thepinkpanther83

[thepinkpanther83]

👀‼️

sitting on donnie's cock while you idly work at your desk while he loses his mind trying not to thrust up into where you're so so wet and tight and warm. aaand send post.

[thepinkpanther83]

sorry if i'm gonna be quiet for a while. my country recently introduced laws that make it so that in order to use social media to the fullest (not being able to view ns/fw content and in a few cases, not even having access to dms), i HAVE to give the sites my id/face scan.

it goes into effect july 25th. it'll probably effect here too, since this place allows mature content (tho not full on ns/fw)

i'm very distressed about it bc i might end up not even being able to talk to my internet friends. i don't really have any irl ones

if i have to disappear on most socials by then, you know why.

[thepinkpanther83]

Master of The Strings of Steel (Pt.7 Loyalty and Ashes)

Chapter Seven: “Loyalty and Ashes”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Next Chapter: Chapter Eight: “The Ballad of Two Kingdoms” Previous Chapter: Chapter Six: “The Mask Cracks”

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Seven: “Loyalty and Ashes” The news doesn’t come with a thunderclap. There is no formal announcement, no fatherly heart-to-heart across a polished oak desk. No ceremony. No choice.

It arrives instead in the form of a new gown.

A dress the color of drying blood. Heavier than anything you’ve worn in years, dense velvet, draped with chains of silver filigree that pull on your collarbones when you move. It’s exquisite. It’s suffocating.

The chambermaid says nothing as she lays it out.

The Duke never gives gifts without motive.

You turn to her slowly, voice brittle. “Who is it to be?”

She hesitates just a moment too long.

“General Virell,” she says at last. “Your betrothal will be announced at the Queen’s next war council.”

The name makes your stomach twist.

You haven’t seen Virell in years, not since the battle at Lochmire, where he returned soaked in glory and something far darker. People called him a hero, but the whispers said otherwise. Entire border towns leveled. Civilians burned in their homes. He claimed it was a purification rite.

And now, you’re to be given to him.

The Duke hadn’t even looked you in the eye over breakfast this morning. He didn’t dare.

You’ve always known your worth in this house wasn’t measured in love.

But now, it’s not even measured in legacy. It's strategy.

A month ago, you overheard the Queen’s Seer muttering about “the bloodline that might awaken the Heart of Flame.” She never said your name, but her eyes had landed on you like a brand, and you’d felt a chill crawl across your skin.

You’d dismissed it. You’d wanted to anyway.

But now the pattern is obvious. Virell is not being rewarded, he’s being placed. Planted. Either to seize whatever potential power might lie dormant in you… or to make sure it never surfaces.

Like a match drowned before it can spark.

You want to scream. To shatter the glass perfume vials on your vanity. To run, again.

But your feet feel cemented to the floor, your breath caught behind your ribs. There’s nowhere left to run. The palace walls stretch wide and gilded like a birdcage, and you’re the jewel on display.

They’ve already chosen your song.

They’ve already planned the wedding march.

And Eddie… he doesn’t even know.

Your face aches.

Not from weeping, but from how often you’ve pretended to smile.

At court, you are all softness and silk, a daughter polished to gleam like gold in a starving kingdom. You wear dresses spun from scandalously rare cloth while grain wagons burn in border towns. You sip imported wines under vaulted ceilings while rumors of rebellion blow in with the storm winds. And through it all, you smile.

Because you’re expected to.

Because the Queen no longer does.

Where once she offered quiet comfort in private, soft eyes, careful questions, a motherly hand on yours, she now watches you with unreadable silence. No warmth, no warnings. Only measured glances across banquet tables. Only distance.

As if she knows. As if she fears what knowing you might cost her now.

The throne room, once a place of performance, becomes a theatre of war. Courtiers whisper about fire in the east, whole villages turned to ash. The poor are swelling the city gates. Famine creeps in like fog. The people are angry, restless. And your father is fanning that fury.

He’s begun giving speeches again, publicly declaring his crusade. He frames it with righteousness: a new age free of magical corruption. But you’ve heard the way he talks behind closed doors, less sermon, more strategy. This isn’t about purity or protection.

It’s about power.

And his blade is already drawn.

You’ve seen the new banners stitched with old emblems, symbols of a forgotten campaign from generations ago. You’ve heard Virell barking orders in the barracks. You’ve passed through corridors hung with maps, not tapestries. The Duke is moving pieces. Rallying soldiers. Stirring the nobles who fear the arcane and envy its control.

And through it all, you are paraded like a ribbon-tied gift. A noble daughter offered to a monster for political favor.

Even the way they look at you has changed. You are not a woman in grief.

You are a promise.

A symbol of loyalty. A delicate hand to be kissed, a name to be sung at toasts while empires bleed.

But the worst part, the part that coils like ice in your stomach…

Is knowing that far below from here, in the dungeons somewhere, there is someone who believes you are free.

Someone who once cradled your bruised heart like it was sacred.

Someone who doesn’t yet know you’re being caged yet again.

And that the bars this time wear lace and law.

You wear crushed velvet and pearls now. They drape you like garlands over a grave.

The court calls you “Radiant” when you smile with tight lips and a guarded heart. They comment on your poise, your gown, your bloodline, as if any of it truly belongs to you. You’re paraded before nobles like a banner to rally behind, not a woman who can say no. The silk gloves you wear hide the tremble in your fingers. Not even your own reflection knows what to do with you anymore.

You try to send word to Eddie.

Small notes, smuggled with trembling hope, each one a thread you cast out into the dark, praying it’ll catch somewhere near him. But your trusted handmaiden has been replaced with a silent girl who won’t meet your eyes. The guards posted outside your door bear no familiar crests. The hallway always smells faintly of smoke. Even the Queen, once warm enough to feel like an auntie in quieter moments, now avoids your gaze entirely.

You’re not a resident in this castle. You’re a pawn polished for display.

Far below the city, in a cell chiseled into volcanic rock, Eddie Munson talks to a guitar like it's an old friend and the only thing keeping him sane.

It hangs from a rusted hook across from him, covered in soot. He still swears he can feel the pulse of its old magic, like a memory of warmth on frostbitten limbs. The guards didn’t know what to make of it. They beat him, dragged him through stone halls, asked him about sigils and chords like he was a heretic priest. When he didn’t speak, they stopped feeding him for days.

But they didn’t kill him.

Both the Duke and the Queen have plans. Plans that require leverage.

But Eddie just keeps talking.

Sometimes it’s jokes, half delirious, gallows humor, whispered into the stone with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Y’know, I used to think dungeons would be cool. Chains, torture racks… now I see the appeal’s more aesthetic than practical.”

Other times it’s quieter. Sadder.

He sings when the guards are gone, softly, hoarse and broken. Not real songs. Just little threads of sound that sound like longing. Like grief. Like your name spoken in lullaby notes.

He dreams of you constantly.

In dreams, your fingers touch the back of his neck. Your voice tells him it’s going to be okay. Sometimes you kiss his lips. Sometimes you scold him for not escaping yet, and he wakes up laughing, because even in his imagination, you’re braver than him.

The thing is, he doesn’t know if you’re really alive and well.

They told him you were being kept safe. But when liars wear crowns and cloaks, how do you know what’s true?

He hums another broken tune to the guitar.

“If you’re out there, sweetheart… if you’re even thinkin’ about me…”

His voice cracks.

“Send me a sign. Just one. Just let me know.”

There’s only silence.

But Eddie swears he hears music anyway.

The execution is set for dawn.

The guards don’t bother telling him. He hears it in the way the footsteps outside his cell slow, linger, like vultures circling. He hears it in the way the rats scurry deeper into the cracks, like even they know what’s coming.

And he feels it.

The air is different. Thick with anticipation.

Eddie leans his head back against the wall, exhaling through his nose.

“Well,” he mutters, “that’s just rude.”

No trial. No spectacle. Just a quiet, efficient death in the dark.

Because the Queen knows what happens when men like him are given a stage.

He closes his eyes.

And he waits.

Above the dungeons, in the Duke’s estate, you wake with a gasp.

It was just a dream… but it felt too real.

Eddie, sitting in a dungeon cell, waiting to stand on the gallows. The noose soon to be around his neck. His eyes finding yours in the crowd, knowing, resigned, before the floor drops from under him.

You sit up, heart hammering, fingers clutching the sheets like they can anchor you to reality.

But the nightmare lingers.

Because it wasn’t just a dream.

It was a warning.

And you know with a certainty that chills your blood, that if you don’t act soon, you will never see him again.

Your chambers feel smaller now.

Like every wall is listening, and every mirror is suspicious.

You move like a ghost through the corridors you once ruled with ease, every step watched, every word weighed. The staff have learned to bow without meeting your eyes. The wine tastes sweeter, but only because you no longer trust it.

You’re being isolated. Neatly, thoroughly. There’s no outburst to make over it. No scene to cause, because of it. They’ve simply… clipped your wings when you weren’t looking.

And all the while, outside, the court continues to thrive.

There are new banquets. New guests. More opulence than ever before. It's as if the whole castle is a stage, and you are a prop, your presence a symbol of peace and alliance, while the world teeters at the edge of war.

The Queen still only smiles in public.

She even invites you to sit beside her during council. But her voice is colder now. Her gaze flickers past you, not toward you. And when she speaks, it's with veiled warnings and riddles that sound like prophecy.

“The gods burn brightest just before the fall, my dear. Isn’t that how stars die?”

And then there’s your father.

The Duke doesn’t look at you like a daughter anymore.

He looks at you like a keystone.

Something structural, integral, and easily replaced if cracked.

You hear things in the halls. Pieces of plans, murmured in passing, troop movements, raided supply chains, names of Lords gone missing. Something is building. And it’s building fast.

He’s amassing power, not just soldiers, but scholars, old priests, relic-hunters. You caught sight of a shipment being escorted in the dead of night, long crates marked with runes that haven’t been used in centuries.

When you asked, the Duke only smiled.

“Necessary measures, darling. In times like these, we must call upon the old blood to protect the realm.”

But you know what he’s really doing.

Forging a false divine right. Laying the foundation for a war he intends to win not just with swords, but with myth.

And Eddie…

You don’t know exactly where he is now.

But you feel him. Like a phantom limb. Like a tether pulled taut across time and space.

In the quiet moments, you swear you can hear his music.

Not always clearly. Sometimes it’s just a faint electric hum, like a melody half-remembered. But it’s there. Beneath your skin. In your bones.

And every note feels like a begging calling to her.

You sit before the fire that night and press a shaking hand to your chest.

“I’m coming,” you whisper. “I swear to you, I’m coming. I’ll find a way.”

You don’t know how. Not yet anyway.

But the storm has started. The gameboard is shifting. And you’re done playing the obedient daughter in a castle made of lies.

You’re going to free him.

Before they can silence him forever.

The city doesn’t sleep that night.

Instead it burns.

News arrives just after sundown, a neighboring province, Aemir, the cradle of forestborn magic and one of the last independent cities, has been razed. Virell’s banners were seen on the smoke-choked horizon. Survivors speak of ash raining from the skies. The Duke calls it a “strategic culling.” The Queen calls it “a regrettable necessity.”

But the people… They call it what it is.

A massacre.

You watch from the tower window as the fires climb into the clouds. Distant, but real. Near enough to reach you next. The palace is a frenzy of preparation now, soldiers being fitted with fresh armor, merchants stockpiling food and tinctures, even the noblewomen have stopped playing courtly games and started carrying blades in their sleeves.

The Queen calls a gathering at sunrise.

All of the court attends, draped in mourning hues, as if playing dress-up for the war they helped ignite. Her voice rings through the high hall like a bell.

She doesn’t mince words.

“We are at the edge of something vast,” she says. “The old world is bleeding. And the new one will be born in fire.”

You glance at your father across the hall. He doesn’t blink.

He smiles.

The Queen ends her address with a declaration that chills you to the bone, the capital will mobilize. All remaining magical holdings are to be surrendered. Any resistance will be treated as treason.

Then your father turns to you.

In front of the court, the Queen, and the Gods.

He makes the announcement like he’s ordering a meal.

“My daughter will wed Commander Virell at week’s end, sealing the unity of the crown and the cleansing to come.”

The court murmurs their approval. Your ears ring. You can’t breathe.

But you smile.

Because that’s what you’ve been trained to do.

That night, thunder splits the sky in half.

But it’s not a storm.

It’s wings.

A roar rattles the castle foundations, raw, primal, and furious. Fire dances across the heavens like a burning serpent, scorching the clouds to cinder. Panic erupts in the city below. Bells ring. Children scream. Soldiers draw steel as if it’ll help against a myth.

You run to the parapets, heart thundering.

And you see it.

A creature thought extinct for generations, a dragon, enormous and terrible and beautiful, circling the highest tower like a vengeful god. Flame licks at the air with every beat of its wings. Its scales shimmer like molten obsidian. Its eyes flash with something more than rage.

Recognition.

The Queen stands at its edge, arms raised in command, wind whipping her dark hair into a crown of storms. She’s summoned it. No one else could’ve.

Chaos explodes across the city.

People flee. Courtiers collapse in prayer. The guards don’t know whether to defend or run.

And in the madness, you feel it.

Your chance.

Because if a creature of legend commands the skies again… if the impossible is possible… then so is escape. So is Eddie.

Because if he can tame something this powerful… then maybe he isn’t a heretic or a threat.

Maybe he’s a King in waiting.

And that makes him more dangerous than ever.

You don’t wait for permission.

You run.

Through servant halls and hidden staircases you memorized as a child. Past guards too distracted by the chaos to notice you slip past. You have a plan now, it’s not perfect, not even guaranteed, but it’s something.

The sky is falling.

And for the first time since you were returned home, it feels like freedom.

You move through the old servants’ wing like a ghost. Hood drawn, slippers soft against the stone, you slip past shuttered rooms and the remnants of lives once lived here. The scent of dust and coal lingers, forgotten corners of the castle that no one patrols anymore. That’s why you chose this route. You’d been planning it for days, counting guard rotations, memorizing which doors creaked and which didn’t.

And tonight, the path is blessedly silent.

But you don’t make it to the cellar stairs.

A shadow steps into your path… broad, blocking the narrow passage entirely. Instinctively, you fall back, reaching for the small blade hidden in your bodice, but the voice stops you cold.

“Easy, girl,” says Ryn. “You’ll put your eye out with that.”

Your heart stutters. You know that voice. You trust that voice.

Ryn lowers her cowl, revealing the iron-straight black hair, tied high and severe. Her mouth is as grim as ever, her arms crossed over armor that looks scraped and repatched in a hurry. She’s taller than you remembered. Or maybe you’re just more afraid than usual tonight.

“What are you doing down here?” you whisper, afraid even the walls might snitch.

She tilts her head. “I could ask you the same, Duchess. Not exactly the path to the tea garden.”

You hesitate. But something in her gaze isn’t suspicious… it’s knowing. She sees you clearly. Has for a long time.

“You’re trying to free him, aren’t you?” she says. No accusation. Just a quiet, weighty truth dropped like an anchor between you.

Your shoulders drop the moment you hear it. “I have to.”

Ryn steps closer. “Good. I came to do the same.”

Your eyes widen. “You believe in him?”

“I know him.” Ryn says it flatly, like she’s sick to death of people forgetting that fact. “I fought beside him. Watched him make a fool of himself on many occasions. He’s the dumbest smartass I’ve ever met, and he’s got a hero complex bigger than a storm giant’s biceps. If you think I buy for one godsdamned second that he kidnapped you-”

“I went with him,” you say. Quiet, but firm. “I followed him willingly. I love-”

Ryn cuts you off with a raised hand. Not unkindly. “I know. It was obvious to everyone but the people it mattered to. That’s why I’m here.”

