#eddie munson rockstar au

[carolmunson]

alive with the glory of love

(older!rockstar!eddie x older!actress!wife!)

a valentine's slice of life with our favorite rockstar almost thirty years into our marriage. the year is 2023 and we're still stella rink and we're still famous as hell. aged like fine wine. a decades long career and a decades long marriage with two twins in their late twenties. this is semi from the twins perspective. we know what our life was looking like before, let's see what it looks like now. :) eddie manip by @eddiemunsons-missingnipple cw: 18+ minors dni, allusions to smut/wearing lingerie, but overall this is a short little something. reader and eddie are both 57, so, sorry if you don't want to be fifty seven. but if i have to be in my 'early twenties' every time i read a fic, you can be older for like, seven and a half minutes.

The phone eases into focus, Violet’s giggle sounds as she presses record, leaning on her elbows at the kitchen island. The room is a sun drenched, black and white tiled vision — still partially stuck in the 90s, remnants of your old life, despite the ongoing renovations. Despite the teasing from your adult children. Some stuff just never lost its charm – plus, the kids were calling it ‘a 90s vibe’ and you were both pretty sure that was cool. 

“Morning, happy Valentine’s Day,” Violet says sleepily, Van trudging in behind her. They both take lazy seats on the bar stools across from the chef stove that their father is delicately working over. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, honey,” Eddie calls over his shoulder, daintily pouring pink batter into a cookie cutter mold on a hot pan. The kitchen and dining room are filled to the brim with flowers and balloons. Eddie’s been up for hours getting everything set up for you, some things never change. Some things never get old. 

“What’re you doing?” Van asks. 

“What do you mean, what am I doing? I’m making mommy—” He turns around with a furrowed brow, deepening his forehead creases before he realizes they’re recording him. He sighs before turning back to his task, “Guys, again with the phone?” 

“C’mon dad, they love you!” Violet begs, putting her phone down and shoving it in her sweatshirt pocket, “Van show him the comments on the last one.” 

“They think you’re hilarious, they want you to have your own account,” Van encourages, he opens his own phone to bring over to his dad. He grew up to be a spitting image of the two of you, as if they pasted Eddie’s face on his and gave him all your other features. The color of your eyes, the texture of your hair. Your bright, enrapturing smile. A perfect fifty-fifty. 

Van scrolls slowly through the endless comments, Eddie squinting down at them, “Van, I don’t have my glasses.” 

Eddie peers down lower, “What does that mean? ‘I know it’s big’? What’s big?” “New…choker…just…dropped? I didn’t make chokers for merch,” he shrugs, waving him away to pay attention to the stove. “Ew,” Violet laughs, “Stop making him read these out loud, that’s so gross.” 

“You should still make your own,” Van says, sitting back down, “It’d do way better than the one for Corroded.” 

“Have your mom do it,” Ed shrugs off, “She knows how to do all that internet shit.” 

“That Howard Stern clip is going viral again,” Violet says devilishly, “The girlies are obsessed with you.” 

“I don’t care about the girlies, Vi,” Eddie blushes, flipping one of the pancakes on the pan, “I care about your mom.” 

“I just wanna show them what you guys do for your favorite holiday,” Violet whines, “They’ll love it.” 

“They’re gonna call him a simp,” Van teases, a look of realization washing over his face,  “Wait, you’re such a simp for mom, actually.”  

They both laugh, Eddie doesn’t know what ‘a simp’ is so he laughs too.

“That’s a good word for like, a DND character type — you should see about that in your campaigns,” Ed continues while he plates a pancake on an ever growing stack of pink and red. 

“Ohmygod Dad, no, that’s not—“ Van laughs silently into his hands. 

“Stop making fun of him, he’s old,” Violet pleads between giggles, taking her phone out again, “Dad, seriously can you just tell us what you’re doing? Why do you love Valentine’s Day?”

“Is this for your TikTok thing?” he asks, pulling his dark curls up in a ponytail with a black silk scrunchie, bangs he can’t quite part with falling in waves over his brow. ‘My Pilates teacher was telling me they’ll be safer on your hair,’ you’d said — and he’s never been one to say no to you. Every time the kids came home they’d take their phones out and make Tiktok’s of the two of you, sometimes you’d make a solo one for Violet or Van’s page if you felt like it. But with Twitter and Instagram, you didn’t want to overload your assistant with some other form of social media – but it looked like the two of you were really popular. Especially Eddie. 

Violet educated you about ‘fancams’ which were just clips to music. There were a lot of the two of you together, or you solo from your movies and shows in the 90s. Progressions of you then and now and how you’re still ‘so hot’ and ‘unproblematic’. Eddie’s almost always started with the clip of him at Howard Stern, jaw ticking while he tried to keep his composure: ‘Excuse the fuck out of me, what did you just say about my wife? Do you wanna lose your fuckin’ teeth?’ The comments were always flooded with a mess of young people losing their shit: ‘god i’ve seen what you’ve done for others’ ‘stopppp he’s obsessed with her’ ‘@vidawn i hope your mom can fight’ ‘@vannywayne @vidawn i’m five years younger than u but i would be a great step dad’ ‘when is someone gonna fight howard stern FOR ME?’ ‘@vannywayne @vidawn they’re thirsting over your dad again’ ‘i’m banging on the walls of my enclosure’ 'ewwww we hate cheaters' ‘i NEED to fuck him’ ‘@vannywayne you look EXACTLY the same’ ‘are they looking for a third?’ 'idgi he looks dirty' ‘they are notttttt making them like him anymore’ ‘not him being old enough to be my father i’m sick’

“Obviously,” she snaps back, rolling his eyes when he starts touching himself up for the camera. 

