Eddie. @hellfire-after-dark - Tumblr Blog

mine's a tale that can't be told

pairing: eddie munson x reader

summary: Eddie leans back in his throne, slow and deliberate, and the grin that spreads across his face isn’t playful. Isn’t silly.

It’s feral. Claiming.

And something inside you twists—sharp, hot, and utterly wrong.

warnings: heavy mutual pining, fluff, light angst, slow burn, dnd, eddie's dungeon master voice™, soft soft eddie, dom/sub dynamics (if you squint)

word count: 4.4k

a/n: this one mixes the classic religious symbolism with some... dnd metaphors? is that even a thing? anyways, the pining is intense in this one. title by led zeppelin. this can be read as a standalone piece. read prev chapters here: pt. 1 / pt. 2 / pt. 3 / series masterlist

It’s laughter you hear first.

A quiet echo, then a gasp. Whispered shouts.

It drifts through the dim hallway of the school basement, long after hours, where labs, old art rooms, and storage closets sleep behind locked doors. Your steps slow when you spot the only source of light.

A door.

Warm light spills through a cracked pane, splintered and golden, like the cut of a stage spotlight. It’s open just enough for sound to escape.

Then, you hear it:

A voice.

His.

Low, steady.

If you hold your breath, you can just make out the words.

“…seven. And what’s your AC?”

Another voice responds, muffled.

You swallow, eyes flicking to the clock at the far end of the hallway.

You’re not sure if the door was left open by accident, if you're meant to be hearing any of this at all.

You glance down at the binder in your hand, and consider leaving it outside.

But then he starts speaking again, and something in your chest pulls.

You drift forward without thinking, feet ghosting across the tile.

You stop just short of the door, close enough to slot yourself behind the tiny sliver of open space.

Inside, Eddie is a different creature entirely.

The room is bathed in flickering candlelight, stage props and old lighting rigs stretching tall, wavering shadows. Most of his torso is obscured behind a dark screen, yet the glow catches the sharp outlines of his shoulders, the wild edge of his hair.

Behind him, the intricate carvings of a wooden chair rise, ancient and regal.

Clearly something pulled from the drama department’s dusty closet. But here, in the dim light, it feels foreboding. Commanding.

And from his throne, Eddie grins like a king.

“…takes another step toward you,” He intones, voice curling low through the air.

There’s a thread of something familiar in his voice, but it runs deeper now, darker. A growl curled beneath silk.

It’s his voice, but not a version you’ve ever known.

The room stills, like prey before a predator.

Then—THUD.

A fist slams against the table, thundercrack against wood.

The whole table jumps. Candles flicker. Sheets of paper flutter like startled birds.

Your breath catches.

“He grips you by the throat.”

Eddie’s hand shoots up, rings catching candlelight. Fingers curl midair, claw-like, closing in a tight fist.

You see it in their faces, the players.

Frozen mid-breath. Eyes wide. Clinging to every word.

Not just caught in the game. Devoured by it.

By him.

There’s a reverence in the room.

Something sacred. Like church.

And Eddie Munson’s giving the best damn sermon anyone’s ever heard.

“When the creature speaks… his lips don’t move.”

His voice drops low, eyes gleaming over the edge of the screen.

“You don’t hear it,” He murmurs, quieter still. “You feel it. In your head. In your spine.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Even the candlelight holds its breath.

Then:

A tilt of his head. A slow roll of his shoulder.

A shift behind the screen.

And when he speaks again, the voice that comes out isn’t his.

Deep. Fractured. Raw.

“You dare challenge a god?”

It shouldn’t make your stomach flip like that. But it does.

From down the table, someone curses under their breath. You don’t see who.

You’re too busy watching him.

The shift in his gaze—slit-eyed and serpentine.

“I’ve waited centuries to wear this face again.”

The deliberate rhythm of his breathing—slow and measured. Inhuman.

“Smoke spills from his mouth,” He murmurs, slipping back into a narrator’s cadence. “The air burns cold. The runes at your feet begin to glow.”

He lifts a hand. Points down the table, straight at Dustin.

“When your eyes meet his… you recognize him.”

The room goes silent again.

Eddie leans forward, barely, and the other voice takes hold again.

“Long time no see... brother.”