She looks behind her, then back at you, serious now. “You’re not the only one who’s been watched. Half the guards are new. Maids are gone or replaced. You think that’s a coincidence?”

“No,” you whisper. “I think… I think someone wants us apart.”

Before Ryn can answer, a roar shakes the stones beneath your feet.

The hallway glows briefly with orange firelight, not from torches. From above.

You both freeze.

Then sprint to the nearest slit of a window.

Outside, against the night sky, you see it, the black dragon, wings spread like sails, fire dripping from its fanged mouth as it circles the towers.

Screams echo from the higher halls. Somewhere, a bell clangs.

You stare, heart in your throat. “No… it can’t be…”

Ryn makes a low, grim sound beside you. “That thing’s not just out for a fly. That’s a siege beast. Someone’s summoned it.”

Your hand tightens around the sill. And you remember.

The forest.

The amphisbaena, a twin-headed serpent he pacified with a lullaby on strings.

The Nocera Beast, flesh like a spiky iron lizard, and Eddie had calmed it, like it was just a kitten needing a song.

You turn, breath shallow. “Sir Edward can stop it.”

“What?”

“He has before,” you say, voice rising with urgency. “I saw it with my own eyes. He has this… this lute he always carries, it’s magical, maybe cursed, maybe blessed, I don’t know! But it works. It’s not just tricks and showmanship… he can play things down.”

Ryn stares at you. Not with disbelief. But with dawning comprehension.

And just as that realization sparks… you remember. “The prophecy.”

Ryn’s brows lift. She listens, arms crossed, heavy sword resting against her back, but her eyes are sharp, thinking, calculating, believing.

You inhale through your nose, the scent of ash and ozone heavy in the air from the still-burning rooftops above. “I didn’t believe it either, not at first. Not until I saw what he could do with my own eyes.”

“And now?” she asks.

You look up, at the burning trail of the dragon arcing in the sky, curling over the rooftops of the inner city like a shadow cast by a coming god. Then, your eyes drift toward the castle’s towers where Eddie is likely still shackled, alone, bleeding beneath stone and silence.

Now… you believe everything.

“Now I think he’s the only one who can stop this,” you say quietly.

Ryn shifts her stance. “The prophecy... it’s just a tale from the old bards. Something told over drinks and tournaments.”

You recite it aloud, your voice shaking just enough to betray your heart.

“When strings of steel stir sleeping flame, And stars fall silent out of tune. The Master shall rise, by song reclaim, To sing the world to ruin… or to rune.”

Ryn’s gaze flickers. You see something ripple across her face, not fear. Not mockery. But memory.

“I used to hum that before battle,” she admits, voice low. “Didn’t even know what it meant. Just liked the rhyme of it.” She scoffs, rubs her chin. “Hell, I didn’t think I’d ever hear of a man face down a Nocera Beast with nothing but a bloody instrument.”

“He didn’t just face it,” you say softly. “He calmed it. He tamed it. And before that… An amphisbaena. I didn’t understand it at the time. I thought he was lucky, or maybe stupid in the right ways. But now…”

You step closer. “He’s the Master, Ryn. Of course he is. The lute has ‘the strings of steel’. His playing is the key. All this time, he’s been the answer and none of us knew it… not even him.”

She’s silent for a moment. Then lets out a breath and adjusts her gauntlets with a hard snap.

“Well then,” Ryn says, rolling her shoulders like she’s preparing for war, “sounds like we better go get our bard out of his cage.”

The torches were burning lower now, just past midnight, judging by the moonlight draped across the high stone arches.

Ryn moved like a wraith through the servants’ corridor, her cloak turned inside out and her hood drawn low. You followed closely behind, your soft slippers silent against the worn flagstone, the hem of your cloak gathered in one hand to keep from dragging.

They hadn’t spoken out loud in ten minutes. Not since slipping past the Great Hall, where the Duke’s new guards were posted. These men didn’t wear the colors of the crown, no polished gold or sigils of peace. Only iron-gray armor and wolf-stitched tabards.

Your home no longer belonged to you.

"Left," Ryn murmured under her breath, pointing to a concealed archway half-swallowed by a crumbling tapestry. "That’ll take us down past the kitchens. There’s a secondary stairwell behind the smoke chute."

"You sound like you’ve done this before," you whispered, pressing in behind her.

"I have," Ryn said, sparing you a tight smile. "I used to sneak out to meet the baker’s boy. He had cherry scones. I had zero self-control."

A quiet laugh escaped your lips, more breath than sound, but it helped. The tension in your shoulders didn’t disappear, but it eased just enough for your fingers to stop trembling.

They descended into the deeper underbelly of the castle, where the air turned damp and the stone grew colder. Mold bloomed in the cracks. Rat droppings peppered the corners. Somewhere ahead, water dripped in a slow, steady rhythm, like the ticking of a very old, very patient clock.

"This is it," Ryn breathed. She brushed aside a false panel hidden behind a coal chute and revealed narrow stairs curling down into darkness.

You hesitated. “And the guards?”

"Posted at the main entrance. Not this way, no one uses the old passage anymore. And if they do…" Ryn unsheathed a slim dagger from her boot, "...they’re going to have a very bad evening."

You followed Ryn down. At the bottom, they found themselves behind a barred storage room, one that had once held wine barrels, now empty and forgotten. Ryn worked the rusted bolt loose with practiced fingers. It groaned like a wounded animal, and they both flinched.

Beyond the storage room lay the lower dungeons. Silent. Stale. Reeking of iron and waste and something older. Something cruel.

"Stay close," Ryn whispered, and you did. Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure it would give you away.

As they descended further, the dungeon was suddenly alive with panic.

Guards scrambling, shouting over each other, some buckling on armor, others abandoning their posts entirely. The dragon’s roar shakes dust from the ceiling, and somewhere deep in the bowels of the prison, a pipe bursts, flooding the lower corridors with brackish water.

Ryn pressed herself against the corridor wall, her breath shallow, hand resting on the dagger tucked beneath her cloak. Her other hand snatched and held a ring of stolen keys, lifted from one distracted guard too slow and too loud to realize his belt had grown lighter.

Ryn moves like a shadow through the chaos, her sword still sheathed but her hand never far from the hilt. She knows these halls, knows which cells are for petty thieves, which are for political prisoners, and which are for problems the crown doesn’t want seen.

You follow close behind, heart hammering, hood pulled low.

Then you hear a voice.

Faint, and hoarse.

Singing.

Not a lament. Not a prayer.

It sounded like a lullaby.

Ryn hears it too. She turns, her eyes sharp, and she nods toward the end of the hall.

There, behind a rusted iron door, barred with chains and marked with a sigil that makes your skin crawl, the Queen’s seal.

You took the keys.

The lock clicked.

The gate creaked open.

And the dark opened its mouth to swallow you whole.

Eddie Munson sits cross-legged on the floor, guitar cradled in his lap, fingers plucking at strings that shouldn’t still hold tension after days in a dank cell.

His voice is rough, cracked from disuse, but the melody is unmistakable.

The same one he played for the amphisbaena.

The same one that still hums in your dreams.

He doesn’t look up when the door creaks open. Doesn’t flinch when torchlight spills across his face. He just keeps playing, slow, deliberate, like the world outside this cell doesn’t exist.

Then, softly, he murmurs, "Took you long enough, sweetheart."

Your knees nearly give out.

Ryn exhales sharply, shaking her head. "Gods damn you, Munson."

Eddie grins, all teeth, eyes still fixed on the strings. "Miss me, baby?"

You don’t answer. Because the moment you step forward, the moment you kneel by his side, and your fingers brush his shoulder, everything falls away.

He’s dirty. He reeks. There’s dried blood at the corner of his mouth, new bruises blooming beneath the stubble on his jaw, and grime streaked through his curls. His tunic’s torn, sleeve hanging off one shoulder, collarbone bruised and raw.

But none of that matters.

Because in a flash, you remember.

The way his voice went wrecked and worshipful when he breathed your name into your mouth the night he made love to you.

The way his fingers, so clever on strings, had memorized you just as skillfully, every shiver, every gasp, every sigh you tried to swallow.

The way his heart had thundered beneath your palm like it was trying to answer your own.

You’d thought it a night of surrender.

But now you understand… it was a promise. One he made before either of you realized how much it would cost.

You reach for him slowly. Gently. Afraid to move too fast.

He finally looks at you.

And all that sharp wit, all the bravado, all the snark he wears like armor, it falls away in the face of your touch. His eyes go soft, stunned, the breath leaving his lungs like you’d knocked it out of him with nothing but kindness.

Your fingers skim his cheek, brushing dirt and dried blood aside with your thumb.

“I’m here,” you whisper. Not a question, not even a reassurance. A vow.

And then you kiss him.

You don’t care who sees. Not Ryn, not the gods, not the ghosts in these walls.

You kiss him like you mean to remember it in the next life. Like the fire outside can wait. Like he’s not half-starved and half-broken, but yours. Still yours, always yours.

Eddie makes a low, raw sound into your mouth, his hands rising to cradle your face like he needs to be sure you’re real. He kisses you back hungrily, reverently, like a man who’s been dying of thirst and has just been handed the finest wine.

When you break apart, your breath mingles with his.

He leans his forehead against yours, a soft, shaky smile tugging at his mouth. “You always kiss like that, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “Or is that just for war criminals and dead men?”

You huff, tearful and laughing. “You’re not dead.”

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “But damn, if you keep doing that…”

And though the world is burning above you, and the gods may not always be kind…

Right here, in the shadows of a forgotten cell, your heart finds its rhythm again.

Ryn clears her throat pointedly, shifting her weight with an impatient clink of armor. "Much as I hate to interrupt this deeply moving reunion-"

Eddie doesn't pull away from you, just grins against your lips, his voice a low, rough purr. "You love it, Ryn. Admit it. You live for drama."

Ryn scoffs. "I live for money, Munson. And right now, neither of us is getting paid to stand around while a dragon burns down the capital."

You reluctantly pull back, but your fingers stay tangled in Eddie's torn tunic, unwilling to let go completely. The warmth of his skin beneath your palm is the only thing keeping you grounded.

Eddie exhales, climbing to his feet and finally looking past you to the chaos outside the cell window. His smirk fades, replaced by something sharper, something dangerous. "A dragon… No shit? So that's what all that noise was."

You nod. "The Queen summoned it. It's circling the towers."

Eddie's fingers flex against your waist, his grip tightening just slightly. "Grab my axe."

Ryn tosses the enchanted instrument to him. Eddie catches it one-handed, his fingers curling around the neck like it's an old friend.

He exhales, long and slow. Then looks at you, his dark eyes burning with something fierce.

"Alright, sweetheart," he murmurs, pressing a quick, hard kiss to your temple before moving. "Let's go tame a dragon."

Now, the man who had been moments ago kissing you breathless is gone, replaced by the Master of the Strings of Steel, the heretic, the legend.

The one who walks into the fire of a raging war like it's an old lover.

Ryn tosses him a stolen guard's cloak, and Eddie swings it over his shoulders with a flourish, his grin all teeth.

"After you, ladies."

You don't hesitate.

You take his hand.

And together, you run toward the flames.

Next Chapter: Chapter Eight: “The Ballad of Two Kingdoms”

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@justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @sophiacloud28, @redsrooftopprincess, @ninnosaurus, @iridescentflamingo, @adebauchedsloth, @eveandtheturtles, @thelaundrybitch, @tmnt-tychou, @milykins, @the-cauldron-witch, @ahhhhhhhhhfuck, @heretoreadcirca1980s, @fyreball66

Masterlist

[thepinkpanther83]

I simp for all our boys, there's just something special about Mikey!! 🐢🧡

I do love a good soulmates story! 🥰

🧡

God. Soulmates.

Snippet:

Buzzkill,” he mutters under his breath before flashing you that brilliant smile of his and - oh. There's that feeling in your chest again. As if your heart is a sunflower and he's the sun, chasing glimpses of him across the sky. A gentle hand cups your cheek, caressing your face adoringly. “Duty calls, my lady.”

[thepinkpanther83]

Warm and bright, that's our boy! 😉

Mechanic Eddie, my beloved! 😍

🔧

Mechanic Eddie my beloved 🤝

I might have posted this bit before? I had more written after this but I decided I wanted to go in a different direction so I backtracked, making this the most recent sentence:

Everything about him feels like sunlight, even when he's nervous - warm, bright, encouraging.

[thepinkpanther83]

Ooooooh, it's unrequited!! I was like omg!! This is gonna get messy, drama, angst fast!! 😂

I had no idea you were writing for Leo!

💙

That's because it's coming along at a fucking snail's pace lmao. I'm pretty sure I started this idea last year, actually. I don't remember where I got the idea but I DO remember that I immediately started yelling at @yorshie about it.

Anyway here is a snippet\details combo:

Perfect, beautiful, steadfast Leo who loves you, who's been right in front of you this whole time, who's been so in love with you it's kind of embarrassing you didn't notice. So preoccupied with his brother, with the flashiness of red like a shiny red sports car that goes too fast and costs too much and isn't what you want when the road gets a little rough. Sure, red is exciting. Passionate. Enticing. Exhilarating. But is it really what you want? You'd been so caught up in the exhilaration, in fact, that you hadn't even noticed the way Leo had ingrained himself, dependably, into every facet of your life.

[thepinkpanther83]

👀‼️

Creeps back into your Asks like I totally didn't already do! 😗🎶

📓

Lmao thank you for separating them 💚 Not the most recent sentence but a very good one from the last paragraph:

As if touching Eddie Munson was simply something you did and not a ground-breaking new development that had sent his entire world bursting with newfound possibility.

[thepinkpanther83]

🤌🏻✨

@mrsjellymunson 's WIP Whateverthehellthisis Whateverdayitisdontaskmeidontknowthatevenonagooddayisthisatrickquestion

(excellent name btw I never know what day it is either)

Send me an ask/emoji, and I'll share a snippet, teaser/sneaky deets, or the last line I wrote:

📓 It's Going To Be His Year - (Eddie Munson x fem!reader) - a giant oneshot that I'm posting in chapters on here because it's too powerful to be contained in a single tumblr post.

💙 Blue Coded - (Bay!Leo x fem!reader)

🔧 Mechanic Eddie x fem!reader

🧡 Serendipity - (Bay!Mikey x fem!reader) - it's the soulmates one

No pressure tags for funsies: @yorshie @luckycharms1701 @avery73 @thelaundrybitch @thepinkpanther83 @the-cauldron-witch @losingmygrasponreality and anybody else who wants to join!

[thepinkpanther83]

Master of The Strings of Steel (Pt.6 The Mask Cracks)

Chapter Six: “The Mask Cracks”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Next Chapter: Chapter Seven: “Loyalty and Ashes” Previous Chapter: Chapter Five: "The Ruse and the Rapture"

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Six: “The Mask Cracks”

The rain hasn’t let up since dusk. It hammers the canopy of the forest trail in a cold, relentless rhythm, soaking through your cloak and boots as the wind whips past like a living thing. Eddie walks ahead of you, head lowered, curls plastered to his face, hand on the hilt of his sword, not drawn, but tense. Always tense.

You don’t talk much now. Not since the border town. Not since he used the last of the coin for horses and passage, not since he started glancing over his shoulder more than ahead. But he still keeps close. Still offers you the warmer part of the blanket when you camp. Still looks at you like he doesn’t deserve you.

The path narrows as the trees break, and you can smell the sea before you see it, salt, rot, and something almost metallic in the air. The shipyard sprawls below, built into the cliffs like an afterthought, rusted tin roofs, smoke curling from crooked chimneys, and silhouettes moving through the mist. A long, groaning dock reaches out into the dark water, waves thrashing against the pylons beneath.