“Should I do a couple of push ups so I look buff or…?” he teases. Violet and Van make a face that puts any face you’ve given him to shame. It’s the only regret he has about having kids with you – all that attitude had to go somewhere. 

“Fine, fine,” he huffs, “I’m ready for my close up, Vi.” 

“You’re so cheesy, dad. Just be normal for like, five seconds,” Violet huffs, taking out her phone again, “You’re ready?” 

“M’ready,” he smiles. “Okay, so, what’re you doing?” Violet asks again. 

“I am making pancakes,” he starts, pouring red better into the cookie cutter mold on the pan this time, “In a heart shape, for your mom.” 

“How long have you been doing this?” she asks, a smile spreading across her face. It matches her dads. There was no mistaking that Violet was Eddie Munson’s daughter. 

“Since we got together, so – the first one was in 1990,” he muttered, flipping the pancake, “I do it every year ‘cause she loves it. They’re strawberry, but they’re pink and red ‘cause I put food coloring in them.” 

“Is Valentine’s Day her favorite holiday?” 

Eddie grins, “No, her favorite holiday is the fourth of July. Not ‘cause she’s got a boner for America or anything. She just likes fireworks and when I use the grill.” “Is it your favorite holiday?” Van asks this time. Eddie nods, a bright blush pushing up on his face. 

“How come?” Violet and Van ask at the same time. Eddie turns the burner off, placing the heaping plate of heart shaped pancakes on the center of the island. He opens the wine cooler on the opposite wall, pulling out a bottle of champagne and two flutes from the top cabinet.

“‘Cause I get to spoil your mom all day,” he smiles, “She deserves it.” 

“You spoil her every day,” Van teases, “I can’t think of a more doted on woman on earth than mom.” 

“She’s very special,” he shrugs. 

“And you do this every year?” Violet asks, zooming in on the pancakes. 

“Every year for the past thirty four years, well, minus ninety-two,” he frowns a little, “We had some time apart that year.” 

“Still had my chef make them for me though.” 

Your voice cuts in from the large arch way connecting to the dining room and Violet pans quickly over to get you in frame. 

“Hi mom,” Vi says, “Is this your favorite holiday?” 

“No,” you shake your head and laugh, the same laugh he fell in love with, “It’s the fourth of July. C’mon Vi, how long have I been your mom? Do you even know me?” “You’re supposed to be in bed, honey,” Eddie frowns, “You’re ruining the surprise.” 

“The surprise that’s older than my kids? How could I forget,” you grin, rounding the island and greeting your husband with a gentle kiss, “Happy Valentine’s day.” 

“Happy Valentine’s day, baby,” he murmurs into a second chaste peck, “You’re supposed to let me bring them up to you.” 

“My kids are home, I don’t wanna spend all day in bed,” you pout. He pouts back dramatically, tugging on your arm to pull you flush against his chest. 

“I thought you loved spending all day in bed with me,” he pushes some of your hair back before resting a palm on your cheek, moving in to kiss you deeply. The scruff on his chin scratches around your mouth but you never care because he still kisses you, he kisses you every day. He’d kiss you all day if you let him. You had too many girlfriends whose ex-husbands were on their third wife and every year they’re more surprised that Eddie is still on his first.

“Okay, I think that’s our cue to leave,” Van says, Violet stops recording. Their faces sour.  

“Yeah we don’t want a January ‘94 repeat or anything,” Vi jokes. The twins high five at their own mean reference to your horrific sex tape debacle, but you and Eddie toss them a playful glare. 

“Hey, she might be your mother, but she’s my wife,” Eddie warns, hand sneaking down to rest on the small of your back to pull you close to him, “Don’t mess with her.” 

“Yeah,” you tease, crossing your arms, “You saw what he did to Howie’s studio. I just gotta say the word.” 

“So scary,” Violet rolls her eyes, leaving the kitchen with her twin in tow, “We’re taking the Jeep to get Jamba Juice, do you want anything?” 

“My usual,” you answer while Eddie goes to the fridge to get grapefruit juice out of the fridge, “And get daddy’s usual too. Do you want his card? Where’s your card, hun?”

“Wherever you last left it,” he responds, gracefully pouring grapefruit mimosas for the both of you. 

“It’s in my purse,” you call out. 

“Which one?!” Violet calls back, both of them waiting by the door. 

“The pink Kelly!” 

“Got it! Do you want anything else?” Van calls out. 

“Just uh,” Eddie giggles to himself, tossing you a once over, “Take your time!” 

“Gross!” they yell back in unison. Eddie waits for the door to close to pull you back into him, he watches you at first. Brown eyes cascading over the slope of your nose, your cheeks, the crinkles at the edge of your eyes, your smile lines. He looks at you like he’s looking at you for the first time, every time. He looks different, but the same. Dark curls smattered and entwined in silver, a nose ring, a never ending scratch of overgrown stubble. Deep lines on his forehead that exaggerate his already animated features. Lips still full and warm, hands still big and covered in rings. He’s kept his body real tight for fifty-seven, still throwing himself in the gym daily. ‘If I’m gonna be addicted to something now it might as well be like, my cardiovascular health, babe.’ His crows feet make him somehow more attractive, his smile got better with age. He still makes your heart race when he catches your eye from across the room. “You wearing that little red thing I like?” he purrs in your ear. The tie to your robe sliding between his inked fingers.

“Maybe,” your finger trails over a tattoo on his bicep, “Maybe, I got something new for you to see. Maybe it’s black, maybe it’s strappy. Maybe it’s that thing you saw when we went shopping last week.” 

“Christ,” he huffs, pressing a kiss to your cheek before stepping back over to the counter, “Do you ever stop getting hotter? Eat your breakfast before I bend you over this bar stool.” 

