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The basement air is thick with the scent of stale snacks and the frantic scratching of pencils on character sheets. Usually, Eddie is just a whirlwind of motion at the head of the table. But tonight, he is something else as well; he’d dragged a second chair behind the dungeon master's cardboard screen, a clear violation of club sanctity, to accommodate the eldest Sinclair sibling — you — who sat on it like a queen upon her throne.
"As the shadow of the hooded figure looms over your party," Eddie begins, his voice dropping into a theatrical, gravelly bass. His eyes are on the group but his palm is still heavy on your shoulder. His fingers are tracing the edge of your cream-white collar with a distracting slowness, his eyes gradually shifting from their current target to you. "you feel a chill... a presence. Something… intoxicating."
He's leaning in, his shaggy hair brushing against your cheek as he breathes out the last word with playful salaciousness. You try to maintain an aloof composure, focusing on the map, but the resolve wavers when Eddie’s hand slides down to rest firmly on your waist, pulling you and the chair you sat on flush against him. You let out a mixed response — an odd merging of a snort and a scoff.
"Dude," Mike groans. "The shadowy figure? It’s literally looming over us. Can we focus on the certain death and not Lucas’ sister? Thanks."
"Patience, Wheeler! Greatness cannot be rushed," Eddie shoots back with routine swiftness, though he doesn't move his hand. In fact, he doubles down, tucking a loose strand of your tresses behind your ear and letting his thumb linger along your jawline. He is grinning now, unabashedly and radiating a chaotic sort of pride.
Dustin looks like he wants to crawl under the table. "Eddie, c’mon man, my mom’s comin’ to get me in a minute."
"It’s a morale boost, Henderson," Eddie proclaims, finally standing up to gesture wildly at the board, though his left hand remains comedically anchored on your shoulder. "The dungeon master requires inspiration! A muse! A Goddess of the Stacks!"
You clear your throat as you gently but firmly swat his hand away. "Edward. Finish the encounter. They’re gettin' restless."
The table quickly erupts.
"Edward," Dustin barks (or really, squeaks), half-amused and half-horrified. "She calls you Edward? Oh, you’re so gone." Eddie’s gaze slowly stalks toward your direction, eyes narrowing and head shaking curtly in silent reprimand for the use of his government. You can't help but respond with a grin on your lips and the raise of a brow.
Erica, who’s been silently judging the entire ordeal with a visibly uncomfortable Will whilst sipping a juice box, finally pipes up, "Shut up and get on with the damn scene, you long-haired weirdo.”
"Well," Eddie purrs, his voice dropping into a velvet register that was entirely too intimate for a room full of teenagers. He leans in until his forehead grazes your temple, his words slowing as he murmurs loud enough for the whole table to hear, "does our lovely guest think the party should trust the mysterious hooded figure... or should the dungeon master… have their way with them?"
It’s clear to everyone that he’s no longer referring to the party.
While he speaks in hushed whispers, his hand migrates from where it was in your hair to the nape of your neck, his thumb tracing the skin just above your nape in a distracting rhythm. Eddie shows no humility in that moment, his eyes half-lidded and brimming with a feline provocation that ignores the several pairs of eyes boring into him with disgust.
The reaction, once again, is instantaneous.
"Oh, for the love of- can we please just get through the encounter," Mike groans, smacking his notebook shut with vigor. "We’ve been in a hallway for the past twenty minutes cuz you’re too busy doing... whatever this is!"
Dustin looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. "Dude, seriously! Boundaries! There’s a child present. God, I feel like I need to cast healing for my eyes…"
Lucas, however, is the one to deliver the most passionate reprimand, slamming a fist onto the table and making the lead miniatures jump. "Eddie!" The single word that is Eddie's title echoes throughout the basement. His expression is one of pure indignation.
"You’re supposed to be a terrifying dungeon master, not a lovesick freak. It’s pathetic. It's actually physically painful to watch." Erica doesn't even look up from her sheet, though her higher-pitched voice cuts through the overlapping chaos like a punishing guillotine. The little girl continues, "Stop eye-bangin’ that woman, boy. And my sweet, sweet big sister… standards? Have some."