Eddie stops at the ridge, silent for a long moment. Then he turns to you, eyes glinting in the stormlight.

“This is it,” he says, voice hoarse from the cold. “We get down there, find a captain who won’t ask questions, and we’re gone.”

Gone.

You want to ask where. You want to ask why the tremor in his voice sounds like fear and regret. But the storm howls again, and the words stay lodged in your throat.

He starts down the slippery incline toward the docks, mud pulling at his boots. You follow, the only sound between you the slosh of rainwater and the crash of distant waves.

Then a shadow moves.

A flicker of red in the fog.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

Eddie freezes mid-step, his entire body going rigid. His fingers twitch toward his sword, but he doesn’t draw it. Not yet.

"Fuck," he breathes, barely audible over the storm.

You follow his gaze.

Three figures stand at the base of the slope, cloaked in crimson, their faces obscured by hoods. The wind tugs at their robes, revealing the glint of steel beneath.

The one in the center steps forward, voice smooth as poisoned honey.

"Sir Edward."

Eddie’s jaw clenches. His grip on your hand tightens, almost painfully.

"Run," he whispers.

But it’s too late.

The figures fan out, blocking the path to the docks.

The one in the center pulls back his hood, revealing a face you’ve seen before, in portraits, in court, in the nightmares Eddie won’t speak of. The Red Order.

"You didn’t really think you could just disappear with her, did you boy?"

Eddie exhales, slow and measured. Then he turns to you, eyes burning with something desperate.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, voice breaking. "Whatever happens, I’m so sorry."

But before you even had time to react, he shoves you backward, sending you stumbling into the underbrush.

Then he draws his sword.

And lunges.

Steel flashes in the rain, a clean arc through the mist, Eddie moves like a man possessed, fast and brutal, all sinew and rage, crashing into the center figure before he can raise his blade.

They clash hard. The sound of it rings out like thunder.

You scramble upright from the bramble, breath catching as you watch Eddie fight. Not like a knight. Not like the dutiful son of the court. He fights like a beast. Dirty. Desperate. Wild. Every swing of his sword is meant to maim, not to warn. This isn’t about survival anymore. It’s about you.

The Red Order retaliates fast, two more men appear from the fog, blades drawn, faces cold and impassive beneath their hoods. Another group emerges behind them, soldiers in Queen’s black and gold, no heraldry, no words, just death in neat formation.

You want to run to him.

You want to scream out warnings.

But Eddie’s already outnumbered ten to one.

He takes down the first attacker with a vicious twist of his blade, metal slicing through bone and armor like parchment. Blood hits the mud. The second soldier catches him in the side with a shallow strike, but Eddie doesn’t flinch, he whirls, slamming his elbow into the man’s jaw and sending him sprawling.

"GET BACK!" he roars, his voice breaking apart against the storm. "GO- RUN!"

But there’s nowhere left to run.

A pair of arms grab you from behind, sharp and sudden. A blade presses to your throat.

You gasp.

Eddie’s head snaps around, and when he sees you, his entire body freezes.

“No!”

He surges forward, but another soldier intercepts him. Their blades crash together with a violent clang, and still, his eyes are locked on you, not the man trying to gut him.

“LET HER GO!” he bellows, the kind of sound that rips from somewhere deeper than his chest. It’s feral. Unhinged.

But they don’t let go.

You’re yanked backward into the group of the Queen’s men, fingers clamp around your arms, dragging you to your knees in the mud as the blade stays tight to your neck. “Stop fighting, or we’ll cut her throat open right here, boy!”

Eddie breaks with a shout.

He drops his sword.

It hits the ground with a dull thud, swallowed by the rain.

"Please," he says, voice hoarse, gutted. “Please, she didn’t… she doesn’t know anything. I never told her. She’s not part of this. Let her go.”

The soldier kicks him hard in the back of the knee.

He drops, shaking.

They seize him, placing his hands behind his head.

Clamp iron around his wrists.

Drag him back to his feet.

You scream his name, thrashing against the arms holding you, but it’s no use. He’s bleeding. Knees covered in mud. A mask of fury and guilt and ruin smeared across his face.

The soldier holding you tightens his grip, the blade biting just enough to draw a thin line of blood. You gasp, but Eddie sees it, sees the red against your skin, and something in him snaps.

His body moves before his mind catches up.

A sharp twist of his shoulders, a brutal kick to the knee of the man holding him, bone cracks.

He lunges for you.

The soldier holding you barely has time to register the movement before Eddie’s restrained fingers are around his throat, slamming him backward into the mud. The blade clatters away, lost in the storm.

For a heartbeat, everything is still.

Then further chaos erupts.

The Queen’s men surge forward, weapons drawn, but Eddie is already dragging you behind him, his body a shield between you and the steel. His eyes are wild, his breathing ragged, but his voice is steady when he speaks.

"You touch her again," he snarls, "and I will peel the skin from your bones while you still scream."

The soldiers hesitate.

Because they know. They know he means it, but they don’t know what he’s capable of.

One of the Red Order steps forward, his cloak heavy with rain, his expression unreadable.

"Enough," he says. "The Queen wants them alive."

Eddie’s fingers twitch at his sides, still slick with blood.

"Then tell her to come take us herself."

The man smiles.

And the world goes black.

A sharp pain at the base of Eddie’s skull.

Then… Nothing.

The world comes back to him slow and sour.

His head throbs. His vision blurs. Something wet and sticky has dried in his curls, blood, probably. His own, hopefully. The air stinks of horses and wet wood and old metal. Rain still falls, softer now, a pitiful drizzle that clings to everything and makes the world feel even more wretched than it is.

He shifts, groaning, and the chains rattle.

He’s lying on his side, wrists shackled, iron biting into raw skin. Cold seeps through the floorboards beneath him, and when he opens his eyes properly, the ceiling above is a lattice of rotted wood and rusted bars.

A prisoner transport cart.

And he’s not alone.

You’re sitting across from him, hands bound but body upright, still, too still. Your eyes are locked on him already, expression unreadable, but there’s worry in the crease of your brow, the subtle way your shoulders haven’t fully relaxed.

“Hey,” you whisper. “Hey… are you awake?”

He blinks. Swallows. His tongue is thick, dry.

“You… you alright?” you ask again, a little more urgently this time, shifting toward him. “Eddie, talk to me.”

A broken sound slips from his mouth, half groan, half laugh.

“You’re… you’re worried about me?” His voice is shredded, barely there.

You flinch.

And he hates himself for it.

There’s silence between you for a moment too long. Then he shifts upright with effort, groaning as his back screams in protest. He leans against the bars behind him, eyes closed.

“You shouldn’t be,” he says eventually, quieter now. “Worried about me.”

You don’t answer.

The cart rocks over a pothole. Mud splashes through the slats beneath your feet. Somewhere up front, the driver curses at the horse. The clatter of hooves and chains fills the hollow silence like a drumbeat of doom.

Eddie draws a long breath.

“I need to tell you something,” he says, voice trembling. “And I know it’s too late. I know it won’t fix anything, but… if you hate me, I need you to at least hate me for the right reasons.”

You stare at him, chest tight.

He looks down.

“I was told to take you. To… to get close, earn your trust, and bring you back to the capital. Alive. Quietly. I was… supposed to deliver you. Like a fucking package.”

Your heart lurches.

He doesn’t look up, he can’t.

“They said if I didn’t do it, they’d kill me, and send someone else. Someone who wouldn’t care if you got hurt. Or worse. I didn’t… fuck, I didn’t know what else to do. So I went along with it.”

You’re frozen.

He finally raises his eyes to you, and they’re shattered. Not cracked. Not frayed. Broken.

“I was supposed to hand you over at the border town,” he says. “But I couldn’t. I... couldn’t. So I used the coin they gave me to get us horses instead. I thought I could get you away, get us out, maybe buy some time to… I don’t know, to disappear together.”

You stare at him, tears burning at the corners of your eyes, but you’re not crying.

“So instead of confiding in me,” you say quietly, “you just lied longer?”

He flinches.

“You had so many chances to tell me the truth. And you let me believe… all of the lies.”

“I thought if I did, you’d just ditch me,” he chokes. “You’d go back. And they’d just… just try again.”

“Oh, so you just took my choices away instead?” you snap. “That’s what this was? You gained some fondness for me and decided you could lie your way into forgiveness?”

“I fell in love with you,” he says, brokenly. “And I tried to run with you instead. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“Not enough,” you spit, the words sharp as a blade. “Not nearly enough.”

He looks away. Silent.

You breathe hard, chest rising and falling in time with the clatter of wheels and the ache in your throat.

“Coward,” you whisper.

His jaw clenches. But he doesn’t try to defend himself further, not even a little.

And that hurts you worse somehow.

The rest of the journey is silent.

Eddie doesn’t try to explain again. Doesn’t beg for forgiveness. Doesn’t even look at you, not really. He just sits there, chains heavy around his wrists, staring at the floor like he’s already accepted his fate.

Like he deserves it.

The cart rolls to a stop hours later.

The door swings open.

A soldier yanks you out first, his grip bruising, and Eddie flinches, his whole body tensing like he wants to lunge, to fight, to kill... but the chains hold him back.

You don’t look at him. You refuse to.

The Queen’s palace looms ahead, cold and towering, its spires cutting into the storm-dark sky.

Eddie is dragged out last, stumbling as his boots hit the mud.

One of the soldiers shoves him forward, laughing when he nearly falls.

He doesn’t react.

He just keeps walking.

Toward the throne room.

Toward judgment.

The gates open with a groan of rust and magic, the Queen’s guards forming a tight phalanx as the prisoner is dragged into the heart of the capital. Crowds gather despite the drizzle, nobles in embroidered cloaks, merchants, even children peeking from behind legs and pillars. All curious to see the knight-turned-traitor and the duchess he stole.

You try not to meet their eyes.

Not your father’s, standing at the top of the palace steps with his arms crossed, his face a mask of carefully measured outrage and disappointment.

Not the Queen’s, watching from the second-floor terrace with her unreadable smile and wine-dark eyes.

Not Eddie’s.

Especially not Eddie’s.

You’re brought forward first, wrists raw beneath the binding cords, fine clothes sodden with rain and streaked in mud. The moment your father sees you, he surges down the palace steps with a fury born of both paternal panic and political spectacle.

“Unhand her!” the Duke barks at the guards, sweeping you into his arms before they can protest. He cradles your face, brushing filthy hair back from your eyes, his gloves now smeared with earth and blood. “What in the gods’ names have they done to you?”

His voice lowers, softer, but still taut with anger and pride. “They’ll answer for this. You’re no prisoner. You’re to be a duchess.”

His embrace tightens, not out of love but urgency, and he brings his lips to your ear.

“It’s alright now,” he whispers. “You’ll be cleared of all this. The Queen’s assured me, you were taken, nothing more.”

Your pulse hammers in your throat.

Because you know the truth.

Eddie didn’t steal you.

You went with him all too willingly. Because you were already in a gilded cage, and he was the first person who’d ever handed you the key.

But you nod anyway. Numb. Hollow. A duchess made of wax.

They separate you and Eddie immediately, guards pulling you toward the palace, while others seize him and drag him toward the lower wing. You turn, just once, heart thundering in your chest as your eyes meet his across the rain-slicked courtyard.

He looks wrecked. Soaked and bloodied, jaw clenched, defiant in the face of the impossible. But his expression softens, only for you.

And you swear you see his lips form the words I’m sorry.

Then they shove him through the doors leading toward the dungeons.

And you don’t see him again.

Below the palace, beneath spires and marble and lies, the dungeon stinks of rot, iron, and old screams. Eddie is stripped of his armor and weapons, tossed in a cell barely tall enough to stretch in, wrists still shackled, ribs sore from kicks he didn’t bother to block.

They tried to take his guitar.

It was the last thing slung over his shoulder as they dragged him down, and when one of the guards reached for it, just reached, the air cracked. A pulse of raw energy burst outward like a struck bell, throwing the man off his feet and slamming him into the far wall with a sickening crunch.

The others hesitated.

Another tried, slower this time, muttering something about enchantments, about sorcery. His fingertips barely brushed the fretboard.

The axe screamed.

No hands moved, no pick strummed, but the sound ripped through the corridor like a banshee’s wail, shrill and piercing, loud enough to make blood run cold. The torches guttered and hissed, their flames dying in unison. Something in the shadows shifted dangerously, something wrong and watchful.

“Alright, alright!” Eddie shouted, jerking against his captors as they went for it again. “Back the fuck off! You want your bones not broken, maybe don’t touch the murder lute!”

One of the guards spat. Another crossed himself.

“Weapons go to the armory,” the captain growled.

“She’s not a weapon,” Eddie snapped, chest heaving. “She’s a lady, show some damn respect.”

He was still shackled. Still bleeding. But that didn’t seem to matter. Because the next time someone moved to tug the strap from his shoulder, the guitar growled, low and guttural, like the start of something ancient waking up.

The guards backed off.

In the end, they let him keep it.

“Just a lute,” one muttered, rattled and sneering, voice an octave too high. “Let the bard have his comfort.”

Eddie grinned, crooked and bloodied. “Yeah. Just a lute. The comforting kind. Like a snake curled up in your boot.”

So it stayed. Pressed close to his side when he sleeps. Like it knows its master. Like it refuses to be caged without him.

Eddie paces when he can.

Slumps when he can’t.

And waits.

It’s two days before they come.

The Queen’s Chamberlain and two silent guards stand at the bars, faces carved from stone.

“You’ll be pleased to know the Duchess is home,” the Chamberlain says, voice clipped and cruel. “Tear-streaked and shaken. Poor thing. We’ve told her you used her. Kidnapped her. Broke her mind.”

Eddie doesn’t flinch. He stares.

“Your loyalty, it seems, is a fickle thing. But don’t worry… we’ve made sure her name remains spotless, and the Duke is none the wiser.”

He steps closer.

“You, however? You’re a convenient villain. A knight turned rogue. Disgraced. Love-mad. You’ll be remembered as a traitor with a sword and a soft spot.”

Eddie’s voice is raw when he speaks.

“So what? You gonna kill me? Put my head on a spike outside the gates? Make an example out of me?”

“Oh, no,” the Chamberlain smiles. “We’re going to hang you. Publicly. But with honor befitting your title, of course.”

“Right,” Eddie rasps, smile twisted and dry. “Because execution is super dignified.”

He leans back against the wall, eyes wild and shining.

“I’ve died once before,” he mutters. “You think this scares me?”

The guards blink, glancing at each other.

Eddie grins. Unhinged.

“Strangled by a rope? Pfft.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Try being torn apart by monsters with wings and fangs but no faces. Try choking on your own blood while you scream for a kid you care about to run. Trust me… hell already took its bite.”

The Chamberlain frowns, but Eddie keeps talking.

“I came back once. Maybe I’ll do it again. Maybe next time I’ll hunt you down personally.”

He bares his teeth in something that’s not quite a smile.

“You better hope that rope holds.”

Elsewhere, in your father’s estate, your fingers still ache from the bindings. Your chest is a tight knot of sorrow and fury. The gowns you once loved feel like prison chains. Every face around you wears a mask, and no one asks how you feel, just how you’ll be presented.

The Queen sends a letter, sealed in wax and venom. It thanks your father for his swift action. Praises your resilience. Says justice will be served when Sir Edward Munson hangs for high treason and kidnapping.

You sit in your chambers, the letter burning in your lap.

And all you can think of is the moment Eddie whispered, "I fell in love with you."

And the moment you called him a coward.

And the fact that you still aren’t sure if you were wrong. But gods help you… you love him too.