“Let’s bring it upstairs like you wanted,” you smile, following him closely to press your hips up against him, “We can get a little messy.” 

“Yeah?” he growls, pushing part of your robe away to see a peek of black lace and strappy leather, “Fucking god, Stell.” 

“C’mon,” you whisper breathily, pushing up on your tiptoes to kiss him again, “They’ll be home soon.” 

Some things have changed, some things remain the same. He still fucks you like a rockstar.

[blueywrites]

I Will Wait

a soulmate!fakemarriage!au with rockstar!eddie and personalassistant!reader (also featuring ronance)

cowritten by @abibliophobiaa, @blue-mossbird, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, and @fracturedarkness

18+ only for mature themes and eventual sexual content. fem!reader

one (9.9k) | next | masterlist | AO3 | 🎵 shmackin' tunes

in this universe, there is no upside down, the year is 1995, and corroded coffin = nine inch nails. if you didn't check out the prequel publications (hot off the press on our series masterlist), make sure you do, since they provide important backstory for the IWW universe! read them carefully; there are secrets. 😉

Your mind is a buzzing whirl, just like that of the streets of New York City below, visible through the thick glass of your apartment window. Below, where you can hear the blare of honking horns, can see people loitering on the side of the road, hands waving high in an attempt to hail one of the taxis rushing past. You watch as people dart across busy intersections, dodging oncoming cars, scattering like ants across criss-crossed streets that teem with activity even in the dead of night.

It’s a constant, a comfort, something you can cling to as anticipation bubbles and wells in your gut. 

Outside, the sun is beginning its slow descent; glowing bright skies begin to deepen into a powdery orange, hinting at a day starting to close. Your fingers press against the window, a mental note already forming to clean it once you step away, eyes peering out into the bustling city streets. You work your way down the mental list once more: dishes washed, already set aside in the drying rack; laundry ironed and folded, pressed neatly into your drawers in categorical order; counters wiped down, shades dusted, furniture polished; dishwasher emptied, cups, plates, bowls and utensils placed in proper cabinets; AOL inbox checked, your confirmation for the time you would be meeting your new boss responded to, while the rest of the emails were placed into proper folders or deleted completely.

You’ve already changed your outfit three times. Laid multiple options out on your bed and ironed them all. You had held them to your body in the reflection of your bedroom mirror and tossed them into a heap at the foot of your bed. This wasn’t just any day, after all. The importance isn’t lost on you. This isn’t like any of your temp jobs that came before it. This is the first you’ll be working alongside someone with undeniable notoriety in the music space. 

A celebrity, really. 

“I can see your mind working, you know?” Angela, your roommate, glances up from where she sits at your kitchen island. There’s a magazine in front of her with some likely-falsified article about the newest Hollywood “IT” couple on display, dressed to the nines with glowing, airbrushed features. Her nails tap along the countertop, stark red against pale cream, as she arches a brow in your direction.

You’re already walking into the kitchen to join her, skirt sliding against your tight-clad thighs as you reach down beneath the sink to grab a bottle of windex, sights set on the fingerprints on your floor-to-ceiling windows. She twists in the chair while you rustle about, ignoring her as you grasp paper towels from the rack.

“This is a good thing,” she says, sighing with an exasperated shake of the head. Your reflection obscures for a brief moment, replaced by blue spray, before you wipe your lingering prints away. “You’ve wanted to travel for so long. You know, see the world and all of that. This is your opportunity to do it. And shit, it beats working for that asshat you used to deal with. What was his name again?” 

You slip back into the kitchen to throw the towel away, heels clacking against tile. “Carver,” you reply, just as the lid to the garbage falls closed. You lean back against the countertop, smoothing your sweaty palms along the sides of your skirt. “Pretty sure anyone would be better than him. I still can’t believe that Mr. Harrington came to the office looking to mitigate all that tension between Mr. Munson and Jason by trying to partner up Carver Distilleries and Corroded Coffin for a commercial, and Jason went and ruined it by running his mouth. I wish you could have seen it, Ange. Mr. Harrington was so disgusted with how he behaved, he extinguished the deal completely right there in his office.”

“Exactly, because even he knows that man is vile,” she sighs with a pout, her form slipping down from off of one of your shoddy barstools, curly blonde hair swaying around her shoulders as she walks. You snort when her hands curl around your forearms, shaking you lightly. “What did your new boss say? Something about you being more than equipped to handle this position? Didn’t he, oh I don’t know, request you specifically for his client? You’re going to be fine; in fact, you’re going to be wonderful. If there’s anyone in this world who can handle the notorious Eddie Munson, I think it’s you.”

With a newly restored confidence, you set to the bustling streets of Manhattan, sights poised on the recording studio address you were given. You thought your first day might start with something akin to an office introduction. Something, at the very least, a little less imposing than this. But you double checked your email from Mr. Harrington before you left and printed the directions that now sat clutched tight within your hands. 

The building that stands before you at the end of your trek looms arresting and proud in the midst of the bodies swarming around you. Your eyes lift hesitantly to the glass door, your mirrored reflection leaping back at you. Angela’s words ring true in your ears; you are more than adequately equipped. You wouldn’t be invited here if it were not fate itself beckoning at your door. With a resigned exhale, your fingers twine around the cool, metal handle and step inside. 

Schmackin’ Records is a world unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. From the moment your feet hit the mat at the front door, company logo etched into it, you know you’re no longer sitting at the front desk of Carver Distilleries. Your head tilts upward to the records dangling from the ceiling, then lower to the endless sprawling walls littered with posters boasting of accolades achieved by the success of the artists that have roamed these halls. You’re struck with the realization that you’re standing in the shadows of legends that have also trailed this path before you. 

This— this place and this moment, are your current reality. 