You roll your eyes at the twelve year old's chastising while Eddie doesn't look even remotely ashamed. He finally pulls his hand back but only to hold up a matter-of-fact index finger while a wolfish smirk paints itself across his face, smile lines prominent in his own humor. "Jealousy is a green-eyed monster, children. Much more dangerous than a Beholder," Eddie chirps, finally grabbing the die but still casting a lingering glance at the young woman at his side. "But fine, fine. Back to the doom and gloom. And for the record, she's the only reason I haven't TPK'd all of you yet."
Before long, the basement empties with a chorus of the heavy thuds of sneakers and boots hitting the wooden stairs. You linger by discarded soda cans, expression a mask of practiced discipline. You wait until the muffled sound of your friends disgruntled groans and your siblings’ bickering fades before directing your gaze toward the head of the nearby table.
Eddie is sprawled in his chair, tossing the twenty-sided die into the air with lackluster effort and catching it with a soft clink against his jewelry. He looks utterly satisfied with himself, a mirthy glint dancing about his pupils.
"You’re a menace," you state, voice echoing somewhat in the now empty room. Stepping toward him, the fabric of your flowing midi-skirt sways with your steady stride.
"I prefer the term enthusiast," the young man counters, catching the die and tossing it gently onto the table. He surges upward with said enthusiasm, then closes the gap between you in a few lazy steps, his arms folded inconspicuously behind his back. He doesn't stop until his chest is inches from your nose, height forcing you to tilt your chin to view him in all his non-conforming glory. "Besides, our lovely party survived. Barely. They should thank you."
You lift a hand, palm landing flat against his chest to keep him at a measurable distance while a subtle smile curls at the corners of your lips, "You were supposed to be leading. Not spendin' the entire third act trying to see how close you could get to a kiss without my lil’ brother noticing. He noticed, by the way."
"Let ‘em notice," Eddie hums, his voice dropping an octave. He traps your hand against his ribs as his heart drums a familiar, gradual tempo beneath your fingertips. "I spent the last three hours tethered to that chair while you sat there lookin’ like that," his earthy irises flick across you as if to tell his reason for struggle. Each few syllables are punctuated with gentle shakes of his head so that his nose ghosts over yours repeatedly, "It was torture, sweetheart. Pure agony — complete and absolute!"
He leans down, the faintly-crooked bridge of his nose now grazing the bridge of yours while his breath warms your skin and his teeth catch his bottom lip. "Buuut, if it so pleases my Goddess of the Stacks... I think a formal punishment is in order, hm? Somethin’ mean. Somethin’ to teach your dungeon master a lesson he won't forget."
Your stern facade cracks and a genuine smile tugs away at your mouth while he goes on. "You think you’re so charming."
"I know I am," he chuckles, hand sliding from yours to capture your hips in his grasp and let his thumbs trace the curve of your waist; a malevolent grin finds his lips, "Now, are you gonna lecture me on my lack of professionalism, or are you gonna show me just how disappointed you are?"
You don't respond to his jest at first, not with words. Then you let a sputter of laughter escape you and you shove him away, leaving Eddie to whine quietly in a playfully saddened manner while you head towards the basement stairs with your things. As much as you'd love to indulge him, you both have homework to do.
•••
Work doesn't happen that night.
The clock on the wall hums, the only sound competing with the soft crickets outside the thin trailer walls. A single amber lamp bathes the room in a hazy glow, its light casting long shadows across the wood paneling. Eddie sits at the center of his mattress, legs pulled up criss-cross applesauce to form a supportive cradle while you're tucked comfortably into the space between his thighs and the weight of his guitar is resting in your lap.
"Here, hold the neck like- mhm, juuust like that. Good. like it’s made of glass. Okay, now press on that string. Press it like you mean it." The murmurs of his usual complex contradictions spill into your ear. His chest presses against the expanse of your back and his chin hovers over your shoulder so that he can survey your hands easier. His face is inches from yours.
