings open.

Not with a knock. Not with a warning. Just the sharp crack of metal-on-wood as your brother barges in like he owns the place—because he kind of does. You freeze. He sees you immediately. You’re not out the window. You’re not even halfway there. But you’re dressed, ready, the curtain is swaying a little too suspiciously.

His eyes narrow. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

You turn fast, swallowing hard. "Nowhere. I was just—trying on clothes. For tomorrow. School stuff."

It’s a weak lie. But it’s the best you can come up with on short notice. You force a shrug, gesture vaguely toward your outfit. "I don’t know. I might wear this tomorrow. Just checking how it looks."

He stares at you for a long second, expression flat and unreadable. Then his lip curls into that familiar smirk. The one that says /you’re pathetic/. The one that says I see right through you.

“You? Giving a shit about how you look? Since when?”

You say nothing. You never say anything when he gets like this.

He snorts, shakes his head, mutters something under his breath—some insult that lands more like a slap than a word—and slams the door behind him as he leaves. The music goes up even louder.

You sit on the edge of your bed.

Your hands are still shaking. But now it’s not adrenaline. It’s defeat.

He didn’t believe you. Maybe he didn’t buy it, maybe he did, but it doesn’t matter. Now you can’t go. Not with him already suspicious. If he catches you trying again—if he decides to follow—who knows what he’d do. To you. To Eddie.

Tears well in your eyes before you can stop them. You blink hard, clench your fists, try to push the feeling down. But it’s no use. It burns.

You’re going to miss it.

You’re going to miss him. And he’ll be standing there on that stage, searching the crowd, looking for your face. And you won’t be there. Not because you didn’t want to. Not because you didn’t care. But because this house has always been a prison. And tonight, the bars are made of guilt.

You don’t remember exactly when your eyes close. One moment, you’re curled on the edge of the bed, face buried into your knees, tears soaking into your sleeves, and the next, the silence swells around you. The storm outside hums like a distant lullaby, rain pattering against the window while the shadows of your room blur into one another. You slip into a fragile kind of sleep—not restful, not deep, but heavy enough to pull you under. It's impossible to say how long you’ve been out. Maybe two hours, maybe three. Your room is still dim, lit only by the faint orange glow of a streetlamp filtering through the rain.

Then a noise cuts through the stillness, sharp and sudden.

You stir, at first unsure whether it’s part of a dream or something real. There’s another sound, and your breath catches—something tapping against the glass, light but deliberate. You sit up, heart racing, and glance toward the window, expecting maybe the wind or the tree branches scraping against the pane. But as your eyes adjust and you push the curtain aside, your breath freezes in your throat.

Eddie is standing outside in the rain.

He’s soaked, his curls flattened and dripping into his eyes, his leather jacket gleaming with water. He looks up at you, his expression hard to read—somewhere between heartbreak and fury—and in that moment, every bit of guilt you carry tightens in your chest. He had asked for just one thing. One night. One moment. And you couldn’t give it to him.

Before you can react, he moves. You watch as he grabs the lowest branch of the tree just outside your window, his boots finding balance on the wet bark. It’s not a difficult climb—your window isn’t that high—but the tree is slippery, and the rain hasn’t let up. Still, he doesn't hesitate. Like nothing else matters. Like getting to you is the only thing keeping him standing.

Within seconds, he’s at the ledge. You open the window with trembling fingers, and he climbs in without waiting for an invitation. Water trails behind him, dripping from his jacket to the floor, but he doesn’t seem to care. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and when he speaks, his voice is low, strained.

“Where the hell were you?”

It’s not yelled. It’s not sharp. It’s not even fully angry. It sounds... tired. Like the question has been sitting on his tongue for hours, festering, hurting.

You try to answer, try to form something like an explanation, but the words catch in your throat. And just then, something shifts in his eyes. He really looks at you. The tear stains on your cheeks, your swollen eyes, the way you’re standing frozen in your room like a child caught sneaking out.

“Wait... have you been crying?”

He takes a step forward, then another. His expression, already raw, collapses into something softer. Alarmed. Worried. He reaches for you without thinking, his hands brushing over your arms and shoulders like he’s afraid to find bruises he can’t see. His fingers trail gently down your sleeve, his touch hesitant but warm.