“You wouldn’t happen to be the new assistant, would you?” The woman at the front desk catches your attention. Your head whirls, fingers slipping from where they rest along a glass case affixed to the wall, proclaiming a recently obtained platinum record. Her face softens at your visible nervousness. “Sorry to scare you, dear.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine! I’m… ah, I’m actually here to meet with Mr. Steve Harrington. He gave me this address….” You hold aloft the directions in your hand, heart dancing in your chest as your heeled shoes propel you over to where she sits behind a glass panel. The woman before you glimpses down at your directions printed from MapQuest with a pitying grin, her head bobbing before her fingers clack away on her keyboard. 

“That’s right! Hold on one moment, sweetie.” You open your mouth to speak as she lifts a phone from its receiver and dials a number quickly. You can faintly hear a voice on the other end. “Mr. Harrington? Yes, this is Joyce speaking. Mr. Munson’s new assistant is here looking for you… okay— yes, that’s fine. Thank you, yes— I’ll let her know. Goodbye.” 

Your legs plant beneath you firmly, shoulders ramrod straight, head tilted up in anticipation of your new role. Joyce only resumes in her typing, head tilted down toward her computer screen, leaving you to simmer alone in the tense silence. 

“Mr. Harrington will meet you on floor five. Just take that elevator down this hall on your left,” she says, head lifting abruptly from her work. 

“Thank you!” 

Somehow, the directions only bring you more nervousness. The knowledge that all that stands before you and your new role is five floors. A short elevator ride. Merely a few moments in time remain stretched between you and the catapult into a lifestyle you’ve only seen on television prior to this opportunity. 

Your shoes clack against the laminate flooring, a foreboding tap tap tap as you shuffle your way down the short hallway and press the call button for your elevator. The doors open with a soft ping, heart ricocheting against your ribcage as you step inside and the silver metal closes behind you. Hesitant fingers raise to press the number five, the circle bursting to life and illuminating your selection. You step into the center of the room, hands clasped at your side, eyes ahead of you on your distorted reflection upon the surface. 

You settled on a simple outfit for the day. Something pristine and professional. A thin black long-sleeved shirt, pale gray tweed skirt, black tights, and dark heels. Simple and understated, though still maintaining your own preferences for stylistic choices. Those same clothes cling to you now. Your tights suddenly seem too tight, heels increasingly pinchy around the back of your heel, skirt prickly and coarse against your thighs, the neck of your sweater digging into your throat. You’re parched, though you doubt any amount of water would assist you now. 

The door opens to reveal sprawling wooden walls, as well as the figure of Steve Harrington standing before you in a pair of slacks and a simple button up. He looks exceedingly kind just as he did the first time you met him. Dark, depthless eyes with a wide grin spread across finely hewn features. His fingers card through his hair as you step out to greet him, hand coming to extend before you at the ready. 

“You’re here! Oh, thank god.” He shakes your hand briefly and nudges you toward the opening of a hallway, those endless panels of wooden walls surrounding you on either side. The voice that spills from him in a rush is a frantic murmur of, “I’m sorry to have contacted you on such notice. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble—”

“Oh, not at all, Mr. Harrington,” you interrupt, swallowing thickly as he pauses in stride. “Sorry.”

“No, no. Please, call me Steve. Mr. Harrington is what people call my father,” he says, smiling softly. There’s a comfort in his gaze, a warmth that oozes from him. The tightness in your chest loosens, a deep breath pouring out. “We’ve… well, his last assistant quit abruptly, you see, and therefore we were obviously left with no notice. So when you said you could start as soon as possible, it was almost a godsend.”

Your hands grip tighter to the band of your pocketbook draped over your shoulder, leather still cool from the afternoon air. “I’m here for whatever you need, Mr. Ha— Steve.”

The hallway leads to a door, dark and imposing, with a wide silver handle. His fingers curl around it and hesitate, head turning over his shoulder to gauge your expression. The worrying of your lip pauses, teeth releasing from their tense position against your skin. Your mouth quirks upward into a hopeful smile, willing those nerves bubbling to subside. 

“What exactly have you heard about Eddie Munson?” he asks you. 

You know he’s not expecting a true answer. Not really. You’ve done minimal research. A quick Yahoo search brings up more articles than you know what to do with in reference to the infamous Eddie Munson. Most of which had brought you to pages detailing his altercation at the Grammy Awards in 1994 and the numerous escapades he’s gotten himself into in the course of his still newly established stardom, as well as his whirlwind romance with his wife. 

“Not much,” you admit, and while it is the truth, Steve seems to deflate a bit. 

His shoulders drop, hand coming to run through that full head of dark hair on him once more. That easy demeanor shifts, mouth turning southward. “Eddie is… he means well. He’s just— well, he’s gone through a few assistants in the past few months, as you know. In the few years I’ve known him, I can tell you with certainty he is dedicated to his craft, but he tends to veer into the wilder aspects of life. What he needs right now is someone who can handle him, and I truly believe that person is you.”

You feel your stomach drop. Initially, when Steve had offered you the position, he boasted of a fast-paced role that required adaptability. Your previous job had been nothing but back to back phone calls, fielding all the incoming clients and their questions, managing the schedules of your manager, and ensuring all issues were handled accordingly. 

Babysitting a rockstar hadn’t exactly been on your agenda; yet even despite all of that, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity and had accepted the job offer. 

“And the others?” you question, hand coming to rub along your bicep.

“I wouldn’t worry about it so much,” Steve says with a shake of his head. “You handled Carver. Eddie should be a breeze.”