Next Chapter: Chapter Seven: “Loyalty and Ashes”

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000, @totallysocially, @exasperatedsighohmy, @marianaissocool, @boggerslide, @sheneedsrocknroll92, @n3lly-h3artz, @comeonatmebruh, @goingxsteddie, @msmimiandrew, @cpnsteverogers, @quinnophile, @exploding-bonbon, @hiscrimsonangel

Masterlist

[thepinkpanther83]

That Adonis Belt is gonna be the death of me. 🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵

[thepinkpanther83]

😍

it’s actually despicable how badly i need him ☹️🥲💦

[thepinkpanther83]

Master of The Strings of Steel (Pt.5 The Ruse and the Rapture)

Chapter Five: “The Ruse and the Rapture”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Next Chapter: Chapter Six: “The Mask Cracks” Previous Chapter: Chapter Four: “Strings in the Dark”

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Five: “The Ruse and the Rapture”

The castle is still quiet when he finally moves. He’s alone in the old throne room now. The cold floor is empty save for the ghost of your warmth, the distant memory of your laughter, the imprint of your lips still lingering on his own. For a moment, he just sits in the silence, head tilted back against stone, eyes tracing the window above. Moonlight has given way to the soft blue of dawn, shadows thinning in the corners.

That’s when he sees it.

A faint red glint, just beyond the trees.

He straightens, tension curling in his chest like a wire pulled taut. From this angle, it could be anything, morning dew, a shard of glass catching the light. But he knows better.

He’s already moving, boots soundless as he slips out the side passage and into the overgrown garden. Past the outer wall, into the woods. The air is cool, damp with the promise of rain, and the birds haven’t quite begun their morning chorus yet.

Then he sees it, tucked between the roots of a blackthorn tree, half-buried in dead leaves, is a small, obsidian disc, no larger than his palm. Its center pulses once… twice… with a dull, red light.

The sigil etched into its surface isn’t one he could ever forget, a snake coiled through the eye of a sword surrounded by a flame. The Red Order.

He crouches low, lips tightening into a grim line. The second he touches it, the stone flares.

A voice slithers out. Not loud, but unmistakable.

“Time is up.”

It’s her voice, the Queen’s, it’s measured, and cold.

“The Order awaits your report. Your next command comes at dawn.”

As quickly as it came, the light fades. The stone dims, inert once more.

Eddie just stares at it, jaw clenched. Then, slowly, he closes his fingers around it, slipping it into the inner pocket of his coat like a loaded weapon.

It burns, even through the fabric.

He straightens, head tipped back toward the trees, jaw clenched against the scream building in his throat.

He doesn’t scream, though.

He runs a hand down his face. Breathes in once, then twice.

Then turns, quiet, swift, heading for the Queen.

The Queen’s private chambers are tucked deep within the castle’s eastern wing, guarded by silent knights in crimson cloaks. They don’t stop him as he approaches. They don’t even look at him. They just step aside, like they were expecting him.

The door creaks open before he can knock.

Inside, the Queen sits at her desk, quill poised over parchment, not even glancing up.

“You’re late.”

Eddie doesn’t flinch. “Got held up.”

She finally looks at him, her gaze sharp as a blade. “By what?”

His fingers twitch at his sides. By her. By the way she laughs. By the way she looks at me like I’m something worth keeping.

But he doesn’t say that.

Instead, he reaches into his coat and tosses the obsidian disc onto the desk. It skids to a stop in front of her.

“You could’ve just sent a letter.”

The Queen’s lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “And miss the look on your face?” She leans back in her chair, studying him. “Tell me, Sir Edward… have you forgotten who you serve?”

Eddie’s jaw tightens. “No.”

“Then why do I hear whispers of you sneaking off with the Duke’s daughter nightly, yet you’ve given me no intel?”

His pulse kicks. They’re watching her too.

He forces a smirk. “Still gathering intel. Like you ordered.”

The Queen arches a brow knowingly. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

Eddie doesn’t rise to the bait. “What do you want?”

She stands, slow and deliberate, circling the desk like a predator. “The Duke’s alliance with the northern lords is a threat. You were sent to uncover his weaknesses, not entangle yourself with his heir.”

Eddie meets her gaze, unflinching. “I know my mission.”

“Do you?” She stops in front of him, close enough that he can smell the poison-laced perfume on her skin. “Because it seems to me you’ve grown attached.”

His fingers curl into fists.

The Queen smiles. “Ah. There it is.” She turns away, waving a dismissive hand. “You have until the next moon to deliver what I need. Fail me again, and your next rendezvous will be with my executioner.”

Eddie doesn’t respond.

Not with words anyway.

But his jaw ticks once. A subtle shift. Barely perceptible to most, but the Queen is not most.

Her smirk deepens.

He keeps his voice flat, even. “What do you want me to do?”

She steps to the tall arched window, clasping her hands behind her back like a general surveying a battlefield. “The northern alliance is already fracturing, but not fast enough. The Duke still holds too many cards… too many loyalties. But his daughter…” she trails off for a moment, head tilted slightly, “-she’s beloved.”

He stiffens.

“I want her gone,” she says calmly. “Not dead. Not yet, anyway. That would turn her into a martyr. But if she were… say… taken. Held for ransom. Whispered to be defecting to another power entirely-”

“Who would believe that?” Eddie cuts in, too sharply.

The Queen glances over her shoulder. “They don’t need to believe it, Sir Edward. They just need to question everything else.”

Silence stretches between them like a blade.

He swallows hard. “You want me to kidnap her.”

“I want you to do your job without question,” she snaps, her smile sharpening into something predatory. “You’ve made yourself quite the fixture in her life. Use that. Get her alone. Get her out.”

His fists clench at his sides. His mind races, not with plans, but with memories. Your laughter in the dark. The way your hand felt in his. The sound of your heartbeat under his palm.

The Queen turns fully to him now, gaze cold and final. “Bring her to the safehouse on the southern border. My agents will take her from there.”

Eddie nods once.

But it’s stiff. Heavy.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just turns on his heel and leaves the chamber without looking back.

His pulse hammers as he walks.

Each step echoing with the weight of the choice before him.

Each breath tighter than the last.

She would only be held for ransom, but if he didn’t obey his orders… he’d lose his head.

The castle corridors blur around him as he walks, his boots heavy against the stone. His mind races with plans, counter-plans, half-formed ideas that crumble as soon as they take shape.

He could run.

He could take you with him.

He could vanish into the night, both of you, and never look back.

But the Queen’s reach is long, and her vengeance is patient. There’s no outrunning the Red Order. Not forever anyway.

His fingers twitch at his sides.

He needs to see you.

Needs to warn you.

But if he does… if he tells you the truth, then what? You’ll hate him. You’ll look at him with betrayal in your eyes, and he’s not sure he could survive that.

So he does the only thing he can think of.

He finds you in the library, tucked between the shelves, a book open in your lap.

You look up when he enters, and your smile is like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“There you are,” you murmur. “I was starting to think you’d gotten lost.”

His chest tightens.

He forces a smirk. “Me? Never.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He exhales, rough. “Just thinking.”

You close the book, setting it aside. “About?”

About how I’m supposed to betray you. About how I can’t. About how I’d rather burn the whole damn world down than see you hurt.

He swallows hard.

Then he kneels in front of you, taking your hands in his.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low, urgent. “I need you to trust me.”

Your brow furrows. “I do.”

“No matter what happens.”

Your fingers tighten around his. “Eddie-”

“Promise me.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something desperate.

You nod slowly. “I promise.”

He exhales, pressing his forehead to your knuckles.

Then let’s play this game one last time.

He lifts his head, still holding your hands in his, thumbs brushing slow, reverent circles across your knuckles. His voice drops, quieter now, gentler, almost trembling with something unsaid.

“I want to leave,” he says.

You blink. “The library?”

He huffs a soft laugh under his breath, but there’s no humor in it. “The kingdom.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

He meets your eyes, steady and serious. “I’m not built for this kind of life, sweetheart. The politicking. The spying. The bloodless war being fought over tea and treaties. I don’t care about any of it.”

You open your mouth, but he squeezes your hands before you can speak.

“But I care about you.”

Silence stretches, thick and golden.

“I’m tired of pretending I’m something I’m not,” he murmurs. “Of hiding in shadows and smiling through lies. I just… I want to go. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one knows our names.”

You search his face, your heart thudding hard. “You mean… now? Just… leave?”

“Tonight,” he says, barely a whisper. “Before the sun rises. There’s a passage through the southern woods… no guards, no prying eyes. We’ll take it. Disappear together.”

You shake your head in disbelief, lips parted. “Eddie…”

He shifts closer, his hands sliding up to cradle your face, his forehead brushing yours. “Say yes,” he breathes. “Please. You and me. Just us. We’ll make up names, pretend we’re no one. I’ll cook badly, you’ll laugh at me, and we’ll sleep under the stars until I can build us a home. No war. No duty. Just you and me, okay?”

Your eyes sting with tears, overwhelmed.

“I thought you said you weren’t going anywhere,” you whisper.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, tender and trembling. “I lied.”

You laugh softly, one hand fisting in his shirt. “You really want to do this?”

“I want you,” he says, voice rough, and raw. “Anywhere. Always.”

And you believe him.

Of course you do.

You nod.

And it breaks him.

But he smiles.

Because that’s what liars do.

The night is too quiet when you meet him at the southern gate. No guards. No torches. Just the whisper of the wind through the trees and the distant hoot of an owl.

He’s waiting for you, a worn pack slung over one shoulder, his sword at his hip. His expression is unreadable in the moonlight, but his fingers twitch at his sides when he sees you.

“You came,” he murmurs.

You step closer, adjusting the satchel over your shoulder. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

His lips quirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I hoped.”

You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his. His grip is tight, almost desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

He exhales, slow and measured. “South. There’s a village near the border. No one will look for us there.”

You nod, squeezing his hand. “Then let’s go.”

He hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to notice.

Then he tugs you forward, into the trees.

The forest swallows you whole.

You walk for hours, the path growing narrower, the trees thicker. Eddie moves like a shadow beside you, silent and sure, his hand never leaving yours.

At some point, the sky begins to lighten, pale streaks of dawn bleeding through the leaves.

You stop at the edge of a clearing, the first rays of sun painting the grass gold.

Eddie turns to you, his expression softening. “We should rest.”

You nod, sinking onto a fallen log, stretching your legs with a quiet sigh.

He kneels in front of you, hands resting on your knees. “You okay?”

You smile, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Better than okay.”

He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment. When he opens them again, there’s something haunted in his gaze.

You frown. “What is it?”

He shakes his head and forces a small smile, brushing your hand with his lips. “Nothing. Just tired.”

But it’s not just that.

You can feel it in him, beneath the surface. A restlessness. A pressure. Like he’s a violin string pulled too tight, moments away from snapping.

You tilt your head. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

His eyes flick up to yours.

“More than anything,” he says, and it sounds true.

But his jaw tightens a moment later, his gaze sliding to the trees beyond the clearing. “We should keep moving soon.”

“Eddie, we’ve been walking all night.”

“I know, I just…” He runs a hand through his hair, standing abruptly and pacing a few steps. “The further we get now, the safer we’ll be. Just a few more miles and we’ll be beyond the last of the trade routes. No riders. No patrols.”

You stand slowly, watching him.

“You’re panicking.”

He stops mid-step, turning toward you. “No. I’m just being cautious.”

You cross your arms, studying him. “Then why do you look like you’re about to jump out of your skin?”

He hesitates.

And that alone is answer enough.

You step closer, placing a hand against his chest. His heartbeat is erratic beneath your palm.

“Talk to me,” you whisper.

He stares down at you like you’re the only solid thing left in his crumbling world.

“I just need to get you away,” he says, his voice thin and fraying at the edges. “Far away. I don’t trust that someone won’t come looking. That this… peace won’t shatter. Not until we’re over the border. Not until we’re somewhere no one can find us.”

You nod slowly, gently.

“You’re scared.”

“Of losing you?” He laughs, but it’s hollow. “Yeah. Terrified.”

You smile up at him, soft and sure. “Then stay close.”

And god help him, he wants to.

He cups your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He should tell you. Right now. He should say there’s no border that’ll stop them from hunting us. That the people I work for are the ones chasing us. He should say run from me.

Instead, he kisses you.

Soft at first.

Then deeper. Hungrier.

His hands slide down your back, pulling you in close, like he could hide from the world in your arms.

You sigh into his mouth, and it damn near ruins him.

When you break apart, breathless, your smile is luminous.

“You keep kissing me like that and I might not care where we’re going.”

He swallows hard.

“I’m counting on it.”

He grabs your hand and continues to lead you further and further away from your home.

The sun climbs higher, and the forest thins into rolling hills. You walk until your feet ache, until the castle is nothing but a memory behind you. Eddie doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop, his grip on your hand unrelenting.

Finally, as the sky bleeds into twilight, you reach a small, abandoned hunting lodge nestled in a copse of birch trees.

Eddie exhales, shoulders sagging slightly. “Here.”

You glance at him, brow furrowed. “You knew this was here?”

He hesitates. “I’ve... passed through before.”

The lie sits heavy between you.

But you’re too tired to question it.

Inside, the lodge is musty but dry, the remnants of old furniture scattered about. Eddie drops his pack near the hearth, kneeling to build a fire.

You watch him, the way his fingers tremble slightly as he strikes the flint.

“Eddie,” you say softly.

He doesn’t look up.

You step closer, kneeling beside him. “Talk to me.”

The fire sparks to life, casting flickering shadows across his face.

For a long moment, he just stares into the flames.

Then, quietly, he says, “I don’t deserve you.”

You frown. “What?”

He turns to you, his eyes dark with something unspoken. “You left everything behind for me, just because I asked you to. Your home. Your title. Your family. And I-” His voice cracks. “I don’t know if I can even protect you.”

You reach for him, cupping his cheek. “I don’t need protecting.”

He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand.”

He opens his eyes, and the raw fear in them steals your breath.

“Eddie,” you whisper, your thumb brushing over the curve of his cheek. “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m scaring myself,” he says, hoarse. “You shouldn’t be here. Not with me. You should be in your castle, wrapped in silks, safe and loved and, and-”

“I am loved,” you say, cutting him off gently. “Right here. With you.”

He looks at you like he wants to believe it. Like it might undo him if he does.

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” he says. “What I’m still doing.”

“I don’t care.”

His jaw clenches, his hands fisting against the stone floor. “You should.”

“Maybe,” you murmur. “But right now, I just want you to look at me like you did before.”

His gaze flicks to yours.

There it is, that hungry, desperate softness you’ve come to crave.

Like you’re the only peace he’s ever known.

“You make it hard to breathe, you know that?” he says, voice shaking as he reaches for you. “You make it so goddamned hard not to ruin this.”

“Then ruin it,” you breathe, taking his hands and press them to your waist. “Please.”

His eyes darken.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Something shifts in him. Snaps, maybe.

One moment, you’re kneeling by the fire. The next, he’s kissing you like a man possessed, urgent, aching, like he’s starved for the taste of you. His hands find you with a kind of reverent desperation, steady and sure, even as his breathing deepens.

Somehow, between kisses and fumbling touches, he guides you back, past the scattered gear, the cracked tiles, the creaking floorboards, until your knees bump the edge of the narrow bed tucked into the far wall. The thin mattress gives under your weight as he eases you down, careful, his body following until he’s above you, braced on trembling forearms, mouth hot and claiming as he devours every sound you make.

You gasp into his lips, arching into him.

He groans, low and rough, dragging his mouth to your neck.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs against your skin. “Dreamed about touching you like this. Having you like this.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently until he meets your gaze.

“Then stop dreaming,” you whisper. “Take me.”