Even from the doorway, you see Dustin’s jaw drop.

Nobody at the table moves. Not even to breathe.

Eddie leans back in his throne, slow and deliberate, and the grin that spreads across his face isn’t playful. Isn’t silly.

It's feral. Claiming.

And something inside you flares again—sharp, hot, and utterly wrong.

Then, just like that—his voice shifts back. Light and familiar.

And his eyes, what just a moment ago had been pitch, something cold and ancient and not-quite-human—softens.

“All right, freaks.” He claps once, breaking the silence. “We’ll pick up right here next week.”

Like a director yelling cut, the spell breaks.

Dustin lets out a choked swear, slapping a hand to the table. Sheets fly. Someone beside him throws himself backward in his chair with a groan—C’mon, Eddie!—while another hauls an eraser down the table.

You blink, blood rushing back to your legs all at once. You hadn’t noticed you’d stopped breathing. Or how close you’d leaned in.

“Make sure to grab all your shit,” Eddie rises from his throne, palms pressed to the table like a king dismissing court.

“If I have to clean up one more time after you animals, Daddy’s gonna be very disappointed.”

The table erupts in shrieks. Dustin groans in disgust. Someone wails, No, not the Daddy voice, please—

A pretzel flies down the table. Eddie ducks with a grin, unbothered, reaching for his notes.

He moves with practiced ease, sweeping up scraps of paper behind the screen. The flick of his fingers, the scrape of his chair, the low electric hum of the room still thick with imaginary blood.

It’s all still his. That energy. Tension. The afterglow of story spun like silk around his hands.

And you’re still watching, heart doing something weird and heavy, thinking about the way he commands a room without raising his voice.

Your foot moves forward, before you even mean to.

But then: the voices swell again. More laughter. Chairs dragging. Backpacks unzipping. Someone loudly demanding to know where their Mountain Dew went.

You flinch, retreating fast. Backpedaling to the bend in the hallway, tucking yourself behind the corner near the bathroom door, just out of sight.

You clutch your binder to your chest like it might shield you from the heat still flickering beneath your skin.

From the way his voice is still echoing in your bones.

At first, Eddie thinks its a hallucination.

A vision.

Some sugar-drunk mirage conjured by the questionably expired sodas Doug found in his garage.

Because there’s no way.

No way it’s you, standing in the doorway.

While he was busy conjuring demons and scribbling madly behind the DM screen, monologuing like a satanic Shakespeare.

He blinks. Rubs his eyes for good measure.

And you’re still there.

You step forward slightly, through the crack in the door, like maybe you might come in—then just as quickly, step back.

Gone.

The doorframe is empty as the group filters out, rowdier than ever.

Thanks Eddie, see ya tomorrow!

Bye, Daddy! Shrieking laughter.

Eddie barely reacts.

Gareth claps him on the shoulder, making him jump.

“Mikey’s for pizza. You coming?”

“Uh, raincheck. Gotta clean up.”

“You sure? Jeff said he’s going for the garlic knot record.”

He huffs a laugh. “Tempting. Go ahead, I’m good.”

“All right man. Jam sesh at Doug’s later, if you feel like it.” Gareth hesitates a second, then leaves with a wave.

Eddie barely nods, slow and distracted as he rolls a d20 between his fingers, eyes still locked on the door.

Maybe he’d imagined it.

A trick of the light. Wishful thinking.

Outside, voices ring down the hall, something about Dustin’s fate after the cliffhanger from today’s session.

The door clicks shut, and silence settles. Warm, buzzing at the edges.

He stays there for a moment, still behind the screen, half in the world he made.

Then, slowly, starts to gather.

Dice. Sheets. His lucky pencil, worn to a nub.

His fingers linger at the edge of the DM screen. Worn soft at the folds, a few smudges of ink on the inside panel where he’d scrawled a last-minute monster stat block.

He exhales. Low, slow. The kind that makes your ribs shift.

Rakes both hands through his hair and lets his head drop back for a second.

It’s always like this after a good session. The ache. That hollow crash. The feeling like he was somewhere else entirely, and now he’s been dropped back into his own skin.

A different kind of comedown, he thinks.

The sudden quiet of being alone again.

And then—

A knock.

Soft. Once.

Then again.