Carver Distilleries was not your ideal job, but it was the job you acquired shortly after a brief stint as an administrative assistant for a local community college. The company touted a prolific background of over thirty years in business and you jumped at the prospect. It had been straightforward enough most days. The phones rang around the clock and you handled the calls as expected, passed them off to their proper channels, and made sure the son of the CEO was happy at all times. 

Jason Carver was, to put it lightly, the devil’s incarnate. Most days you wondered if he’d been placed in this life for the sole purpose of bringing suffering to all those around him, with a pitchfork in one hand and tail swishing behind him as he stomped through the halls of the building. 

You couldn’t recall off the top of your head a day wherein he had ever been happy. Shockingly so for someone born from wealth and thrusted into the limelight, silver spoon in mouth at birth. Jason was proof that money hardly ever solved all problems.

He reigned as the crowned Prince of the company, his father’s shining star, who never raised his finger to do anything. For years, he rode on the back of his father’s coattails and treated those around them like they were beneath him, nose always upturned, sneer firmly planted on his face. 

That evening you were already overwhelmed. There was an issue down in the marketing department regarding a mixup in schedules, leaving the Carver’s seated next to a family they didn’t particularly have positive dealings with at an upcoming gala. To add to the rising tension, Jason sent you on an errand to retrieve his requested cappuccino. Light foam, two sugars, extra hot. When you’d returned, he was still in a meeting with some of his fathers business executives, hidden behind a glass door. You left the cup for him there, as requested of you, and rushed back to the front desk just as Mr. Steve Harrington walked into the building. 

He’d come in looking like any other businessman you’d seen grace the building in the past. Perfectly tailored suit and tie, briefcase in hand, hair coiffed neatly atop his head. Steve Harrington, though young, harnessed a professionalism about him that Jason Carver lacked. There were no sneers aimed your way as he approached the desk and greeted you pleasantly, nor did he scoff at the hand you’d extended in greeting, welcoming him with a soft thanks. 

“Mr. Carver is just finishing up another meeting and will be out to retrieve you,” you advise him, walking out from behind your desk. “Would you like coffee, water… tea?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” he says, holding his briefcase tighter within his palm as he made his way over to the small couch positioned across from you, nestled beside a potted plant. You retreated back to your desk as he pulled a phone from his pocket, voice rising just enough to ask, “Do you happen to have—”

“What is this?!” Jason’s voice boomed from down the hall. 

A loud thump echoed from his office, likely from something he’d tossed off his desk in frustration, and you knew well enough to duck behind the covering of your work space. You frantically thumbed the spacebar on your computer to bring it back to life, assuring everyone in your vicinity that you appeared occupied as a shock of blonde hair filled your peripheral. He’d bursted into the room with the dejected coffee in hand, hair strewn about messily atop, eyes narrowed in heedless anger. 

Your eyes flickered to the cup, then settled back on the opened email on your desktop computer. The subject line held a request for a flower arrangement you were set to purchase for Jason’s wife, Chrissy, because he couldn’t be bothered to do it himself. 

You let out a soft sigh and explained, “It’s the coffee you asked for.”

His nostrils flared like a bull, the embers burning behind his eyes glowing brighter. “I know it’s the coffee I asked for. I don't pay you to answer me with that sarcastic bullshit—”

“Mr. Carver—” The rise of your voice caught you both off guard, only further angering him. 

His eyes narrowed, brows knitted tight across the middle of his forehead, vein pulsing against taut skin growing redder by the second. “I asked for a cappuccino with light foam, two sugars, and asked that you make sure it’s extra hot. This isn’t extra hot. This isn’t even warm. It’s cold.”

“Yes, Mr. Carver. It was hot when I left it on your desk two hours ago. Would you like me to go and get you another one?” You try your best to retain a neutral tone. You’re aware of Steve’s eyes trailing along both your forms, interrupted from his own work by your increasingly heated argument. 

He barked out an incredulous laugh, head shaking. “No, I don't want you to get me another coffee. You should have known my meeting would run long and planned accordingly. I don’t know where you get the nerve to talk to me like you are when you seem to have forgotten you are no more than a rece—”

“Mr. Carver.” You both paused at the finality of your tone, throat filled with the bitter taste of the degradation he attempted to throw your way. “Your two thirty meeting for the Tennessee Maple Whiskey commercial is here.”

He clicked his tongue, shooting a glower your way. You already anticipated a meeting in his office later wherein he reminded you of all the reasons why your behavior was unacceptable and why you were lucky to still have a position at Carver Distilleries. 

“Fine. Mr. Harrington, give me one moment and I will call you back into my office. I just need to finish running something by my father. As for you—” His eyes darted back to your form. “—I will deal with you later.”

You exhaled a heavy sigh of relief as the blonde haired man sauntered back down the hall, leaving you to the comfort of your generally quiet front desk. Steve still lingered there, one hand curled around his phone, the other lifting the briefcase he held off his lap to set it in the seat beside him. You watched as he rose to his feet and dropped his phone within his pocket, gliding over to your desk with a small white card in hand. 

You didn’t need to read the words there to know what he’d slid across your desk. It was an instantaneous understanding, the knowledge of a new opportunity, of a way out from beneath the weight of the man who wanted nothing more than to rule with an iron fist and remind others that they were all beneath him. 

He glanced briefly down the hall to ensure no one was listening and leveled his gaze with yours, voice a quieted whisper as he said, “You work well under pressure. Carver is… well, Carver’s an ass. I can offer you more money, if you happen to be looking for another job. You could travel the world working for me instead of sitting behind this desk. Let me know.” 

Standing before Steve, you feel the questions swirling of the validity of the hope he’d placed inside of you. Had it been premature? He’d only seen one encounter between your prior manager and yourself. That was hardly enough to base a whole career off of, and yet his fingers tighten around the door handle all the same, ready to pull it forward and open you up to a world of newness beckoning you. 