He strips you slowly, reverently, like every inch of you is holy. When he bares you fully, he just… looks at you for a moment. Silent. Worshipful.

“Perfect,” he breathes. “You’re perfect.”

Then his mouth is on you again, trailing heat and reverence down your throat, across your collarbone, lower still. His touch is firm, commanding, but never cruel. It’s him. All that fire and control and devotion wrapped into every press of his lips, every roll of his hips.

He doesn’t rush.

He takes his time learning you.

Claiming you.

Undoing you.

And when he finally pushes inside, his forehead resting against yours, breath ragged and shaking, you both break.

A gasp leaves your lips, swallowed by the hungry pull of his mouth. He stills the moment he feels it, feels you as he tears your hymen, tight and new and undeniably your first time. His breath catches, the realization hitting him like a thunderclap and a whisper all at once. Of course. Of course you’d never been touched like this before. And now here you are, wrapped around him in the dark, trembling but unafraid. Reverent. His. He presses his forehead to yours, hand curling protectively at your waist, giving you time, memorizing the way your fingers tremble as they clutch his shoulders, the way your lips shape his name like a prayer, the way your eyes flutter shut like you can’t bear the gravity of what you’ve given him. Then slowly, carefully, burning with restraint, he begins to move.

Slow, at first. A reverent, rolling motion of hips that sends sparks skittering across your skin. You meet him halfway, clinging to him like he’s the only thing tethering you to the earth. Every shift of his body inside yours fans a fire you’ve both been keeping banked for far too long, and the room feels suddenly too small for the weight of it.

“God, you feel-” he chokes out, voice cracking. “I don’t even have the words.”

You do. You just don’t say them yet. Instead, your nails rake lightly down his spine, and you lift your hips, a wordless plea for more. Faster. Deeper. He obliges without hesitation, mouth finding your throat, then your collarbone, then the center of your chest like he’s marking every inch of you as his.

The pace builds, friction and heat crashing like waves, urgent and electric and undeniable. Every sound he makes sends a new thrill through your core, a strangled moan, a whispered curse, a desperate rasp of your name that sounds like prayer and prophecy all at once.

“Eddie,” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut.

He groans your name like it’s the only truth he has left in this world.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice raw. “I’m not letting go.”

He sets a rhythm that has your nails raking harder down his back, your legs wrapped tight around his waist. Every thrust is deep, deliberate. Every moan drawn from your lips drives him harder.

But there’s love in it too.

So much love it terrifies him.

And maybe that’s why he kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, slow and deep and aching, even as your body begins to quake beneath him. Maybe that’s why his hands tremble as he clutches at your waist, grounding himself in your skin like he’s afraid he’ll lose you to the moment.

You fall with a cry he swallows down, your nails biting into his back, your legs tightening around him as if to pull him deeper, closer, forever. And when he follows, hips jerking, breath stuttering, moaning your name into your throat as he pours himself into you, it’s not just a release.

It’s a surrender.

It’s with reverence.

It’s a promise he’s terrified he might not be able to keep.

And for just a breath, it feels like a goodbye.

The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the lingering heat of your bodies pressed together.

Eddie rolls onto his back beside you, chest rising and falling unevenly, one arm draped over his eyes. His other hand finds yours in the dim light, fingers twining together like he’s afraid to let go.

You turn your head to look at him, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with your gaze.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur.

He exhales, rough and unsteady. “Just thinking.”

You shift closer, pressing your lips to his bare shoulder. “About?”

His fingers tighten around yours.

About how I’m supposed to betray you. About how I can’t. About how I’d rather die than see the look in your eyes when you realize what I really am.

But as usual he doesn’t say that.

Instead, he turns his head, meeting your gaze with something raw and unguarded in his own.

“About how I never want this to end.”

You smile, soft and sleepy, curling into his side. “Then don’t let it.”

He swallows hard, pulling you closer, pressing his lips to the crown of your head.

“I’ll try my best, sweetheart.”

Outside, the wind howls through the trees.

Inside, it’s quiet and heavy. The kind of quiet that follows a storm.

Eddie’s fingers are still laced with yours. His thumb brushes the back of your hand in slow, absent strokes, like he’s grounding himself in the feel of your skin.

You shift slightly, cheek resting against his chest, listening to the thrum of his heartbeat. It’s slowed, steady now, but still louder than usual. Like he’s holding something back.

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are open, staring at the rafters above you like they’re whispering secrets only he can hear.

“Whatever it is,” you murmur, “you can tell me.”

His jaw works.

“I know,” he says finally, voice rough. “I know I can.”

But he doesn’t.

You wait.

His fingers twitch in yours.

Then, quietly he says, “We should leave this kingdom. Not just run. Leave. Cross the ocean. Disappear where no one can follow.”

You blink, sitting up slightly. “You mean... sail overseas?”

He nods, finally meeting your gaze. There’s something wild in his eyes. A flicker of desperation he’s not even trying to hide anymore.

“You said you wanted freedom,” he murmurs. “That you wanted to see the world. We can have that. You and me. Right now. There’s nothing stopping us.”

You search his face, heart stuttering.

“What about your people? Your name? You’d leave all of that behind?”

His lips quirk in a bitter smile. “They already wrote me off, sweetheart. The Queen has her hands too deep in this war to care where her monster goes. Let her rot in it.”

You frown, sensing the sharp edge under his words. “You’re not a monster.”

He doesn’t respond.

You press your palm to his chest, the heartbeat beneath your hand still rapid.

“Eddie…”

He catches your wrist. Gently. Firmly. Like he’s trying to anchor himself.

“I just want to be with you,” he says. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. Where no one’s watching us. No more courts. No more masks. Just… us, okay?”

You nod slowly, your breath catching.

“Then let’s do it,” you whisper. “Let’s go.”

His eyes soften, relief and heartbreak crashing through him all at once. He cups your cheek, pulling you down for a kiss that’s far too gentle for the chaos stirring in his soul.

He doesn’t tell you that The Red Order probably knows where he is. That they’re probably already planning to strike if he doesn’t deliver. That by running, he’s signing his own death warrant… and maybe yours too. That even if he accepted his fate and died disobeying his kidnapping orders, the Queen would just send someone else to take you in his place, and so he chose to run. Why did he always end up running? 

He doesn’t tell you any of that.

Instead, he holds you close, like he can protect you from the storm he’s still feeding behind your back.

Because if you knew the truth, you wouldn’t run away with him.

And he can’t lose you.

Not now. Not when you actually chose him.

So he says nothing.

And starts planning your escape instead.

Hours later, you wake to the sound of rain tapping against the roof. The fire has burned low, leaving the room chilled, but Eddie’s body is warm against yours, his arm draped heavily over your waist.

For a moment, you just lie there, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his fingers twitch against your skin even in sleep. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You shift slightly, turning to face him. His dark lashes fan against his cheeks, his lips slightly parted. He looks younger like this… softer. The sharp edges of his usual smirk smoothed away by sleep.

You brush a curl from his forehead, and his brow furrows.

“Mm.” His voice is rough with sleep. “You’re staring.”

You smile. “You’re beautiful.”

His eyes flutter open, dark and drowsy. “Liar.”

You trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips. “Never.”

He exhales, slow and shaky, before leaning in to press his forehead to yours.

“We should get moving,” he murmurs.

You frown. “It’s pouring.”

“Exactly.” He sits up, running a hand through his tangled hair. “Less chance of being seen and caught.”

You watch him as he moves, the way his muscles shift beneath his skin, the way his fingers flex like he’s already bracing for a fight.

“Eddie,” you say softly.

He stills.

“You’re scared.”

His jaw clenches. “I’m cautious…”

You sit up, reaching for him. “Talk to me.”

He turns, catching your hand in his. His grip is tight. Almost desperate.

“I just need to get you somewhere safe,” he says. “That’s all.”

You search his face. “And then?”

He hesitates.

Then he leans in, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“And then we start over.”

It’s not much of an answer.

But it’s enough.

For now, at least.

You nod.

And when he stands, pulling you to your feet, you don’t let go of his hand.

Not even when the rain soaks through your clothes.

Not even when the forest swallows you whole.

Because wherever he’s leading you…

You’ll willingly follow.

Next Chapter: Chapter Six: “The Mask Cracks”

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000, @totallysocially, @exasperatedsighohmy, @marianaissocool, @boggerslide, @sheneedsrocknroll92, @n3lly-h3artz, @comeonatmebruh, @goingxsteddie, @msmimiandrew, @cpnsteverogers, @quinnophile, @exploding-bonbon, @hiscrimsonangel

Masterlist

[thepinkpanther83]

Master of The Strings of Steel (Pt.4 Strings in the Dark)

Chapter Four: “Strings in the Dark”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Next Chapter: Chapter Five: "The Ruse and the Rapture" Previous Chapter: Chapter Three: “Lessons in Deception”

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Four: “Strings in the Dark”

He shouldn’t be here. That’s the first thing Eddie thinks as he presses himself into the shadowed alcove behind a statue of a blindfolded goddess, heart pounding like a war drum. Somewhere beyond the high archways, footsteps echo, soft and unhurried, a midnight patrol with no idea how close they came to stumbling on a would-be knight turned infiltrator.

Eddie exhales slowly through his nose. This was too close.

He’s still learning the layout of the castle. Still learning you. But he knows enough now to tell time by your routines, the way you slip from court just before dusk, vanish from the great hall after the last church bell tolls. Tonight, he gambled you’d go to the library.

You always came to life when you spoke about it. About the histories tucked away in scrolls and tomes, the dusty grimoires forgotten on top shelves, the promise of knowledge and power and truth that didn’t come with a crown or a title. You looked almost electric when you talked about those things. Like maybe magic wanted to be discovered by you.

And now here he is, waiting in the dark with a half-cocked plan and a heart that’s starting to betray him.

A quiet creak of a hinge, then soft light spills from a lantern.

You’re alone.

You move quickly but without fear, already shedding your velvet cloak as you slip between shelves and deeper into the maze of books. You don’t see him yet.

Eddie steps out of the shadows like a trick of the candlelight.

“Midnight rendezvous?” he teases softly.

You startle, spin around, but then catch yourself. Your mouth curls into a knowing smile. “You followed me?”

Eddie shrugs, spreading his arms a little. “Caught red-handed. But can you blame me? You said something yesterday about first edition spellcraft theory from the elder kingdoms and, well… how’s a guy supposed to resist that?”

Your eyes narrow with amusement. “You’re not exactly dressed like a scholar, sir.”

He grins. “Neither’s Gandalf, and he turned out fine.”

You tilt your head. “Who?”

“Never mind,” Eddie laughs, stepping closer. “Look, if you want me gone, I’ll go. But if you’re willing to break a few castle rules tonight… I’ve always wanted to learn the forbidden arts by candlelight with a pretty girl.”

That earns him a look, but not a dismissal.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, but you’re already turning away, already walking deeper between the shelves.

“You’re not denying the pretty part I see,” he calls after you, and you just toss back a smirk.

He follows.

They sit on a rug older than both their homelands, tucked behind a high marble table littered with maps, scrolls, and tomes that reek of ink and age and promise. You light more candles. He leans closer whenever you point at a passage, just to watch you pretend not to notice. They argue about magical theory. They laugh over dusty illustrations of ancient dragons. At some point, your knee ends up resting on his, and you notably don't pull away.

And maybe, Eddie starts to forget that he’s here to charm you under false pretenses. That he’s on borrowed time. That there are people counting on him to do something with this opportunity.

For a few hours, it’s just them. Two people whispering secrets in the dark.

The candlelight flickers, casting long shadows across the pages of the ancient tome between you. The air is thick with the scent of old parchment and warm wax, and the quiet tap of your fingers against the vellum is the only sound in the hushed library.

Eddie watches you, not the book.

Your brow furrows slightly as you trace a line of faded script with your fingertip, lips moving silently as you decipher the archaic dialect. The glow of the flame catches the gold in your hair, the sharp angle of your jaw, the way your lashes flutter when something in the text surprises you.

He should be paying better attention to the words.

He isn’t.

Instead, he’s memorizing the way your nose scrunches when you’re frustrated, the way your teeth worry your bottom lip when you’re deep in thought. The way your fingers, so damn elegant, curl around the edge of the pages.

“This passage,” you murmur, breaking the silence, “it’s talking about blood magic.”

Eddie blinks. “Uh. The bad kind, right?”

You glance up, amused. “There’s a good kind?”

“I mean, I don’t know, maybe it’s like... ethical blood magic? Free-range, grass-fed curses?”

You snort, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat in it. Then your expression sobers. “This isn’t just theory. It’s a spell. A real one.”

Eddie leans in, shoulder brushing yours. “Yeah? What’s it do?”

You hesitate. “It... binds two souls together.”

His brows raise in surprise.

You don’t look at him.

The silence stretches, heavy with something neither of you dare think about.

Then, slowly, you turn the page.

“It’s probably just superstition,” you say, voice carefully light.

Eddie swallows. “Probably.”

But neither of you believes that.

The air between you is charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks.

Eddie pretends to focus on the spell as you read aloud, but his brain is playing a dangerous game, picturing what it might feel like to be bound to you. Not just metaphorically.

Magically.

Permanently.

He clears his throat, trying to shake the thought. “So, soul-binding. That’s not ominous at all.”

You glance at him sidelong. “Says the man who tried to set his tunic on fire last week lighting a cigar with a cursed torch.”

“I was testing a theory.”

“You were being an idiot.”

“I contain multitudes.”

You snort, and it slips out before you can stop it, a laugh. Soft and unguarded. It breaks the spell for a second, lets the tension ease just long enough for something warm to sneak in its place.

“I missed this,” you say quietly.

Eddie’s teasing falters.

His voice is low when he replies. “Missed what?”

“This…” You gesture vaguely around the library. “Talking. Laughing. Feeling like... myself. Before court politics. Before the crown…”

Eddie’s eyes soften, and he dares to move in a little closer, his knee pressed fully against yours now. “You still feel like you to me.”

Your breath catches just slightly, but you recover fast, looking back at the page. “Careful, Sir Edward. You keep saying things like that and I’ll start thinking you’re not here for the books.”

He leans in, lips near your ear. “Sweetheart, I was never here for the books.”

You whip your head around to retort, but the way he’s looking at you…

Gods, it’s not even a look. It’s a pull.

Like gravity decided you belonged in his orbit and is dragging you in whether you like it or not.

Your gaze drops to his lips, his tongue darting out to wet them.

Just for a second.

His eyes catch the movement of yours and he smiles slowly. “...Say the word.”

“What?”

“If you want me to kiss you right now… say the word.”

You don’t. You want to.

But instead, you smile, slow and wicked, and murmur, “What if I just keep you guessing?”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You are cruel, woman.”

You stand, brushing off your skirts like it didn’t just feel like the room caught fire.

“Come on,” you say lightly. “There’s another shelf I want to show you.”

He mutters something about that sounding like an innuendo, but he follows anyway, loyal as a dog and twice as curious.

Later, under the softer light of a tall stained-glass window, you sit back-to-back on the floor, trading stories about your childhoods. He tells you about sleeping under tavern benches and stealing bread from nobles with a grin so cocky you want to hit him and kiss him at the same time. You tell him about stifling banquets and tutors who never smiled and what it felt like to sit still when your whole soul wanted to run.

He listens intently.

When the candle finally burns low, neither of you want to say it’s time to part.

“Tomorrow night?” he asks.

You nod. “Same time.”

And just before he turns to leave, you call softly after him.

“Eddie?”

He stops.

Your voice drops, tender now. “Thanks for… reminding me I’m still allowed to want things. Just for me.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your entire existence.