“What happened?” His voice is barely above a whisper now. “Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t wait for permission—he scans your face, your body, checking for something, anything, that might explain why you're here and not where you promised to be. There’s a kind of desperation in the way he looks at you, in how soaked and cold and wrecked he is. And yet none of it seems to matter to him—not the rain, not the cold, not even the show he missed. All he sees is you.

“Eddie, you have to go. Right now.”

Your voice comes out sharp, choked with panic, and your eyes dart toward the door like it might burst open any second. The air in your room feels too tight, too fragile, like the walls might collapse from the pressure of this moment. “Please. I’ll explain everything, I swear. Just—just not now, okay? I’m fine. I promise I’m fine. I’ll tell you tomorrow, I swear it on everything.”

Your hands are on his chest, pushing gently, not really trying to move him but begging him with every touch to understand. But Eddie doesn’t budge. His boots are still dripping on the floor, his hair plastered to his forehead, water sliding down the collar of his jacket, and yet he doesn’t move. His eyes stay locked on yours, wide and hurt and searching.

“No,” he says quietly, and that one word lands like a stone in your stomach. His voice is firm, but not cruel. “Tell me what happened. Why didn’t you come? You promised. You looked me in the eye and you said you’d be there.”

There’s a tremble behind the edge in his voice, a crack that gives him away. This isn’t just anger—it’s betrayal, confusion, fear. “You said no matter what. You said it like it mattered to you. And I waited. I stood there, and I waited for you to walk through that door. And every time someone came in, I thought—God, I thought it was you.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off with a sudden sharpness, the hurt finally bleeding through. “I hope you have a damn good reason, because I’ve been trying to figure out what I did wrong. Why you wouldn’t show up. Why you wouldn’t even call. I thought you might’ve gotten hurt or—or maybe you changed your mind, maybe I’m not worth showing up for, I don’t know.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and trembling, and when you meet his gaze again, you can’t look away. His brown eyes are locked on you, too deep, too honest, and too full of something that looks dangerously close to breaking.

“Eddie,” you whisper, your voice splintering. But what else can you say? How do you explain living in a house that feels like a prison? How do you explain the fear that sits in your chest like a loaded gun, the way your brother’s voice can shut down your lungs, how it felt like everything you are—everything Eddie makes you feel—is something that has to stay hidden behind locked doors and locked windows?

You want to scream the truth. You want to tell him everything.

But instead, you take a shaky breath and whisper, “Please. Just go. Please, before he hears us. I’ll explain, I promise. But not tonight.”

“Who’s /he/? Who the hell is he?” Eddie’s voice sharpens, confused at first, then clouded with something darker. His brows knit together, lips parting like he’s just been slapped. “Are you—” He blinks, shaking his head. “Are you cheating on me?”

He says it like it physically hurts, like the words taste bitter in his mouth. He stares at you in disbelief, as if he can’t believe those syllables even formed between his teeth. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, dragging his hands through his wet hair. “Fuck. Fucking hell.”

He swears under his breath again, barely audible this time, and then suddenly—his boot kicks into the heap of clothes on your floor, not out of violence, not really, but because he doesn’t know where else to put the feeling. He looks like he’s seconds away from falling apart, chest rising and falling too fast, jaw clenched like he’s trying not to cry. One more word, one wrong move, and he’ll break.

“Eddie—” you start, voice trembling, reaching toward him, but the sound of approaching footsteps cuts through the room like a blade.

You freeze.

The floorboards creak just outside your door. Familiar. Heavy. Your brother.

Panic slams into you so violently that it knocks the breath out of your lungs. Your heart pounds in your ears, erratic and loud, like it’s trying to punch its way out of your chest. You can’t move. You /can’t/ move. Every part of your body turns to ice, like you’ve just plunged into the Atlantic on the night the Titanic sank and you’re waiting for rescue that’s never coming. There’s no lifeboat for you and Eddie. Hell, there isn’t even a goddamn life vest.

And before you even know what you’re doing—maybe it’s instinct, maybe desperation—you grab Eddie by the arm, spin him toward the closet. “In there,” you hiss, pushing him toward the wardrobe.

He starts to protest, confused and heartbroken, but you shove him inside and slam the door shut just as the knob on your bedroom door begins to turn.