Your sweaty palms slide down the sides of your tweed skirt, fabric rustling about your thighs as you step nearer to the door, hardening your resolve. 

It’s now or never, you suppose. 

“Remember,” Steve warns, just as you move to step inside the recording studio. “He means well. I should also warn that he can tend to be a little… flirtatious. But I would try and pay it no mind. You’re going to be great.”

The room inside is grandiose. Roof to floor wooden paneling shrouds everything in a honey warmth. There are a couple of couches near the far wall, one of which seemingly occupied, and a coffee table that sits in front of it. You catch the slow glug of a water dispenser in the distance, nearest to a coffee station in preparation of the long night that lies ahead of you all. To your right is an open closet, then further still a bathroom. The room itself is dim, lights adjusted for a cozier feel. Intimate and fitting for the tracks that are to be laid today. 

The same room, previously full of echoing laughter and vibrant conversation, fizzles into deafening silence as Steve leads you into the room, calling out, “Guys, there’s someone I'd like you to meet!” The announcement has every eye in the room darting your way, faces drawn tight to get a sight of the newest visitor. Only you’re not a visitor, because one of these men is about to be your new client. Steve turns to you then, hand lightly brushing your shoulder to nudge you forward as he says, “This right here is the new assistant, Y/N.”

A round of introductory greetings reach your ears, your voice full of certainty as you return them. “It’s great to finally meet you all.” However, you’ve yet to capture the elusive image of your client, as two of the band members stand closely together, obscuring him from your direct field of view.

Steve continues, “This is Gareth Parsons, drummer of Corroded Coffin.”

The first of the group steps forward. His shaggy head of brown hair flops as he moves, reaching forward with an extended hand in greeting. The warmth of his palm fills the space within your own, squeezing lightly. You feel a little bit of that boiling tension dissipate, the weight on your chest at the notion of a room full of new people unintentionally judging you lightening. 

His voice is kind, edged with humor as he says teasingly, “Nice to finally meet Eddie’s new babysitter.”

The next band member makes himself known. He has dark skin, dark hair and lovely brown eyes, full of a kindness that has your mind easing further. Those same comforting eyes flash quickly to his bandmate, a stern flicker of his warm gaze resting on Gareth’s, the latter of the two huffing from his nose.  

“Behave,” Jeff warns, voice a low murmur that has Gareth resigning to his defeat. That warm hand releases from your own and he steps back enough into the fold of the remaining members to allow Jeff to step forward. “The name’s Jeff. I’m on rhythm guitar and synth. It’s so nice to meet you.” He flashes you a white smile, and you can’t help the grin that blooms across your features at his easy acceptance of your presence. 

“Thank you,” you say, truly grateful that the first two introductions have thus far proceeded smoothly. “Both of you.”

Seemingly pleased with how things are processing, Steve clears his throat. “So that’s Jeff, who you’ve now met. And then you’ve got Harry, who would be the bassist of Corroded Coffin.”

Harry steps forward, his hulking frame shadowing your own, to shake your hand. You lock your hand within his and he opens his mouth to work over the words he’s going to say when a voice cuts through the silence. 

“The name is Harry Cox. And if you’re nice to him, maybe he’ll show it to you.”

“Eddie, fuckin’ really?” Jeff asks brusquely, whirling around in the Eddie Munson’s direction.

You’re not sure what to expect as the men shift and separate, bodies moving one by one to reveal the figure that’s so far remained hidden from your view. In theory, you’ve seen pictures of him. One would have to be living under a rock to not have come across a photograph of Eddie Munson somewhere. The infamous photo of the men standing around you, dated back to when they were teenagers, boyish frames huddled together in the halls of their high school before they had skyrocketed to fame at a trajectory no one ever anticipated; the clippings from not so flattering headlines showing his swift rise and downfall, leaving him on thin ice; the photos documenting his hasty nuptials to his actress wife. However, none of those compare to the intimidating figure that commands the presence of everyone around him as your hesitant eyes clash with his beneath the dark shroud of his sunglasses. 

Your eyes settle on the dark swath of ripped jeans over coltish limbs. Black material stretches tight over sinewy muscle, thighs splayed out in front of him, scuffed Doc Martens thrown carelessly against the cherry wood of the coffee table. Your eyes start the slow crawl upward, tracking along black shirt stretched over his broad chest, with an equally dark leather jacket hugging his biceps. His arms rest over the top of the couch, a confident sprawl of elongated limbs against plush cushions. His face is almost feline, predatory and intimidating, most of the upper portion of his face obscured by those aviator sunglasses. The parts you can see are striking: lengthy, wavy hair that falls to his shoulders, soft and feathery against the leather jacket; those long fingers adorned with silver rings pushed flush against knuckles, broad hands covered in intricate tattoos; the pale skin over high cheekbones, an indent on his cheek that hints at a dimple if he weren't looking your way in disdain; full lips, soft nose, and the slightest hint of shadow along his jaw. 

The Eddie Munson portrayed in the tabloids Angela had showed you over the years pales in comparison to the man that sits before you. This man oozes presence— owns this sort of magnetism that pulls the attention onto him in the center of the room with the mere sound of his voice. 

“And that would be Eddie Munson, lead singer and guitarist for Corroded Coffin,” Steve explains, the arresting presence of the man sitting on the couch in front of you rooting you in place. 

Gareth coughs out a quiet, “Resident douche.” 

Jeff shoots him another scathing look. It’s enough of a distraction to draw your attention away from your new client, uneasy laughter welling up from you. Your stare drifts momentarily to Steve, his warm smile easing your tension, hand unfurling in front of him. The gesture has you faltering, understanding his intent is for you to make a proper introduction. 