The young man reaches around, large hands enveloping smaller ones. He then guides your middle finger to the fret on the third string, the pads of his own fingers rough against your smooth knuckles. "That’s a G. Feel the vibration in the wood?"
You nod, focus absolute. You bite your lip, your brow furrowed in concentration as you attempt to keep the chord from buzzing while controlling the creeping beginnings of warmth in your belly at the heat on your ear. And in the stillness, Eddie stops breathing for a second, his own focus hindered — from this angle, he can see the familiar bridge of your nose and the way the light catches the fine, downy hair at your temple and cheek.
He watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, mesmerized by the quiet dignity you carry even when fumbling with a foreign instrument. There's a sudden, sharp feeling in his chest — a realization that this person, so composed and brilliant, is currently anchored in his messy, uncertain world.
"I think... I got it," you whisper with the furrow in your brow deepening, voice a low vibration he can feel in his bones.
"Yeah? Lemme see," he urges with a small jerk of his head, gesturing for you to play.
You strum as directed. The note rings out, clear and sustained. A triumphant spark ignites in your gaze as you turn your head to share the victory. The movement brings your faces so close that the tips of your noses touch lightly. But Eddie doesn't look at the guitar. He remains still, hands still covering yours on the fretboard. The instrument becomes a mere barrier between you.
"You're a natural, sweetheart," he says, his voice dipping to a sandpaper rasp. "Too natural. It’s offensive to those of us who have to struggle, actually." You let out a soft huff of a laugh in response. The sound is warm near his mouth and he can’t help but glance swiftly at the source of the amused noise with contemplation. "Maybe I just got a good tutor."
"And maybe the tutor is distracted," he confessed. He lets the guitar slip a fraction of an inch and leans in, trading music and conversation for a taste of you. He abandons the lesson entirely and his hands migrate from yours to the base of your throat, finding solace there and pulling you further into the nest of his embrace while the forgotten instrument leans precariously against your stomach. Eddie’s had enough of all this cockblocking tonight; he's getting his fill of you whether the universe likes it or not.
There’s a moment where all the two of you do is grin silently at one another, easing into the other as if daring them to make that jump into passion. But the inaudible battle of reserve is briskly swept aside in favor of a tender kiss. The motion of it is that of the waves at sea, heads tilting ever so slightly to accommodate one another while the pressure and rhythm of the kiss grows vicious in the seconds that pass. Eddie breathes out a sound that is oddly reminiscent of a pleasured groan while you clumsily try to set the guitar aside for its own safety.
“Mmh…remind me; when’d you say Wayne would be back?” you mutter between the affection and your own pleased hums while turning your lower body to face him. It’s a difficult maneuver but you eventually manage to settle yourself back in his lap whilst your fingers comb through his dark, unkempt beach waves at his nape. Eddie is quick to find purchase for his hands on your hips so that he can knead at the flesh eagerly before replying lazily into the kiss, “...Dunno… don’t care...”
And that earns him another immodest snort of laughter — one of his favorite pieces of music. You feel him take the opportunity to tease the tip of your tongue with his until he senses you reciprocate his advances; the quiet is then filled with bated breaths, the slickness of two wet muscles meeting, and Eddie’s rough giggles.
The restriction of clothing is swiftly dealt with, your fleece sweater and undershirt slipping away at the command of his fingers; your skirt and stockings follow, revealing a set of simple but cute, lace undergarments. Your cheek presses to his and you turn your head a bit to peck and nip at his jaw, fingertips skimming over the surface of his ripped skinny-jeans. They climb up his thighs and along his pelvis to graze at Eddie’s abdomen, feeling a small shudder roll over the muscles of his belly. Your gazes meet but he doesn’t stop you from bunching up his Hellfire shirt until it reaches his armpits and rises over his head.
His wild locks almost seem to float back down upon his shoulders with a divine sense of motion. You smile fondly at the sight, pushing the strands from his eyes just as he suddenly wraps a free arm around the entirety of your waist and guides your back to meet his bed with a careful toss of your weight. A mix of a gasp and a giggle passes your lips, and your smile widens, palms exploring his shoulders blades with a familiar kindness.