“Uh, come in?”

And you’re there.

Poking your head through a tiny crack in the door.

Cautious. Curious.

Lit from behind like some kind of angel, haloed in the faded hallway fluorescents.

He grins, helpless and immediate.

“Thought I was going crazy.”

You tilt your head, smiling faintly.

“Sorry?”

“No, it’s…” He shakes his head, still grinning. “Come in.”

You step inside with a soft ‘thanks’ on your breath.

“So this is… Dungeons and Dragons, huh?”

There’s curiosity in your tone. A little wonder, a little hesitation.

As if something might break lose if you say the words any louder.

You linger near the wall, eyeing the table in the middle like it could swallow you whole.

Eddie’s grin blooms. Can’t help it.

Soft candlelight dances across your face, catching the flicker of unease in your eyes.

He knows exactly what you must be thinking: devils sketched in red sharpie, candles set like some kind of ritual, winged and horned miniatures caught mid-snarl on the table.

You’re trying not to look alarmed. He appreciates the effort.

“First time?” he asks, voice light.

You nod, eyes roaming across the chaotic spread.

“Yeah. It’s…” Your eyes flit to the snarling archdevil on his DM screen. “…not what I pictured.”

“Yeah, you missed the one night we didn’t summon anything. We save the virgin blood for Tuesdays.” He crosses his arms, winking. “Gotta keep up appearances, right?”

A smile tugs at your lips, crooked and apologetic somehow.

You step a little closer, gaze wandering. It snags on the throne that looms behind him, regal and proud.

“So you’re like… really in charge here, huh?”

It’s half-teasing, but not cruel. There’s warmth in it. Curiosity.

Eddie’s fingers twitch at his side.

He scratches at his jaw, eyes flicking down before he smiles again.

“Well, they don’t call it Dungeon Master for nothing.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. Mouth parts a little.

“Dungeon,” You echo, careful, like you’re committing heresy.

“…Master?”

Eddie nearly chokes on his spit.

“It’s just a title,” he clears his throat, “Means I run the game, build the world. Mostly I’m the guy who gets blamed when everybody dies.”

You squint at him, then back at the table. “Huh.”

“I mean, you were really good at it,” you muse, gaze drifting over the sprawl of painted figurines and battle maps like they’re ancient relics.

He wants to show you everything.

“You know, with all the voices and stuff.” Your tone softens, trailing off, eyes still fixed on the table.

Eddie grins, slipping into his worst fake Scottish accent—shrill as all hell and offensive to both Scotland and sound itself.

“Oh, you mean Sir Bartholomew MacGee? Master of the Mystic Bagpipes, Conqueror of the Flaming Cabbage!”

You laugh, nose crinkling.

“No, I mean the, uh…” You clear your throat, biting your lip.

“The other one. The, uh… kind of… devil? Or demon?”

Oh.

He eyes the embarrassment flickering on your face, and a slow smile curls at the corners of his mouth—giddy, edged with something molten.

A thrill bubbles up in his chest, that flicker of something he’s always been better at playing than feeling.

He leans forward, hands planted on the table, shoulders curling.

His gaze rises from beneath the curtain of his hair.

“Ah, you mean Kaelrath the Forsaken,” he purrs, voice dropping into that slow, dark register—the one meant to chill a room. “Warden of the Shadowed Keep.”

You nod, face just a touch too serious.

He watches you, amused and a little fascinated.

“Oh, you don’t wanna mess with him.”

“Why not?” Your eyes widen, voice barely above a whisper.

His heart nearly stops.

“Well,” he leans back, crossing his arms, “He made a pact with the Obsidian Wyrm, got exiled from the Celestial Plane, yadda yadda. Bit of a dick, honestly.”

He flashes you a grin. “Real mean bastard.”

You blink, a smile stalling on your lips.

“Well, I kinda thought you were mean and scary too. Before I knew you.”

He laughs, sharp and startled, like you knocked the air out of him.

Looks away fast, suddenly not sure where to land his eyes.

His hand taps jittery on the back of his throne.

Then:

“You wanna try it?” He quirks a smile, brows lifting.

You blink. “What? Oh, no, I don’t—”

“Oh c’mon,” He steps aside, gesturing with a little flourish to the chair behind him.