Then, with a crooked grin that barely hides the ache in his eyes, he whispers, “You deserve the whole damn world, sweetheart. I just hope I get to be part of yours a little while longer.”

Then he’s gone, boots silent as shadows, leaving you breathless in the wake of his absence.

You’re waiting for him again. Same hidden gate, same mischievous glint in your eyes, but tonight, you’re dressed differently. Less formal, less guarded. Boots instead of slippers. A cloak instead of a shawl. And no stack of books cradled in your arms.

Eddie raises a brow as he approaches, adjusting the strap of his guitar. “Lemme guess, you burned the library down in a fit of literary rage, and now we’re going to hide the evidence?”

Your grin is secretive. “Change of plans. I thought you might like something a little less… dusty tonight.”

Eddie blinks. “Less dusty?”

You step closer, tugging his sleeve with a gloved hand. “I want to show you something. Come on.”

He follows without argument, because of course he does. Because he’s completely wrapped around your little royal finger at this point, and he knows it. And because this assignment he’s been sent on, the one with all its lies and half-truths and secret motivations, already feels a whole lot messier than he signed up for.

They slip away under cover of darkness, through an older servant’s passage you insist you found yourself. Out into the edge of the woods beyond the castle walls, where the air is clean and the stars aren’t drowned out by torchlight. You lead him through mossy stone arches and overgrown footpaths like you’ve done it a dozen times before.

Eventually they stop in a little clearing, where a crumbled old watchtower leans like it’s half-asleep, vines climbing its sides like ivy in a fairytale.

“This was my mother’s spot,” you say softly, sitting on the half-buried edge of an ancient fountain. “Before she was the Duchess of Hyrven. She used to sneak out here with her books and her letters. She said the stars made her feel like she still had choices.”

Eddie lowers himself beside you, heart thudding a little harder than it should. “And what about you? You got choices?”

You shrug, quiet for a moment. “More than she did, maybe. Less than I want.” Then you turn to him, eyes catching the starlight. “But right now, I choose this. Us. Talking.”

That does something to him. Something dangerous. His fingers twitch for the strings slung across his back.

“Well,” he says, trying to sound casual, “if I’d known we were skipping out on homework, I would’ve brought wine, cheese, candles and a blanket.”

“Oh?” you laugh, leaning in slightly. “And what else would you have brought, Sir Knight?”

“Definitely not my self-control.”

You flush, genuinely, visibly, and Eddie wants to both cheer and punch himself in the face. Because this is wrong. Because he’s supposed to be gathering intel, not daydreaming about what your hair would feel like between his fingers.

But then you move closer, tilt your chin just slightly, and it’s your hand that finds his chest.

“Tell me,” you say, voice low, “do you always flirt like a bard, or is this just for me?”

And Eddie, brave, stupid, reckless Eddie, grins and says, “Only for the girl who steals me away into moonlit forests.”

Their lips meet before either of them thinks better of it. It’s slow, soft at first, almost curious. But it doesn’t stay that way. His hands slide to your waist. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. Everything about you is too much and not enough, and the kiss deepens like it’s been waiting to happen again for a hundred years.

That’s when a growl splits the night.

A low, gravelly sound… inhuman. Wrong.

They break apart, breathless. The treeline rustles violently. A pair of eyes flash in the dark, too wide, too high off the ground.

Just behind you, Eddie’s arm slipped protectively in front of your waist, palm open. You felt his body shift, warrior alertness radiating from him like a second skin.

“What was that?” you whispered, heart skidding in your chest.

“That,” Eddie muttered, drawing you closer to him by instinct, “is definitely not a squirrel.”

Eddie shifts instinctively, drawing you behind him. “Stay back.”

You reached for your satchel, instinctively gripping your spellbook, but Eddie raised a hand to stop you.

“Nah, this one’s mine.”

A huge, horned creature steps into the clearing, its limbs shadowy and long like smoke given shape. Its lizard-like body glows faintly with runes etched into skin like blackened stone. A Nocera Beast. Eddie recognizes it from one of the library illustrations, a cursed warden of the woods, drawn to powerful emotional energy.

Of course it shows up after they start making out.

The fight was brutal and fast, Eddie dodging with wild agility, landing a slice across the creature’s flank before it turned and struck with its tail. It lasted two hits, two… before the beast smashes it aside with a sweeping claw and sends the blade flying.

“Shit-!”

It landed somewhere behind a thick root knot, just out of reach.

He cursed. “Oh come on, man, this again?”

The creature charges. Eddie has seconds to react.

He throws his shoulder into the beast’s side to keep it from reaching you, both of them tumbling hard to the mossy ground. His hand scrabbles at his back. His guitar is still there. His fingers curl around the fretboard.

You screamed his name, but Eddie pivoted, dropping into a crouch and yanking his guitar over his shoulder in the same motion. A deep, almost guttural strum reverberated through the clearing, raw and electric.

The monster skidded to a halt.

A second strum, higher this time, a minor chord bent into something a little off, and the creature tilted its head. Its tail drooped. You swore it blinked like it was thinking.

Then Eddie… started riffing.

Like full-on stage-energy riffing.

The melody warped and twisted, bouncing into something vaguely lullaby-adjacent, with a choppy, offbeat rhythm. The beast inched forward, head cocking side to side.

“…Are you taming it?” you breathed.

“Apparently, yeah.” Eddie’s grin was wide and incredulous. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Monsterpalooza, featuring tonight’s special guest, one horny emo porcupine lizard thing.”

The creature made a low bleating noise and sat. Just… sat. Like a dog awaiting instructions.

Eddie, sweating and slightly shaking, plucked one last note that sounded like it belonged in a noir jazz dive. Then he clapped once and pointed off into the woods.

“Go, my child. Be free. Scare some sheep or write a memoir. I don’t care. Just scram.”

And miraculously, it obeyed, turning with a lazy thump of its tail and lumbering off into the night.

There was a long silence, save for the crickets and the faint ringing of residual magic in the air.

Finally, you asked, “...Okay. You have to tell me how you do that.”

Eddie laughed, but there was something tight about it. He wouldn’t meet your gaze right away. Instead, he knelt to retrieve his sword, then slung the guitar back over his shoulder with exaggerated nonchalance.

“Nothing too exciting,” he said, avoiding your eyes. “Just… a bard’s relic.”

You squinted. “A what?”

“It’s an artifact. From a long-dead bard,” he explained, brushing imaginary dust off the neck. “Old as time, passed down, yadda yadda. It reacts to intention. And volume.” A crooked grin. “Weird, right?”

You nodded slowly, watching him. “You keep secrets like you breathe.”

He winced, just barely. “Do you hate that?”

“No,” you said honestly. “I trust you, but I don’t want you to lie to me either.”

Eddie looked at you then. And for a flickering moment, he looked like someone who’d just stepped off the edge of a very steep drop.

“I’m not lying,” he said quietly. “Just… editing. Heavily.”

You reached out, curling your fingers around the strap of his guitar. “Whatever it is… it’s part of you. I want to understand.”

His lips parted like he meant to say something else, something truer, but then he closed them, swallowed it down.

“Someday,” he promised softly, “when I can give you the whole story… I will.”

You nodded, though it lodged a weight in your chest. “Alright.”

He reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours, and tugged you close again.

“…That thing really was kinda cute, right?” he said, voice light but shaky. “I mean, for a giant lizard death ferret.”

You laughed, and the tension cracked just a little. “You’re naming this one too?”

“Obviously. He’s a Spiky Danger Weasel. Look at that tail! A menace and a multitasker.”

“Gods help me,” you murmured, “I think I’m falling for an idiot.”

He kissed your forehead then, slow and warm and full of unsaid things, and for a moment, you let yourself believe this was real. That he was real. That there was nothing hiding between his heart and your hands.

The walk back to the castle is quiet, but not uncomfortable. The night air is cool against your skin, and Eddie walks close enough that his fingers occasionally brush yours, like he’s testing the waters, making sure you’re still there.

When you reach the hidden gate, he hesitates, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“So,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “that was... a thing.”

You smirk. “Which part? The monster, the music, or the part where you almost got disemboweled?”

He groans, tilting his head back. “Sweetheart, I live for almost getting disemboweled. It’s my brand.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’re unhinged.”

“Yet,” he says, stepping closer to you, “you keep coming back for more.”

His voice is teasing, but there’s something underneath it, something raw and uncertain. Like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. Like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You reach up, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I guess I do.”

For a second, he just looks at you, memorizing every detail. Then he exhales, slow and shaky, and leans in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I should go,” he whispers.

You don’t let him pull away.

“Stay.”

The word slips out before you can stop it, soft and pleading.

Eddie freezes. His fingers tighten around yours.

“...You sure?”

You nod, heart hammering. “Just for a little while.”

He searches your face, looking for any sign of hesitation. When he finds none, his expression softens.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Lead the way.” And just like that, the night stretches on.

The walk is quiet, but not uncomfortable. The kind of silence that says everything that doesn’t need to be said out loud. Crickets chatter in the grass. Somewhere, an owl cries. But between you, there’s only the whisper of footfalls and the occasional brush of your arm against his.

By the time the castle’s outline comes into view, your feet are sore, and the adrenaline from the skirmish has long since burned out, leaving only the slow-simmering warmth that always seems to settle over you when he’s near. You climb the uneven stairs, leading him back inside.

He ducks inside after you, his silhouette sharp and solid in the moonlight. “So… this is when the noble duchess lures me into a trap.”

You toss a playful look over your shoulder. “And where the would-be knight walks into it blindly, too entranced by my feminine wiles.”

“Ah,” he says, stepping closer. “Romance at its finest.”

You’re not sure who moves first. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s some magnetic pull between you that defies logic entirely, but you’re suddenly closer. His hand settles on your waist. Yours comes to rest against his chest, over the steady pound of his heart. He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the moment. Like he wants to carve it into stone.

“I meant what I said earlier,” you whisper, voice low, thick with feeling. “I trust you.”

He exhales slowly, gaze dropping to your lips. “You shouldn’t.”

“I do anyway.”

He leans in before he can stop himself, and you meet him there halfway. The kiss starts soft, tentative, reverent. But you’ve kissed him before, and he’s kissed you, and you both know how this goes now. It deepens quickly, his hand sliding to cup your jaw, your fingers curling in the front of his shirt like you might fall if you let go.

There’s something desperate in the way his lips move against yours, like he’s been starving for you and this is the only thing keeping him upright. You feel it, too… the slow unspooling of tension, the thrill of surrendering to something you’ve both been dancing around for too long.

When you finally break for air, you don’t go far. He presses his forehead to yours, breath ragged.

“This-” he begins, voice hoarse, “-this is dangerous.”

You smile, brushing your thumb against his cheek. “So am I.”

A soft, stunned laugh escapes him. “Holy shit… What are you doing to me?”

“Winning you over.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just studies you, and there’s something raw in his eyes. Something that scares him, maybe. But he lets it stay. Doesn’t blink it away. Doesn’t hide.

“…You already have.”

You should pull back. You should sleep. You should do anything other than reach for him again, but his arms are already wrapping around you, his mouth finding yours once more, and there’s no stopping the spiral. You lose yourself in the taste of him, the smell of leather and earth and whatever that damn soap is he always insists isn’t scented.

Eventually, tangled together in what used to be the old throne room, you both lay back against the cold stone floor. The stars blink down above you from the window, quiet witnesses to your surrender.

He doesn’t fall asleep. Neither do you. You just lay there, close, hearts thudding in time, like you’ve finally found the eye of the storm.

But neither of you notices the small glint of red light pulsing from the distant trees… Watching.

Waiting.

The morning comes too soon. You wake tangled in his arms, his breath warm against your neck, his fingers still loosely curled around yours. For a moment, you let yourself pretend this is normal. That this is something you get to keep.

Then reality creeps in.

The castle will wake soon. Servants will start their rounds. Guards will change shifts. And if anyone finds you here, like this, with him...

You shift slightly, and Eddie stirs, blinking awake with a sleepy, lopsided grin.

"Mornin', sweetheart," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You smile despite yourself. "Morning, Sir Edward."

He stretches, wincing as his back pops. "Remind me never to sleep on stone again."

"You were the one who insisted the floor was 'romantic.'"

"It was romantic," he argues, sitting up. "Right up until my spine decided to revolt."

You laugh, but it's cut short by the distant sound of voices, servants in the halls.

Eddie hears it too. His expression sobers. "We should go."

You nod, but you don't move.

He reaches for your hand, squeezing gently. "I'll see you tonight?"

You squeeze back. "Tonight." Then you're gone, slipping through the hidden passages like a ghost, leaving him there with the memory of your warmth and the slow-dawning realization that this, whatever this is… is getting harder and harder to walk away from.

Next Chapter: Chapter Five: "The Ruse and the Rapture"

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000, @totallysocially, @exasperatedsighohmy, @marianaissocool, @boggerslide, @sheneedsrocknroll92, @n3lly-h3artz, @comeonatmebruh, @goingxsteddie, @msmimiandrew, @cpnsteverogers, @quinnophile, @exploding-bonbon, @hiscrimsonangel

Masterlist

[thepinkpanther83]

This is great! 😍 Will the other brothers get patterns too? 🙏🏻

The Donnie pattern is here!

This is my first time making a crochet pattern and I don't have the coin to pay for pattern testers so I decided to make this one free since I know it's not super polished. But if you want your own Donnie I got the PDF on my kofi 🤙

Le pattern 🐢💜

[thepinkpanther83]

Rawwwww 😏

i bet you do, baby

[thepinkpanther83]

Master of The Strings of Steel (Pt.3 Lessons In Deception)

Chapter Three: “Lessons In Deception”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Next Chapter: Chapter Four: “Strings in the Dark” Previous Chapter: Chapter Two: “The Duchess in The Garden”

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Three: “Lessons in Deception”

The castle training yard smells like sweat, steel, and disappointment.

Eddie’s pretty sure he’s at least two-thirds of that equation.

A wooden sword whistles through the air at his head and he barely ducks in time, stumbling sideways with the grace of a baby deer on ice. He spins, unintentionally, and lands flat on his ass with a grunt that echoes off the stone walls.

Across from him, Sir Halvar, broad as a doorframe and twice as pleasant, lowers his blade and frowns. “Again.”

Eddie wheezes, staring up at the bright sky like it personally offended him. “Dude. I think I saw my ancestors.”

“No ancestors, no glory,” Halvar grunts. “Get up.”

Eddie groans, rolls over, and pushes himself upright. His armor clinks awkwardly around his knees and elbows, like it’s trying to escape him mid-battle.

He adjusts his grip on the practice sword. “Okay. But like, hypothetically, what if I’m more of a support class? Have you considered the emotional morale boost I provide?”

“Swing the blade, bard.”

“...Okay, okay. Swinging.”

And he does. Badly.

But better than yesterday.

He doesn’t miss the way Halvar’s gaze narrows slightly in appraisal before knocking Eddie flat again. This time, Eddie doesn’t hit the ground. He rolls with it, catches his footing, and comes up sloppily but standing.

The other knights watching from the perimeter of the yard shift, murmuring among themselves.

He’s getting better.

Not quite good, yet. But good enough that it’s starting to impress people.

Later, Eddie’s sitting on the edge of the training platform, guzzling water like it’s holy, when a familiar voice pipes up from the far archway.

“You know, for someone faking his way through knighthood, you’re awfully committed.”

He doesn’t even look up. “Hi, Your Highness.”

The duchess, though the court doesn’t know her true nature, steps forward, cloaked in plain garb today, her hair braided down her back, a slight smirk on her lips.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” she said. “Figured you’d run after the first crack to your skull.”

“Tempting,” Eddie admits, wincing as he presses a bruise on his hip. “But I’ve got this thing about not dying horribly in foreign lands. Kinda picky like that.”