You shuffle your way toward the man, disregarding the way he barely even acknowledges your presence within the room. He’s not once moved, back pressing further into the curve of couch cushions, eyes peering up over at you through the top of his sunglasses. Dark and depthless, an endless swirl of ink, devoid of any emotion that might give you insight into how he thinks this initial meeting is going. You hear it then in the vestiges of your mind. A soft howl, nearly imperceptible—the whisper of wind in the distance, echoing in your ears. A warning, an insinuation of something to come. Still, your hand stretches into the spaces between you, left to linger in the open air.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Munson.” Your voice remains firm— unwavering, despite the fact that he dismisses your hand.

Jeff scoffs from beside you, head shaking slightly as his foot comes to shove Eddie’s off of where they rest against the wooden surface. They hit the ground with a dull thud, though Eddie’s posture remains lax, facade unwavering. “She’s talking to you.”  

Eddie remains silent for a time, those dark eyes sliding up over the top of his sunglasses, voice hollow as he mutters, “You can call me ‘Sir.’” It’s innocent enough until the corners of his lips tug into a salacious smirk, fingers moving to push his sunglasses further up onto the bridge of his nose, head tipping upward a bit so he’s now level with your unrelenting stare. You worked with Jason long enough to understand this game, the ploy to see if you’ll break at the first sight of tension, and you’re not falling into that trap now. 

You take a step closer, hand hovering in air untouched, voice unyielding. “I’ll call you Mr. Munson, or Eddie. Take your pick.” 

Gareth chuckles at your left, but your eyes remain focused on Eddie in your battle of stares. Him, veiled through darkened lenses, and you in your refusal to grant him the satisfaction of looking away for even one moment and admitting defeat. You hear that soft howling again, a quiet whir in your ears, just as Steve claps his hands and a new man enters from the recording room, voice slicing the strained silence. “This right here is Argyle. He’s the producer and sound engineer working on this project. Today, the guys will be laying down the tracks for their latest album, so you’ll be here to take care of anything Eddie might need in the interim.” 

Your head turns, breath catching at the unexpected arms that loop around your shoulder, fingers reaching up to press against the hawaiian print on his shirt, those long strands of his dark hair smooth beneath your fingertips. He steps back to take you in, head bobbing animatedly as he says, “Nice to meet you, my dude—dudette. I’m the king of this music castle here. Can’t say I’ll be of much assistance, but if you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask.” His greeting concluded, Argyle meanders back over to his seat again, contentedly rocking the swivel chair back and forth with his feet.

There’s a sudden creak of leather that draws your attention; Steve runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the waves as his gaze darts from you to Eddie, who’s now rising from the couch. Eddie cracks his neck to the side, finally pulling off the aviators and dropping them haphazardly to the coffee table, where they skitter before meeting the magazine stack beside you. You push the top one back into place with the tip of your finger.

“Call me if you need me,” your boss says, one broad hand landing on Argyle’s shoulder, crinkling the Hawaiian print. “Good luck,” he mutters, patting him twice before moving toward the studio door.

You aren’t sure who Steve had been wishing luck to, but since his parting words don’t seem to phase the producer, you figure they must have been meant for you. 

The heavy door thumps closed after him, echoing through the silent room. You can feel almost everyone's eyes on you— the outlier, the new variable in this equation, the only one here who doesn't have a pre-existing role in the narrative. As your gaze darts from one man to another in the span of that brief silence, you see a variety of expressions: curiosity, pleasantness, neutrality. But only one expression truly matters, and of course, unfortunately, it’s the expression of the only man whose gaze is averted as if reluctant to acknowledge you.

You take a moment to study your client now that you can clearly see his face, and what you see does not fill you with confidence. Eddie Munson's eyes are large and brown and framed by long, soft lashes, but there is only hardness in his dark stare. The crinkled lines at their corners would be charming, but they're wrinkled in a critical squint, not with a smile. Instead, though his lips are plush and pink, they're twisted in a faint sneer as he gazes at the plexiglass of the recording room, decidedly away from you.

He means well, Steve had said. But you can't help but think that this man doesn't look like he means anything but ill will towards you, his new assistant. Despite the welcome from others around you, it's making those new-job jitters deepen.

In the middle of your examination, those dark eyes—very suddenly and unexpectedly— flick to yours.

It's an impact you couldn't have braced for. Instantly, a rush of prickling heat crawls up your spine as if Eddie is looking through you, past skin and bone and muscle, straight to your very center. It’s a look that pins you down, flays you open, leaving you entirely exposed in its disapproval.

Blessedly, because of the time you'd worked with Jason Carver, you have perfected your customer service poker face. There is no outward appearance of your inward reaction, aside from the dampening of your palms; smoothly, you run them down textured tweed in the guise of fixing wrinkles before clearing your throat lightly.

It does the trick. The room, which had been suspended in silence following Steve's departure, suddenly stirs as Argyle spins in the chair to face you all fully, folding his hands over his belly. “Well, all right, brochachos,” he says, nodding slowly, his long curtain of black hair swaying as he does. “You ready to record some shit?”

"Fuck yeah, dude," Gareth answers immediately, pushing up from his knees, an enthusiastic smirk splitting his face as he leads the way to the recording room. Harry follows next, his hulking form shuffling from behind the coffee table. He pauses before reaching you as if he's afraid to enter your space; you shift quickly, moving closer to the coffee table to make more room as he fits himself around you. 

"'Scuse me," he mumbles, and the gentle baritone of his voice coupled with the tiny tinge of pink on his cheeks makes you smile. 

"No, I'm sorry," you're quick to assure him, "I was in the way." 

He smiles shyly back as he passes by you, pausing by the recording room door to let Jeff enter first.