“It’s simple mechanics. All you need’s a little imagination.”

You hesitate, then step slowly toward the seat he’d been occupying all night.

Carefully, like it might collapse under your weight, you lower yourself into it.

And for a moment, Eddie can’t move.

He just watches you.

The way your fingers hover over the edge of the table.

The way your eyes flicker over the chaos behind the screen. The campaign notes still wide open: scrawled maps, monster stats, a post-it that says YOU BASTARD in Gareth’s handwriting.

Stage lights cast a soft glow behind you, catching in your hair.

Eddie swallows.

Hellfire would riot if they saw this.

No one gets to sit there. No one but him.

He tips his head to the side, murmuring softly.

“That’s the seat of power, y’know.”

You glance up.

“Hm?”

“See this right here?” He leans in, tapping the DM screen.

“Gotta be careful what you say behind this screen. People start believing you.”

You purse your lips, thoughtful.

Your eyes trace along the edge of the screen, then flick back to his—curious, cautious.

“What if I don’t know what to say?”

Eddie’s smile softens.

“You make something up,” he says, starting to move. “Here—I’ll show you.”

He drops into a player’s seat beside you, Gareth’s usual spot, his knee brushing yours once.

“Ok, so. It’s the middle of the night. It’s pouring rain. You’re pushing through the trees, branches scraping your arms,” he starts, voice low, almost absentminded as he starts spinning the world around you. “You’ve been walking for days. Mud up to your knees. Maybe blood, too. Hard to tell at this point.”

You blink, caught in the picture he’s painting, and he smiles to himself before continuing.

“Up ahead, you see this crooked old tavern, just off the path. Smoke’s coming from the chimney. There’s soft, amber light flickering through the windows. Looks warm.”

He meets your eyes.

“What do you do?”

You hesitate for a beat, then:

“I… walk inside.”

Eddie makes a small motion with his hand, pushing open an invisible door.

“You walk inside, and there’s a guy behind the bar. Big. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Big scar running across one eyebrow—like someone tried to take his eye once and couldn’t finish the job.”

He leans in, resting his forearms on the table. Drops into his gruff, rough-edged voice.

“Name’s Corwin. I run the place. And you?”

You hesitate, biting your lip to hide the smile curling there. Then:

“Why do you want to know?”

Eddie grins, delighted.

“Ah, mysterious.” he leans back with a soft chuckle, eyes drifting down your frame. “Let me guess. Boots wrecked. Dirt under your nails. You’re a traveler. Been on the road too long, maybe running from something.”

You purse your lips, chin tucked, lashes low.

“Maybe.”

He studies you for a moment. In character or not, he’s not entirely sure anymore.

“And you want something,” he says, gaze flicking to your mouth for half a second too long. “That’s why people come here, y’know. They want warmth. Answers.” A beat. “Or trouble.”

Your smirk grows, just a touch. Enough to knock the air out of him.

“Which one are you offering?”

Christ. He’s a goner.

He grins. “Dealer’s choice.”

The moment stretches—playful, delicate. Too delicate for him to touch.

Then, your eyes flit to the side, voice low like you’re not sure if you’re allowed to ask:

“Is this guy, like, evil?”

Eddie blinks, then reaches behind the screen for a die—his lucky d20.

Smoky black, flecked with silver, numbers etched in jagged runes painted crimson.

“Time for a roll.” He nods, dropping the die into your palm. “It’s called an insight check. Lets you know if someone’s lying. Or hiding something.”

Your eyes flicker down to the die, then back up at him, fingers curling around it.

Then, you let go.

The die spins, tumbling across the table, then settles.

And what stares back, in fiery red, rips the floor out from under him.

A bright, perfect 20.

His breath hitches, quiet and sharp.

Because of course it is.

Of course you’d crit on your first roll.

Why wouldn’t you?

Why wouldn’t the universe tilt like that, just for you?

“A 20?” you ask, blinking down at the table. “Is that… is that good?”

His eyes don’t move from the number.

A dry laugh escapes—quiet, breathless, caught somewhere between stunned and amazed.

His mouth opens, words on deck—but nothing. Total blank.

His brain short-circuits under the weight of it. Of the absurd cosmic perfection that is you.