The door bursts open without warning, slamming hard against the wall, and you flinch where you stand. It’s your brother—of course it is. His face is a storm, brows drawn low, jaw clenched, shoulders squared like he's preparing for a fight. His eyes sweep the room with practiced suspicion, taking in every corner, every shadow. You know that look. He’s sure you’re hiding something. And tonight, he’s here to catch you in the act.

“Who were you talking to?” he demands, voice sharp and low, every word laced with accusation. His gaze flicks from your face to the window, to the bed, to the closet. Your blood runs cold.

Your heart slams against your ribs so hard it hurts. Eddie. Eddie is in there. Silent. Still. Hidden behind a thin wooden door that suddenly feels like paper.

You swallow hard, force your voice to steady even though your knees threaten to give out. “No one. I—I was talking to myself,” you say quickly. “I do that sometimes. Just… out loud. Thinking things through before I sleep.”

He narrows his eyes, unconvinced. “Since when do you think anything through?”

You don’t respond. You can’t. If you open your mouth, the lie might shatter.

He walks further into the room, slow and heavy, like a predator circling prey. His presence is suffocating. You step back instinctively, almost placing yourself between him and the closet without realizing it.

“You were getting ready to sneak out, weren’t you?” he accuses, nodding toward the window. “Thought I wouldn’t hear it creak open?”

“I wasn’t—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Don’t lie to me,” he snaps. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks. Secretive. Jumpy. And now you’re playing dress-up in the middle of the night like some pathetic little freak.”

His words sting like ice water, but you say nothing. You can’t let yourself break. Not now. Not with Eddie listening to every word.

Your brother steps closer, lowering his voice but making it sharper somehow. “Is there someone here?”

Your heart stops. Your eyes dart to the closet without meaning to. Stupid. Stupid.

He catches it.

He moves toward the door—just a step—and you react without thinking. “No! There’s no one here!” you blurt out, panicked, stepping in front of him. “I just—god, why are you always like this? Why do you always have to control everything I do?”

He stares at you, his expression flickering—annoyance, suspicion, something darker. Then he scoffs, shakes his head, and turns away like you’re not even worth shouting at anymore.

“Because if I didn’t, you’d ruin what’s left of this family,” he mutters, moving back toward the door. “You’re just like her.”

His words hang in the air like smoke—thick, choking, impossible to ignore. The room feels smaller now. Your chest tightens. Your skin burns, but not from embarrassment or guilt. It’s rage. It’s pain. It’s the echo of a thousand unspoken things lodged in your throat all at once.

You take a shaky step forward. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

He stops at the door. Turns slowly. A bitter smile plays at his lips, cruel and knowing.

“Why not?” he says, voice calm in the way that makes it worse. “Because it’s true? Because deep down you know you’re just as selfish as she was? Just as messed up? She left and now you’re trying to follow in her footsteps. Out the window in the middle of the night. Probably to meet some loser who doesn’t even give a shit about you.”

Your blood goes cold. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know enough. I know you sneak around. I know you lie. I know you flirt with disaster like it’s some kind of game.”

He steps closer again, pointing a finger at your chest. “And when you fall flat on your face, guess who has to clean it up? Me. Always me.”

“You don’t clean anything up!” you shout, voice cracking, hands shaking. “You just make it worse! You scream, you accuse, you break things and then act like I’m the one who’s ruining everything!”

His jaw tightens. “You have no idea what it’s like, trying to keep you in line. What people say about you behind your back. How you make this family look—”

“I don’t care what they say!” You’re practically sobbing now, voice rising with every word. “I’m not yours to fix! You treat me like I’m some kind of embarrassment—like I’m a burden you got stuck with, not someone you’re supposed to care about!”

He laughs. A cold, dismissive sound. “Care about you? How can I when you’re always acting like this? Like a damn child—”

“Get out,” you whisper.

“What?”

You’re trembling. “I said, get out.”

But he doesn’t move. “Make me.”

Then something shifts. A creak. A loud slam.

Before either of you can process it, the closet door bursts open. Eddie explodes out like a force of nature—wild eyes, clenched jaw, rain-slick hair falling in front of his face, his fists already flying.

Your brother barely has time to turn before Eddie hits him square in the jaw with a sickening crack. The sound echoes in the room like a gunshot. Your brother stumbles back, crashes into the desk, knocks over a lamp. Glass shatters.