Your observance follows the sculpted lines and dips of his bodily makeup; he’s beautifully svelte, slim arms a loving cage around your body.
The silent affection shared between you is tranquil and for a few more beats, neither of you speak — just study. Eddie’s lips part to let out some breaths; he’s observing you with intent. But it’s hard for him to think of anything meaningful to say that he hasn’t already told you in the past year.
“You’re gorgeous,” he mumbles dumbly. He can tell you aren’t taking him seriously when you roll your eyes and wipe a hand playfully across his face. But he isn’t deterred. He lets his eyes travel over you before meeting yours once again and that's what seems to convince you. You remain quiet, expression one of reverence once he adds on, “I love you.”
That earns him a tug of your heartstrings.
It wasn’t often Eddie even thought of letting those words past his lips. And it wasn’t because the words lacked truth, no. Eddie had plenty of other ways to express his undying feelings for the girl lying in his arms. But why trust the words of Hawkins’ resident devil-worshipper? He didn’t doubt your love for him; he doubted the integrity of your trust.
The silence that continues with his thoughts isn't heavy. It's thick, like the air of the school's basement. You reach out a hand, fingers finding his jaw and thumb brushing over the soft apple of the young man's cheek, feeling the freshly shaved patch that prickles against your other knuckles.
"Edward," you call, using the name that usually earns a wince of distaste; it now holds an undeniable weight. "Look at me."
He does as told, his dark eyes searching yours for any hint of the judgment he’s so used to receiving from the rest of the world. He expects to find pity, or perhaps even the discovery of 'higher standards' Erica never fails to mention. But his chest only aches when he doesn’t; all he finds is patience.
The tension in his body and expression seem to alleviate. A hoarse breath escapes him, and he leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. The boisterous, theatrical leader of the Hellfire Club simply evaporates, leaving behind a boy who just wants to be held. His skin buzzes with a warmth only your touch ever seemed to give.
"You're far too good for this freak, Sinclair," he whispers to your skin, voice regaining its lighthearted edge. "But I'm a selfish man. I'm keepin’ you."
"Is that right?" you challenge, your fingers once again tangling into the messy curls at the nape of Eddie’s neck.
"Absolutely." His tone is like a rumbling storm, then punctuates the answer with a peck to your lips. A familiar smirk returns as he shifts his weight to sit up, reaching over you with a strained grunt in an effort to snatch open the small drawer at his bedside. "Now tell me," he breathes, his voice shifting into a mode of velvet that makes your muscles tense against the worn sheets. His hand searches the interior of the drawer and for a few seconds, anticipation takes your breath away. "Does my Goddess of the Stacks have any more lovely dialogue for her humble dungeon master? Or have we moved past the ‘negotiation phase’?"
He pulls out a slightly abused condom packet from the nightstand. How responsible of him.
You let out a pleased hum and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down and effectively ending his musing. Eddie lets out a sharp, muffled intake of breath as his lips meet yours again — not with the tentative sweetness of before, but with a desperate, crushing certainty.
He fumbles with the packet, swearing beneath his breath when he has to pull his focus from you to redirect it to the uncooperative paper-foil wrapper. You practically chase after his lips as he does so, lips skimming his cheek and neck eagerly when he sits back again while he bites his lip, barely suppressing a wild laugh of excitement.
The struggle ends when the wrapper easily submits to the force of Eddie’s teeth. He’s quick to undo his fly and tug down the elastic band at the rim of his grey, cotton boxers. Your fingers explore his bare torso while he carefully sheathes himself into the translucent rubber material and once the bulged rim of the rubber meets the unshaved base of him, he looks to you for some sort of signal to continue ahead.
You're quick to give him what he’s been craving.
Your bottom lip falls beneath the teeth of your upper-jaw, your breathing shallow with silenced prolepsis. His calloused hands, practically vibrating with exhilaration, hoist your thighs upward to hook the back of your knees at the base of his abdomen. And once he’s satisfied with your comfort, the young man uses his finger to carefully guide your panties down your legs until they hang uselessly off one of your ankles.