She arches a brow. “So you’re learning?”

“Mm. I’d call it ‘survival-based improvisation.’ But yeah. Little bit.”

She hops up beside him, legs dangling. “Word of your bravery has spread to my home. They say you fought off a forest beast with nothing but music and guts.”

He snorts. “More like panic and dumb luck. But hey… worked, didn’t it?”

There’s a pause.

Then she replied, softly, “You know the Red Order’s watching you.”

His body stills, just slightly.

“…Yeah. I figured.”

“They’re dangerous.”

“So am I,” he says, flashing her a grin. It fades quickly. “...Okay, less so. But I’m scrappy. Like a bardic raccoon.”

That makes her laugh, quick and bright before she tamps it down, glancing around the courtyard. No one’s close enough to overhear. Still, she leans in.

“Be careful,” she murmurs. “The Queen’s court is split. Some want to believe you’re here for a reason. Others think you’re the beginning of a new war.”

“Guess I better start being useful, huh?”

“You better start being clever.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Eddie drawls, bumping her shoulder with his. “That’s the only thing I’ve ever been.”

She rolls her eyes, familiar exasperation that's starting to feel dangerously like fondness.

"Clever won't save you from a dagger in the dark," she mutters, tugging at the hem of her sleeve.

Eddie leans back on his hands, tilting his face up to the sun. "Nah, but it does make for a better story when I narrowly escape said dagger with a sick guitar solo and a well-timed quip."

She huffs. "You're impossible."

"And yet," he grins, "here you are. Checking up on me."

Her cheeks flush, just slightly, but she doesn't deny it. Instead, she reaches into the folds of her cloak and pulls out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle.

"Here."

Eddie blinks. "Uh. Is this a-?"

"Just take it."

He does, unwrapping it carefully. Inside is a small vial of dark blue liquid, shimmering faintly even in the daylight.

"Whoa." He holds it up, squinting. "Is this, like... magic health potion? Because I definitely need-"

"It's not for drinking, you idiot," she hisses, snatching it back before he can pop the cork. "It's for your blade."

Eddie's brows shoot up. "Ohhh. Fancy."

She sighs, long-suffering, but there's a glint in her eye. "One drop. Before a fight. It'll..." She hesitates, then leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. "It'll sing for you."

Eddie's breath catches.

Because that-

That sounds like magic.

Real magic.

The kind that isn't just flashy tricks or enchanted trinkets, but something deeper. Something old.

He meets her gaze, suddenly serious. "Why are you helping me?"

She hesitates. "Because no one else will."

And before he can respond, she's slipping off the platform, cloak swirling around her as she strides away.

Eddie watches her go, the vial clutched tight in his palm.

Then he grins.

Because damn.

Things just keep getting more and more interesting.

By the end of the week, he’s got a title.

Not a real one, nothing with land or honor or, God forbid, responsibility, but they pin a bronze sigil on his chest anyway, the mark of a second-tier knight, barely above squire.

Sir Edward the Bard, in service to the Queen’s Third Banner.

He tries not to laugh when they announce it in the hall, the herald barely pronouncing “Mun-sonn” correctly. The court claps politely, and a few of the knights he trains with thump him on the back, all sharp smiles and eyes that don’t quite trust him.

But it’s not for him.

It’s for show.

He knows it. The court knows it. Hell, even the Queen knows it, judging by the way she narrows her eyes across the ballroom floor, like she’s still trying to decide whether he’s a curiosity or a liability.

Probably both.

Eddie adjusts the pin on his tunic later, staring at himself in a darkened mirror in the knight’s quarters, the edges of his armor still dented from training. It’s not the weirdest thing he’s ever worn.

But it might be the heaviest, metaphorically speaking.

They don’t wait long before testing him.

One evening, he’s summoned, not asked, summoned, to the Queen’s solar. High ceilings, velvet drapes, polished stone floors that reflect candlelight like a lake of fire. She doesn’t offer him wine or pleasantries. Just a parchment scroll and a single look.

“There’s a noble in the southern reaches,” she says, voice clipped. “The Duke of Hyrven.”

Eddie blinks. “Okay. Sounds rich. And boring.”

“The Duke’s daughter,” the Queen continues, “has been... engaged in unusual correspondence. With kingdoms across the border. With magic users outside the registry. With parties sympathetic to her father’s enemies.”

Eddie’s heart sinks.

Because he knows where this is going.

“You want me to spy on her.”

“Charm her,” she corrects, standing slowly. “Earn her trust. Learn what she knows.”

“And if she doesn’t trust easily?”

The Queen’s eyes narrow. “Then you’ll do what you do best. Pretend.”

The mission is to start within the week. Quiet travel, disguised carriage, minimal escort. They’re painting it like a diplomatic visit, some friendly gesture from one noble house to another.

But everyone knows what it really is.

He does.

But the worst part is… It’s you.

The duchess.

His duchess.

You’re the Duke’s daughter he’s now targeting.

He finds you on the castle walls that night, the sky streaked with the last burnt-orange smears of sunset, the torches not yet lit. You’re alone, at least for now, gazing out over the kingdom as if it belongs to someone else. Eddie hesitates, boots quiet on the stone, the weight of his mission pressing against his ribs like a secret he hasn’t decided whether to keep or confess.

He shouldn’t approach you, not yet anyway, and not like this.

But he does.

“You always sneak up on people, or am I just special?” you say without turning, clearly aware of him.

His smirk flickers before it can fully form. “Let’s say you’re special. Sounds better than ‘I’m creepy and bad at goodbyes.’”

You glance over your shoulder. “Are you planning on leaving already?”

“Was thinking about it,” he shrugs, joining you at the wall, arms resting atop the cool stone. “But then I figured… what’s the point of a new start if I don’t even say goodnight to the best part of the day?”

You huff softly, looking away, but he sees the corner of your mouth twitch. A hit, it’s small, but it lands.

The wind picks up, teasing the edge of your hair. He lets the silence stretch just enough before continuing in a softer tone. “You ever wonder what’s out there? Beyond all this… royalty and routine?”

“Sometimes,” you murmur. “But wondering doesn’t get you very far.”

“I dunno,” he says. “I used to wonder what it’d feel like to wear armor that doesn’t itch, or eat something fancier than boiled onion soup. And now look at me, drinking wine in a castle and trading jokes with a noblewoman.”

You eye him, skeptical but entertained. “Is that how you see me? A noblewoman?”

Eddie grins, crooked and slow. “Nah. I see you as a mystery with excellent taste in moonlight.”

That earns a real laugh. Short, and surprised. You tilt your head toward him, playful now. “Are you always this smooth with your lines?”

“Only when I’m lying,” he says, then gives her a wink. “Which I’m not. Obviously.”

They linger a while longer, and he doesn’t press, just keeps pace with your conversation like he’s not mentally cataloging every smile and gesture for some unspoken report. He knows he’s supposed to be gaining your trust. Knows what the Order expects of him.

But the more he listens, the more he realizes he doesn’t want to pretend, but he has no choice.

The weight of the Queen's command sits heavy in his gut, but he pushes it down, focusing instead on the way the fading light catches in your hair, little golden threads woven into the dark.

"You ever play that game where you pick a star and pretend it's yours?" he asks suddenly, nodding toward the first pinpricks of light in the twilight sky.

You blink, caught off guard. "When I was a child, perhaps."

He leans closer, conspiratorial. "Pick one now."

You hesitate, then point vaguely toward the horizon. "That one. The bright flickering one."

Eddie grins. "Good choice. That's the Rebel's Lantern. Legend says it only appears for people who are about to do something really stupid."

You snort. "Then it's perfect for you."

"See? Destiny." He nudges your side with his arm, then sobers slightly. "But for real... if you could go anywhere, right now, no consequences… where would it be?"

Your expression flickers, something wistful and guarded all at once. "There's a valley," you say slowly, "west of here. Wildflowers taller than a man. No castles. No titles. Just... quiet."

Eddie watches your face, the way your fingers tighten slightly on the stone. He doesn't push. Doesn't joke. Just says, softly, "Sounds nice actually."

A moment of silence passes. Then you turn to him, studying his profile. "What about you? Where does Sir Eddie go when he dreams?"

He exhales through his nose, staring at the horizon. "Home, I guess. Or... whatever's left of it." Another moment passes. "But mostly? I just wanna be somewhere the music's loud enough to drown out the bullshit. Y’know?"

You hum, thoughtful. "We should get you a louder lute."

He barks a laugh. "Please. This thing's held together by spite, bad decisions, and magic. It's perfect."

The moment stretches, comfortable. Dangerous.

Too dangerous.

Because the longer he stands here, the harder it is to remember this is just a mission.

The Queen's words echo in his skull. Earn her trust. Learn what she knows.

But you're not just some mark.

You're the first person in this godsforsaken world who looked at him like he was real. He’d have killed for a girl like you back in Hawkins.

The next morning, reality punches Eddie in the face.

Not metaphorically.

Sir Halvar actually hits him in the jaw during sparring practice.

He stumbles back, armor clanking, blinking stars out of his vision. “What the hell, man?! That was a feint!”

Sir Halvar, broad, blonde, built like a disgruntled ox, sneers. “You talk too much.”

“And you swing your sword like I owe you money!” Eddie fires back, massaging his jaw.

Halvar steps forward again, raising his blade, but the training captain barks out a sharp command, breaking them apart.

“Enough. Munson,” the captain growls, “you’ve got a real talent for running your mouth and dodging protocol. Since you’re clearly not taking this seriously, stable duty. For the week.”

Eddie blinks. “Wait. Like... shoveling horse shit?”

The captain’s already walking away. “Exactly that.”

“Awesome,” he mutters. “I’m really climbing the noble ranks here.”

It starts immediately.

No gloves.

No help.

Just a pitchfork, a wheelbarrow, and a whole kingdom’s worth of very judgmental horses.

The stench hits him like a physical force. He gags instantly, the pitchfork slipping from his hands as he doubles over. “Oh my god. What are they feeding you animals? Corpses and old socks?”

The horses blink at him, utterly unimpressed.

He gets to work, dry heaving every few minutes like he’s being haunted by the ghost of every bad burrito he’s ever eaten. His hair sticks to his forehead with sweat and regret. His armor’s too hot. His boots squelch in places they absolutely should not.

“This is how I die,” he mutters, stabbing the fork into a fresh pile. “Not in battle. Not in glory. But face down in noble horse shit.”

Halfway through the third stall, he slips.

Like, cartoonishly.

Foot catches, fork flies, and Eddie goes down with a squelch and a full-body flop.

Silence.

Then he screams.

“OH MY GOD… IT’S IN MY MOUTH!!”

Somewhere, a stable boy peeks around the corner, sees the state he’s in, and immediately leaves laughing hysterically.

Eddie lies there, defeated, covered in muck and manure and the remains of his dignity. “I once played to a sold-out gig, you know,” he groans to no one in particular. “A beautiful woman threw her bra at me.”

One of the horses snorts and promptly shits again right next to his head.

He gags. “Okay. I get it. I deserve this.”

He peels himself off the floor with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, spitting and wiping his face on the least disgusting part of his sleeve. Which, at this point, is still pretty disgusting.

"Alright, new plan," he mutters, glaring at the pitchfork like it personally betrayed him. "I'm gonna write a very strongly worded song about this."

The horses remain unimpressed.

He's halfway through the next stall when he hears it, a soft, muffled sound that definitely isn't equine in nature. Eddie freezes, pitchfork hovering mid-air.

Then he hears it again.

A giggle.

Eddie's head whips toward the stable doors, where a familiar figure stands, silhouetted by the afternoon sun. You're leaning against the doorframe, one hand covering your mouth, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter.

"Oh wow," you manage, voice trembling with amusement. "They really weren't kidding about putting you on stable duty."

Eddie straightens, trying, and failing, to look dignified. "This? This is nothing. I once played a three-hour set with food poisoning. This is just... character building."

You step closer, nose wrinkling slightly at the smell, but your grin doesn't fade. "I think you're building something, but I'm not sure it's character."

He scoffs, tossing the pitchfork aside with a clatter. "You know what? Fine. Laugh it up, Your Highness. But just remember, when the kingdom falls and the only thing standing between you and certain doom is my extensive knowledge of manure shoveling techniques, you'll be begging for my help."

You arch a brow. "Is that a threat or a promise?"

Eddie grins, wiping his hands on his already-ruined tunic. "Yes."

You shake your head, but there's something warm in your expression, something that makes his chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with the stench of the stables. Then you reach into the folds of your cloak and pull out a small bundle.

"Here," you say, tossing it to him. "Before you actually die of humiliation."

Eddie catches it, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a fresh roll of bread, cheese, and, blessedly, a wineskin. He groans, clutching it to his chest.

You toss him the food bundle and watch as he clutches it like it’s a newborn child and not a mediocre chunk of peasant cheese wrapped in cloth. He presses the wineskin to his chest dramatically, like he’s about to start weeping.

“My lady,” he says solemnly, “you honor me in my darkest hour.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, grinning, “you looked about five minutes away from writing a tragic ballad titled Ode to Horse Shit.”

“Too late,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Already written. It’s in G minor. Very sad. Very smelly.”

He’s disgusting. Absolutely reeking. Bits of hay clump in his curls, and there’s something definitely not mud on his sleeve. He looks like the punchline to a joke no one told, and still, still, you find yourself laughing. Warm, and stupidly fond.

He watches you for a second, then does that thing again, tilts his head like he’s memorizing you. Like you’re not just some duchess or a noble. Like you’re someone that matters to him.

It’s disarming.

And maybe that’s why you don’t immediately bolt when he straightens and takes a step toward you.

“Alright,” he says, arms wide and oozing mischief. “I think this moment calls for a hug.”

Your eyes go wide. “Edward, don’t you dare!”

“Oh no, sweetheart, this is a sacred ritual,” he says, staggering closer, arms outstretched like a soggy swamp creature. “You brought me cheese. That’s practically a marriage proposal. It’s only right I give you a token of my appreciation-”

“You smell like the underworld!”

“And yet I remain charming. Incredible, really.”

You shriek as he lunges. Spinning on your heel, you sprint out of the stables, laughing so hard your ribs ache. Behind you, you hear the squelch, squelch, squelch of boots full of regret chasing after you.

“Just one hug!” he cackles. “Let me love you!”

“No!” you scream over your shoulder. “You’re a monster!”

“A sexy, manure-coated monster!”

You nearly trip from laughing, and he nearly catches you, almost, until you duck behind a hedge near the gardens and he skids to a stop, hands on his knees, wheezing and grinning and gloriously, absolutely, disgusting.

You peek out, still laughing, and he flashes you a grin that’s a little too soft for a man covered in compost.

“Truce?” you ask, breathlessly.

“Only if you swear not to tell anyone I slipped and landed in shit.”

“Oh, that’s blackmail material. I’m saving that for winter.”

He gasps. “You are evil.”

“Yet you’re chasing me for hugs.”

“Stockholm syndrome, probably.”

You shake your head and finally, finally step out from behind the hedge. He’s still dripping, still wretched, still Eddie, and something in your chest shifts, not huge, not seismic, but enough to leave a crack.

Enough to make you start finding reasons to bump into him more.

Over the next few days, you do.

“Coincidental” crossings in the corridor.

Lingering by the practice yard.

Showing up in the kitchens “by mistake” when he’s sneaking seconds of dessert.

You tell yourself it’s innocent… Curious, maybe a little amusing.

But the truth is simpler… You like being around him.

You like his nonsense, his grins, the way he doesn’t look at you like you’re some prize on a shelf.

And for all the games he plays, there’s something in his soft brown eyes when he sees you that makes you feel like maybe you could be a little less made of stone.