“What the fu—” he tries to yell, but Eddie doesn’t give him the chance.

“You don’t talk to her like that,” Eddie growls, voice low and vicious, his breathing ragged with fury. “You don’t touch her. You don’t /get/ to treat her like she's nothing.”

Another punch lands, harder this time. Your brother hits the floor, dazed, clutching his face.

But Eddie doesn’t stop.

He drops to his knees beside him and grabs a fistful of his shirt, yanking him up just to slam his fist into his jaw again—once, twice—rage radiating off of him like heat. He’s not just fighting now. He’s unleashing. Every insult, every bruise you never showed him, every night you cried yourself to sleep—he’s pouring it into every hit.

Your brother groans, his head lolling, but with a sudden surge of adrenaline he swings wildly, catching Eddie in the mouth with a sharp right hook. Eddie’s head snaps to the side—blood instantly blooms on his bottom lip—but he doesn’t even flinch. If anything, it fuels him.

“Hurt me all you want,” Eddie spits, voice low and feral, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “But you never touch her again.”

And then—another blow, this one to your brother’s temple. He tries to fight back, but he’s slower now, uncoordinated. Eddie pins him down with a knee to the chest and throws one last, brutal punch.

Your brother’s head slams against the floorboard. His limbs go slack.

Silence.

Only your breathing. Eddie’s ragged, thunderous exhales. The rain tapping softly at the window.

He stands slowly, shoulders rising and falling like waves crashing on the shore. His hands are trembling, bloodied. His lip split, oozing crimson down his chin.

He flexes his fingers, and you hear the wet pop of his knuckles realigning. He doesn’t even wince.

With a final look down at the unconscious heap on your floor, Eddie leans over and spits—thick, red, and furious—right onto your brother’s chest.

Then he turns.

His chest is still heaving, jaw clenched tight, eyes wild and wet and burning into yours. He steps toward you, his boot pressing into broken glass with a crunch, and grabs your hand—tight, protective, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“You’re coming with me,” he says, voice sharp and low, thick with adrenaline and something deeper. “Right now.”

[hellmunsonfire]

[hellmunsonfire]

[hellmunsonfire]

“aren’t i pretty enough for more than fun in the dark?”

[hellmunsonfire]

dump.

[hellmunsonfire]

nose? nose.

[hellmunsonfire]

[hellmunsonfire]

// admin speaking. sorry for not being active lately, I have things to take care of in my private life and that's why I am very busy, I don't always have time to be active here. my apologies.

[hellmunsonfire]

Eddie loves to watch his cum leak out of you…

It’s his favorite post-sex activity.

He’ll lay with his head on your plush thigh—the perfect pillow—as he watches it ooze out of you like molasses inching its way out of a preserves jar.

You’ve bitched at him one too many times about the sheets getting stained with his refusal to put a towel down, so he figures this is a fantastic compromise. His reasoning is as follows: If he had to put a towel down every time he wanted to fuck you, you’d run out of towels well before laundry day. In fact, there’s not enough towels in the world to cover the amount of times he needs to cum in your pussy.

So, a compromise: He’ll clean you up before it ever reaches the sheets.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he won’t take his sweet old time, playing with his food.

He leans in, licking up every new dribble your pulsing cunt pushes out. Hovering with his face between your twitching legs, his hot breath spreads across your swollen folds. With one big, flat-tongued lick, he’ll collect the spend, following it up with a squelching plunge into your cunt—just as a bonus.

But he doesn’t slurp too much. No, the thrill isn’t in eating the tangy mix of juices—although, that does carry some appeal to his gross perversion for you. It’s really about watching his cum stream out of you, pushed out by your flexing walls, leaving the prettiest little trail right to his third favorite hole on you. Your mouth being the first—how else would he be able to have such wonderful conversations with his loving girlfriend? And it’s a great fuck. That too. Pussy, second. Ass, third. Priorities.

He’ll also purposefully make you laugh in those quiet, hazy moments. Every huffing chuckle you let out grants him an extra ooze of his seed escaping your throbbing hole.

Masterlist

[hellmunsonfire]

[hellmunsonfire]

@sendmeeanangel 🎹

[hellmunsonfire]

highway diner, heading to South Carolina. @prettiesttpoison

[hellmunsonfire]

Dissociation vs Overstimulation

[hellmunsonfire]

having fun