Your hands grasp at Eddie’s traps and shoulder blades, lingering at his nape while he unhurriedly presses himself into you, pulling a groan from your throat. You can see the scrutiny in the young man’s dark pools, his hips beginning to grind at steady pace. You feel filled, inside and out, and pull him closer just to hear the haggard breathing falling from his lips. The initial strain of entry is set aside in favor of focusing on him; his eyes, his own tight expression, the warmth of his skin creating friction with yours. Envisioning him — baring witness to the being that is Eddie — provided you with an endearing sort of assurance.
Once the entirety of him is inside you, he can sense the fluttering of your walls, the velvet ridges of them hugging him almost with knowing hunger while he drags himself back and begins to test a steady rhythm with every jerk of his hips.
The sound of flesh against flesh fills the confined space of his room and his hands, intertwined with yours, squeeze reassuringly as you both huff and pant in pleasure. Heat and arousal rise within the bowels of your nerves and you can’t help the feeble moans that leave you every few thrusts.
“Eddie,” you manage to squeak out without any particular reason. He doesn't vocalize a reply; he presses forward, nose pushing the hair at your throat aside and replacing it with tender kisses, whispers of affection, and hushed curses. And he takes this moment while your eyes are screwed shut to look at you, really look at you.
What Eddie wouldn’t give to see through your eyes; to understand what exactly about him drew you in. Your skin seems to glow in the warm light of his bedside lamp, those lips he adores kissing whenever he could now parted and letting out soft cries that send a flood of blood further down his body. You’re perfect. You always were; phenomenal in all things that he could never imagine achieving himself.
And as he’s here, in a dingy old trailer, having mind-blowing sex with the most amazing girl he’s ever met, he thinks of ways he could keep you here with him forever. Maybe sabotage your grades. Or even sabotage your college applications.
No. He knew better.
He’d rather lose you and be stuck in this god-forsaken town until he died than clip your wings and hold you down for good.
Eddie can’t help his own whimpering, trying to drown it out with pinched chuckles and breathing. His nails dig into the stern surface of your knuckles and you finally open your eyes. He sees you. You see him. And you both weakly beam at one another through heavy exhales and loving laughter.
“Eddie,” you say again, this time pervaded with warning. You grow tight around him and before he can make some joke about you cumming first, you begin to spasm and writhe beneath him. Your toes curl and your eyes roll shut, wanton moans of blissful ecstasy exuding from you freely; the man hovering above you chokes up, feeling your peak collide into you with complete disregard for his impending quip. He tumbles over the edge of rapture with you.
The waves wash over your bodies with care, lungs burning and skin moist whilst you both laboriously breathe and release the tension of climax from your aching muscles.
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie weakly puffs and attempts to blink a bit rapidly to clear whatever mind-fog he had left over. There’s a moment of silence before he lets out a short, maniacal noise of elation, tumbling over to have you mounting him and paying no mind to your still-joined bodies. “You are goddamn amazing.”
You grapple your wits to steady yourself upon the surface of the young man’s chest, sweaty hair sticking relentlessly to your forehead, shoulders, and neck before laughing with him and leaning down to press your mouth to his for a few seconds. “But you really gotta stop callin’ me Edward. It’s heavy-duty; for courtrooms and aunts who don't like you," he says. The name made him feel exposed, stripped of the armor he had spent years forming and shining. Being called his birth name by you made your connection feel dangerously real, pulling him out of his fantasy world and into the gravity of your presence.
"Plus, it sounds weird comin’ from you," he mutters lamely, finally venturing a glance upward. "Sounds... official. Like I’m in trouble. Or like I’m someone who's actually got his life together."
"You are someone," you insist, closing the distance and laying your ear to Eddie’s chest.
He lets out a self-deprecating, barely-there laugh that bounces your head a little, his expression softening into a sheepish grin. He reaches out, his fingers hooking under the strap of your bra and twisting it between his fingers; his rough hands gently rub your arm and back with care. "Fair. But if you keep callin’ me that in front of the kids, my reputation’s gonna be toasted.”
“Your reputation was already toasted, Eddie.”
“True. But who said I wanna make it worse?”