Blinks hard, once, eyes dragging up to meet yours.

“Yeah,” he nods, voice rough. “That… that’ll do it.”

You straighten a little, something like pride lifting your posture. There’s a glint in your eyes now—half teasing, half triumphant.

“So… this tavern guy. Is he evil?”

Eddie presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, then smiles—wide now, full of teeth.

He leans in, forearms on the table. Fingers steepled. Thinking.

Licks his bottom lip, sifting through every possible outcome worthy of honoring that nat 20.

He’s going to make it good.

Something dramatic. Legendary.

Then—

“OH MY GOD.”

Dustin's voice cuts through the air like a slap.

He freezes in the doorway, half-in, half-out, gaping like he just walked in on a crime scene.

Eddie doesn’t even flinch. Just sighs. Deep. Agonized.

He turns slowly, dramatically, with the air of a man who’s just had his Oscar moment ruined by a stage-crasher.

“Henderson,” he murmurs, voice flat. “What have I told you about knocking?”

“Uhh,” Dustin’s eyes flick between you two, wide with dawning horror. “I thought this room’d be empty?”

Eddie sighs and drops his head into his hand, fingers dragging down his face like he’s trying to erase himself from reality.

“Oh hey, Dustin!” you call brightly, cheerful and unbothered, giving him a little wave from the DM throne like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Eddie peeks up at you through his fingers, one eye narrowed in disbelief.

Dustin waves back, awkward, eyes darting like he's trying to solve a math problem he really doesn't want the answer to.

Eddie’s still squinting at you through his hand, wondering how in the hell you know Henderson.

“Oh, I totally forgot!” You exclaim, suddenly rummaging through your bag.

Dustin edges a little closer, still watching Eddie like he might bite.

You pull out a neat binder and hand it over.

“Make sure you get those done by Friday.”

“Oh. Right. Thanks.” Dustin smiles nervously, casting a quick glance toward Eddie, then at the chair closest to him.

“Uhm, I’m just gonna…” He lunges forward, snatching the jacket he’d left draped over the back.

He retreats a couple steps back, then hesitates. Feet stalling.

He’s not leaving. Why wasn’t he leaving?

“So, were you guys like…”

Eddie’s head snaps up, eyes like daggers.

“Juust playing DnD!” Dustin blurts, voice cracking. Throws up a frantic double thumbs-up. “Yep, yep, just DnD! Totally normal. Totally chill. Just the greatest tabletop roleplaying game of all time! I mean, why wouldn’t you be playing it, right?”

He lets out a choked laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

Then, quieter, muttering to himself like a man unraveling:

“Yep. Real casual. Totally platonic. Just sitting in the DM chair. Nothing weird about that.”

Eddie cocks his head, pointing to the door. No words now. Just death.

“Yep! Got it.” Dustin nods fiercely, then backpedals like Eddie’s about to detonate.

“Didn’t see anything. Didn’t hear anything. In fact, I was never even here.”

He fumbles blindly for the knob, turns it to the left.

“Other way, you goblin,” Eddie calls, face fully buried in his palm now.

From beside him, he hears you stifle a laugh into your hand.

Dustin bumps into the door. Twice. Then bolts.

In the silence that ensues, you exhale a soft, happy sigh.

“I love that kid.”

“Uh-huh.” Eddie mutters, staring after the door.

He’s already planned the exact moment he’ll kill Henderson’s bard next session.

Eddie shifts, finally turning to you. “How do you know him again?”

Your bag zips closed with a soft rasp. “I tutor him in Algebra.”

Of course. Of course you do.

“Speaking of math…” You reach down beside your seat, slinging the bag over your shoulder with a small sigh.

“I should really get to studying. Big exam tomorrow.”

“Right,” Eddie nods, standing up too. “Uh, good luck.”

Your smile is soft, but it tugs sideways—quiet and tired, like there’s something else still sitting in the back of your throat.

He has a hunch about what’s coming.

What’s been trying to reach the surface ever since you walked in.

“Hey, um…” you finally say, brows knit tight, “I’m sorry about Tuesday. I think I was…”

The words falter. You shake your head, teeth pressing into your bottom lip, frustration leaking through a quiet breath.

“Upset?” He offers gently.

You nod. Slow. Brows loosening.