He’s still on stable duty.

Still reeking most days.

But he bows low when he sees you, makes flourishes like you’re royalty and a rock star, and every time you laugh, he looks like a man catching fire.

You don’t know what he’s hiding.

But you do know one thing.

If you’re not careful, you might start hoping he never leaves. The problem with hope is that it lingers.

It clings like the stubborn scent of manure in his hair, no matter how many times he scrubs it raw with soap that smells suspiciously like lavender. It lingers in the way his fingers twitch toward his guitar strings whenever he catches sight of you across the courtyard, like he could somehow pluck out the melody of whatever this is between you.

And it definitely lingers in the way his stomach drops every time he remembers the Queen’s orders.

Earn her trust. Learn what she knows.

He should be taking notes. Should be cataloging every detail, your favorite wine, the way your nose scrunches when you laugh, the fact that you always steal the last bite of dessert if he doesn’t guard his plate like a starving dog.

Instead, he finds himself doing something infinitely more dangerous.

He forgets.

Forgets that this is a mission. Forgets that he’s supposed to be lying.

Because when you shove him playfully after he makes a terrible joke, or when you roll your eyes at his dramatic retellings of stable-duty horrors, or when you lean in just a little too close to whisper some sarcastic remark under your breath during court proceedings-

It doesn’t feel like a lie.

It feels like something real.

And that’s the problem.

Because the Queen’s patience isn’t infinite.

And neither is his luck.

One evening, as he’s tuning his guitar in the dim light of his quarters, there’s a knock at his door. Not the usual impatient rap of a squire or the hesitant tap of a servant.

This is deliberate.

He knows before he even opens it.

The Queen’s spymaster stands there, cloaked in shadow, expression unreadable.

“You’ve been distracted,” the man says, voice low.

Eddie’s fingers still on the strings. “Just playing the long game.”

“The game ends soon.”

A moment passes, “The Duke’s daughter rides out tomorrow at dawn. Alone. You will accompany her.”

Eddie’s pulse jumps. “And do what?”

The spymaster’s smile is thin and suggestive. “What you were sent here to do, get closer to the Duchess. You’re a handsome, young lad… I’m sure you can figure out a way.”

Then he’s gone, leaving Eddie sitting there alone.

He sits there for a long time after the door clicks shut.

The guitar in his lap feels wrong now, too clean for the mess boiling in his gut. His fingers curl around the neck like they might snap it.

Get closer to the Duchess.

He already is. Too close. Closer than he should’ve let himself get.

The spymaster’s words swirl in his skull like smoke, choking the warmth out of the memory of your laugh. He scrubs a hand over his face and mutters something sharp under his breath. Something modern. Something wrong for this world.

That’s happening more and more lately.

Slip-ups.

He’d said “chill” to a baker the other day. Called a draft horse “a unit.” Tried to describe mashed potatoes as “the ultimate carb bomb” and got blank stares. He’s not sure if you’ve noticed, or if you’re just politely pretending not to, but he’s running out of ways to fantasy-ify himself before the whole “oops-I-got-yeeted-through-time-and-space” secret fully comes out.

And now… Now he’s supposed to seduce you. He could read between the lines just fine.

Like this is just supposed to be another conquest. Like you’re just a mark on a ledger.

It turns his stomach.

Because it’s not just an assignment anymore.

It’s you.

And he doesn’t want to ruin this, not even the version of this that’s barely beginning to bloom.

The next morning is misty. Quiet. The kind of dawn where everything feels like it’s still dreaming.

Eddie’s waiting near the stables, trying not to look like he’s dying inside.

Your horse is being saddled. You’re dressed in riding leathers that do things to his brain he will not unpack right now, and you’ve got that familiar amused tilt to your brow as you approach.

“You’re early,” you say.

He smirks, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “What can I say? I live to shovel horse shit and lie to beautiful women before breakfast.”

You squint at him. “Was that… sarcasm or a confession?”

“Yes,” he replies smoothly.

You shake your head and climb up into the saddle. “Come on then, Sir Wordplay. I want to see the ocean cliffs before the sun’s fully up.”

He follows on horseback, grumbling about how sore his thighs are from the last “gentle canter” he’d been dragged on, but you catch the fondness in his voice anyway. You always catch the fondness.

Halfway to the cliffs, the tension between you starts to shift.

Something in the air. In the way your gazes linger a second too long. In the way your knees brush when the trail narrows. You crack a joke about how he looks ridiculous with his curls windblown and wild, and he fires back that you look like a wood sprite that crawled out of a poetry book with a vendetta against his libido.

You both laugh.

Too loud. Too free.

Then it’s quiet.

And he watches you.

You watch the sea.

And his heart’s hammering like he’s about to leap off the cliff himself.

Because if he kissed you right now, you’d let him. He can feel it.

And he wants to.

He really, really wants to.

But not like this.

Not when it would be a lie.

Later, you pause at a small stream to let the horses drink. Eddie crouches nearby, ostensibly adjusting a strap on his boot, but really trying to get his damn head together.

The stream bubbles between you, a quiet, persistent thing, like the thoughts he can’t shake. He watches the water twist around rocks, clear and careless, and for a second, he envies it.

“You’re quiet today,” you say, nudging his boot with the toe of yours.

He glances up, forcing a smirk. “Just thinking about how unfair it is that you look that good in riding leathers while I look like a drowned scarecrow.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a pleased flush creeping up your neck. “Flatterer. You’re ridiculous.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s true.” He stands, brushing dirt off his knees, and steps closer. The air between you crackles, the way it always does when he’s near, but today it feels heavier. Like the moment before a storm breaks.

You tilt your head, studying him. “What’s really going on in that head of yours?”

I’m supposed to betray you.

The thought hits him like a punch to the gut.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Just... wondering what happens next.”

“Next?”

“Yeah. After all this.” He gestures vaguely between you. “You’re a Duchess. I’m a glorified stable boy with a fancy title. Not exactly a fairy tale ending waiting to happen.”

You frown, stepping closer. “Since when do you care about fairy tales?”

“Since now, apparently.” He laughs, but it’s hollow. “Look, sweetheart, I’m not exactly nobility material. I don’t know the right forks, I don’t have a family crest, and I definitely don’t have a future that involves anything more than getting yelled at by Sir Halvar until one of us dies of old age.”

You watch him for a long moment, then reach out, catching his wrist. Your fingers are warm, your grip firm. “You think I care about forks?”

He blinks. “I mean, you should. They’re useful. Especially the stabby ones.”

“Eddie.”

Your voice is soft, but it stops him cold. There’s something in your eyes, something fierce and knowing, that makes his breath catch.

“I don’t care about your past,” you say. “Or your titles. Or whatever nonsense of nobility you think you're missing." Your grip tightens slightly, like you're afraid he'll bolt. "I care about you. The idiot who sings off-key in the stables while shoveling horse manure. The man who makes me laugh when the entire court feels like a cage. The one who looks at me like I'm not just a title to be won."

Eddie's throat goes tight.

He should pull away.

He should run.

But your fingers are still wrapped around his wrist, and your eyes are burning into his, and suddenly, the truth is trying to claw its way up his throat.

He should pull away.

But your hold on his wrist, is grounding him, tethering him to something warm and real and far more dangerous than any battlefield he could ever stand on.

His gaze flicks to your lips.

Then back to your eyes.

Then down again.

And you see it, you feel it, that sudden shift in gravity, the way the whole world narrows to just the two of you and the single, impossible decision teetering between you.

“I shouldn’t…” he whispers, voice raw. “This is a bad idea.”

You don’t let go.

“Then don’t think,” you whisper back, daring him.

And that’s it… That’s the match to the powder keg.

He surges forward, and your mouth meets his halfway, hungry, breathless, like the universe has been holding its breath for this exact second to ignite.

It’s not perfect. It’s too fast. Too sudden. His nose bumps yours, your teeth catch, and there’s an accidental graze of his stubble that makes you both laugh mid-kiss. But it’s real. It’s stupid and messy and alive, and god help him, he melts into it like he was made for this moment.

Then he pulls back, just an inch, eyes wide, chest heaving.

“…Shit,” he mutters.

You blink, dazed. “That was…”

But you don’t finish the sentence. You can’t, because he’s already kissing you again, slower this time, more deliberate. Like he’s memorizing you now with his mouth instead of his eyes. Like if this is going to be the moment that ruins him, he wants to savor it.

Your hands slide into his wild hair, fingers tangling in sweat damp curls. His arms wind around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the soft, low sound he makes when you kiss him deeper sends a bolt of heat down your spine.

This one… this kiss, is less “I want you” and more “I’ll never get enough”.

You don’t know how long it lasts. Minutes? Hours? Lifetimes?

But when you finally part, foreheads resting together, breathing the same wild, electric air, the world doesn’t feel quite the same.

“Eddie…” you whisper, and it sounds like a question. Like a beginning.

His eyes flutter open. He wants to say something. Everything. But the words wedge behind his teeth.

He can’t tell you the truth.

So instead, he gives you a crooked, breathless smile, the kind that breaks your heart even as it fills it.

“I’m gonna be real honest with you, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “If you keep kissing me like that, I’m never gonna be able to think straight around you ever again.”

You smirk, the edge of mischief returning. “You think you were thinking straight before?”

And he laughs, low and hoarse, pressing a kiss to your forehead, soft, reverent. “Touché.”

The moment stretches between you, delicate as spun glass.

Eventually, you mount your horse again, and he does too. But the silence that rides with you now isn’t awkward.

It’s charged... Buzzing.

Full of things neither of you say out loud, but can feel in every stolen glance, every brush of shoulders, every heartbeat that skips and stutters at the memory of the kiss.

Eddie’s chest is tight the entire ride back.

Not necessarily with regret.

With terror.

Because he’s never wanted anything like this before.

And if he’s not careful, he’s going to ruin the only good thing that’s ever been real.

The days that follow are a blur of stolen moments and aching tension.

Every glance between you lingers a second too long. Every accidental touch burns like a brand. The kiss hangs between you, unspoken but there, a secret you both cradle like a live ember.

But the worst part is… you don’t regret it. Not even a little.

You should. You’re a Duchess. He’s a nobody with a borrowed title, low rank and a smart mouth. But every time you catch him watching you from across the courtyard, his brown eyes soft and doe-like, his lips quirking in that stupid, stupid smirk… your stomach does something traitorous and warm.

Tonight, the castle is alive with music and laughter. A feast in honor of some visiting dignitary whose name you’ve already forgotten. The hall is packed, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine. You sit at the high table, back straight, smile polite, playing the perfect noblewoman.

And then you see him.

Eddie, of course, is not at the high table.

No, he’s crammed between two burly knights at a lower bench, looking wildly out of place in his slightly-too-large formal tunic, his hair barely tamed into something resembling courtly decorum. He’s already got a goblet in hand, already laughing too loud at something one of the knights said, already glowing in a way that makes your chest ache.

And then, his eyes find yours.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for his grin to soften into something private, just for you.

Your fingers tighten around your own goblet.

Damn him.

You excuse yourself early, claiming a headache. No one questions it.

The corridors are quiet, the torches flickering as you make your way toward your chambers. Your pulse is still too fast, your skin still too warm.

A hand catches your wrist, yanking you into a shadowed alcove.

You don’t even have time to gasp before Eddie’s mouth is on yours, hot and desperate, his body pressing you back against the stone wall.

“Missed you,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice rough.

You shove at his chest, half-hearted, already melting. “You’re drunk!”

He pulls back just enough to grin down at you, his breath warm and wine-sweet. "Only a little drunk," he admits, swaying slightly. "Mostly just very invested in the idea of kissing you again."

His hands slide up your arms, fingers tracing the delicate embroidery on your sleeves like he’s memorizing every thread. "You looked unbearable up there," he murmurs, voice low. "All regal and untouchable. Drove me insane."

You arch a brow. "So your solution was to ambush me in a hallway?"

"Sweetheart, my solutions are always impulsive and poorly thought out." He leans in, brushing his nose against yours. "But you love it."

You do... And that’s the problem.

Because the longer this goes on, the harder it’ll be when it ends.

But right now, with his lips tracing the line of your jaw, his fingers tangled in yours, his laughter vibrating against your skin…

You don’t care.

You tilt your head, capturing his mouth again, and he groans, pressing closer.

Somewhere down the hall, footsteps echo.

You both freeze.

The footsteps grow louder, closer. Probably just a servant. Or a passing noble. Or, gods forbid, a guard.

Eddie stills against you, his breath hot against your cheek, jaw tense like he’s warring with himself.

You don’t move either, you can’t. Your whole body is humming, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away before this moment explodes into something neither of you are ready for.

But then the sound fades. Whoever it was, they keep walking.

Silence rushes back in, loud with everything you didn’t just do.

Eddie exhales shakily, forehead resting against yours. “If I don’t walk away right now,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and full of ache, “I’m not going to be able to stop.”

You bite your lip, your fingers still curled in the fabric of his tunic. “Then walk away.”

“Say it like that again, and I won’t,” he growls.

You laugh, breathless, because it’s not funny at all. Because your heart is pounding and every part of you is screaming to stay with him.

But instead, you press a kiss… soft, lingering, to his lips.

“Go,” you whisper. “Before we do something both of us will regret.”

His jaw clenches. “Don’t think for a second I’d regret it.”

You raise a brow. “Eddie…”

“I know. I know,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. “God, you’re gonna kill me.”

“I’ll try to make it painless,” you tease, trying to lighten the moment, but your voice trembles anyway.

He steps back finally, just enough for cold air to rush into the space where he’d pressed against you. It makes you shiver.

“Back to the feast,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Back to pretending.”

“And I’ll go nurse my fake headache,” you smile, trying not to ache.

His gaze lingers, just one last moment. Like he’s memorizing you. Letting go without really letting go.

“I’ll dream of you tonight,” he says quietly, and something in you shatters a little.

“Then I hope your dreams are better behaved than you are.”

He grins, sharp and crooked. “Not a chance, sweetheart.”

He kisses your knuckles, his lips lingering for a moment, then he’s gone, his footfalls retreating down the corridor, back to the warmth and chaos of the banquet hall.

You remain in the alcove a moment longer, heart thudding, lips tingling.

Then, gathering yourself, you step into the corridor, head high, breath shaky, eyes still burning with the memory of his mouth on yours.

There would be time for consequences later.

Tonight, there was only the echo of almosts.

And the ache of wanting.

Next Chapter: Chapter Four: “Strings in the Dark”

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000, @totallysocially, @exasperatedsighohmy, @marianaissocool, @boggerslide, @sheneedsrocknroll92, @n3lly-h3artz, @comeonatmebruh, @goingxsteddie, @msmimiandrew, @cpnsteverogers, @quinnophile, @exploding-bonbon, @hiscrimsonangel

Masterlist

[thepinkpanther83]

*Squeals and pokes at the well dressed racoon!* 🦝

OMG, Yorshie!!!! 🙏🏻

👓

Hi Pinkie! *waves like a madraccoon*

GOD PLEASE IGNORE HOW LONG THIS TOOK DONT LOOK AT THE RACCOON BEHIND THE CURTAIN SHE IS IN CASUAL CORPORATE ATTIRE SHE MIGHT BE FERAL JUST DONT MAKE EYE CONTACT

Added paragraphs under the line for LV!

Blatantly changing the subject, but Donnie only looked at her for a long moment, eyes wide and strangely vulnerable before he closed the last window without looking and pushed back to his full height and hummed.

“Yea, of course! Just-” He went to take a step to the side, pulling her closer before letting his fingers slip through her grip. He pressed his hand flat against her eyes, effectively blocking out everything but the faintest purple glow around the edges.