“Yeah,” your lips twitch, pressing in a thin line. “That’s probably it.”

A pause, then you step forward:

“But you’re not… upset? About how I…”

He almost frowns, but doesn’t. Just shakes his head, quiet and sure.

You say nothing for a while, just watching. Studying him with a careful sort of wonder, like you’re turning his words over in your head, testing for weight.

Then:

“Insight check?” You blink softly, raising his die with a sheepish little smile.

He lets out a quiet sound. Almost a laugh.

“You don’t need one. I’m being honest. Promise.”

You nod, lips pressed together.

“Ok.”

You hoist your bag higher on your shoulder, fingers tight around the strap.

“Bye, Eddie. Have a good weekend.”

“Yeah, you too.”

You’re halfway out the door before he finds his voice again.

“Hey,” he calls, just loud enough to reach. “That guy, by the way? From the tavern?”

You pause at the threshold, haloed by hallway fluorescents.

Confusion lingers before it’s softened by something warmer. A quiet, expectant smile plays at your lips as you tilt your head, waiting.

“Not evil.”

A flicker of something tugs at the corner of your mouth.

Then you huff a quiet laugh, small and amused.

“Huh. Good to know.”

You wave.

He waves back.

Then watches you disappear into the hall, golden-hour light framing your silhouette like the end of a dream.

He sinks into the throne—yours, now—and exhales.

Throws the d20 across the table and doesn’t bother to watch where it lands.

Scene setting. Character introductions. Insight rolls.

He thinks about all that he’s shared with you, and all that he keeps tucked away.

Like how DnD’s the only time he ever gets to hold everything in his hands.

The only time people listen when he talks.

He thinks about that a lot. How most people assume he plays to be in charge. To be admired, feared, untouchable. And sure, yeah, it’s fun, playing god for a while. But that’s not why he does it.

It’s not power he wants.

It’s control.

Control like… building a world where people can walk into and understand. Where everything has shape, cause and effect.

Order. Logic. Consequences you can see coming.

Not like real life, where your mom dies and your dad leaves and your grades are tanking and everyone hates you for reasons they never bother to explain beyond ‘You’re weird, Munson.’

No. Here, he decides what’s fair. What’s earned. What matters.

And when he says the trapdoor opens?

It fucking opens.

He didn't tell you about the thoughts that crawl in late at night, when sleep won’t come and his skin itches with the static of things he can’t fix.

How he wants to build you a world that holds instead of hurts.

Structure. Edges. A place with rules. Not laws, not like school or curfews or church.

Not the kind that trap, but protect.

Like a campaign world.

Thought through. Crafted. Intentional.

A safe place inside the chaos.

And in those hours, when he's lying flat on his back with the ceiling fan clicking overhead like a countdown, he pictures it.

A rhythm.

The way your day could start, if you wanted: with his voice in your ear, soft and certain, before the day gets loud. Coffee in a chipped mug, waiting. Socks warmed by the heater. His hoodie draped over your chair.

He imagines a world where nothing hurts unless you ask it to.

Where you get to choose what matters. What’s too much, when to stop.

Where he’s the one watching the edge, always two steps ahead, so you don’t have to carry everything all the time.

Because he knows what that looks like—carrying the weight alone. Holding yourself upright, laughing loud enough so no one hears the cracks underneath.

He’s seen it in you. A reflection, because he’s worn it too.

But in his world, this world he builds in his mind, you don’t have to do that. Not if you don’t want to.

You can hand it over. Let him keep watch.

Ritual, he thinks.

A sacred kind of repetition. Something you return to when the noise gets too loud and the floor starts to tilt.

He could be that for you.

But he won’t say that.

Not yet.

Not unless you ask.

Because in his world, the doors don’t open unless you're ready.

And the weight only leaves your hands when you choose to release it.

If that day comes, he’ll be there.

Waiting at the edge.

Two steps ahead.

Keeping watch.

a/n: oof eddie, eddie, eddie. I rlly enjoyed diving into his little psyche with this one. lmk ur thoughts! reblogs/comments are always appreciated :)

also would anyone be interested in a taglist? i might start one if there's enough interest!

update: read the next part here!

read prev chapters here: pt. 1 / pt. 2 / pt. 3

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