Distracted as you were by the exchange, you’re hit with a tiny spike of panic when you realize Eddie has begun to follow them, seemingly with no intention to address you again. It would leave you adrift with no direction— no inkling at all of what you can do to assist him, especially as Argyle already said he won't be much help— and that makes you act hastily. Impulsively.

Your body tilts forward, jerking after him, and your hand flutters out of its own accord, stopping just shy from making contact with his jacketed elbow. Eddie stops abruptly as his eyes dart to you; he squints as his gaze flicks down to your outstretched fingers. Your cheeks heat as you feel almost chastised, but you don’t let your embarrassment show. Instead, you let your hand drop, looking evenly into his dark brown eyes as you ask, “How can I best assist you right now, Mr. Munson? Is there anything in particular you'd like me to do?”

His stare sharpens, plush lips curving in the whisper of a smirk. “You a fan, sweetheart?” He asks, voice gritty with smoke and a quiet smugness as if he already knows the answer. 

You keep Steve’s words in your mind, his warning about Eddie’s potential flirtatiousness. The shift— from thinly-veiled disdain to this— is jarring, but you figure it's probably meant to throw you off. “Of you or of Corroded Coffin?” you ask, expression carefully schooled to neutrality. Eddie's smirk tightens at the corners, grows a little more defined, but you continue before he can respond. “If I’m honest,” you tell him, “I’m not really well-acquainted with your music.”

His brows jerk, and when his eyes scan down your body before returning to yours, they’re narrowed again. “Let me guess. You’re a TLC girl? A little Backstreet Boys groupie?” 

There’s a heavy shade of judgment in his voice that tells you he isn’t really interested in learning the answer, only in confirming for himself that your musical taste leaves much to be desired. You can't deny that the implication rankles you. You bristle at the thought that he presumes to know you when you've only just met, that he considers you lacking before you've given any reason for him to. The injustice of it makes you rush hot again, but not with nerves— with irritation. 

Still, you maintain that mask of professionalism. You don’t let it show. “No,” you reply evenly, meeting his gaze dead-on, unhesitant and unashamed to share your preferences. “More like Smashing Pumpkins. Hole, too.” You ignore how his expression suddenly glints with salaciousness. “Though I do also appreciate harder stuff. Like Alice in Chains, for example,” you add, following it up with a small, polite smile. And it's true— you do appreciate some metal, despite it not being your go-to. It's not as though you don't like Corroded Coffin's music on principle.

But this answer doesn’t seem to excite him. Instead, Eddie’s sharp gaze dulls slightly as you refuse to play into his game. “Right,” he says, expression easing for the first time. “Well then, I do have something you can do for me, sweetheart.”

Pet name aside, it's the most pleasant he's sounded so far, and you brighten, having expected him to put up more resistance. Maybe all you needed to do was show that you were truly here to help him. 

"Okay," you say, face expectant as you await his instruction.

Eddie’s lips twitch up into a tiny, crooked smile. “You see that door over there?” He flicks his finger lazily toward one of two narrow doors on the far wall, set into the wood paneling. You nod obediently, and he leans in, eyes wide and brows tugged up, pitching his voice low and soft like he’s coaching you through something secretive. “Well, inside, there’s a box. A box of all our recordings. Yeah?” 

He waits until you nod again, a little more hesitantly this time. “What you can do for me is go in that box and listen to everything inside. Every album, every EP, every demo. Even the shitty garage recordings. Even the b-sides.” He pauses, tipping his chin down. And though he doesn't raise his voice, its softness sharpens to granite. “Because I’ll be goddamned if my personal assistant doesn’t even know my music.” 

Your face was too eager for him not to notice the way it falls, and Eddie straightens, putting distance between you as he stuffs his hands in his back pockets, elbows jutting in satisfaction. That ghost of a smirk returns as he pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, raising his chin and leveling you with one last look through his long, feathered lashes before he turns away.

His clear dismissal sinks into your chest, and you huff lightly through your nose, rushing with disappointment. Almost as if he can sense the crack in you, he whips back around abruptly; it startles you, and your spine straightens as you jerk to attention. “When we’re done recording, there’ll be a quiz,” he says, and the sharp smile on his face becomes a threat.

You can't help it— a bit of nervousness leaks through your expression then. That seems to finally please him, and Eddie releases you from his dark gaze as he, at last, joins his bandmates in the recording room. The sound of instruments tuning surges before the glass door thumps closed behind him, muffling to silence again.

Now left alone with your task assigned, you turn toward Argyle a little helplessly. He’s gazing at you with an absent smile on his face, still in the same position with his hands folded on his belly, seeming entirely unphased by the contentiousness of your new client. You exhale a quick breath, using it as a reset before asking him, “Can I get a pair of headphones and a Walkman or something?"

"Certainly, my little dudette." He points toward the same door Eddie had indicated. “There’s bound to be some somewhere in that closet.”

Lovely. You nod slowly, flashing a quick smile through pursed lips. “Thank you,” you say before turning and making your way over to help yourself.

The interior of the closet is lit by a single dangling lightbulb, and despite the polished fixings and thorough decor of the recording studio itself, this room is bare-bones in its furnishings. Metal shelving crowds the narrow walls, and the floor is plain poured concrete, barren compared to the plush rug in the lounge area. Your heels clack hollowly as you edge tentatively into the space, avoiding loose cords until you’re standing in the center of the tiny room, directly under the lightbulb. Your hands plant on your hips as you survey your surroundings: shelves and shelves of identical cardboard boxes, all unlabeled aside from an occasional errant number or acronym that means nothing to you, some stacked three high.

Of course.

It takes a good half an hour to finally uncover the correct box. Thankfully, though the labels on the outside are useless, the contents within are masking-taped with far more descriptive labels, written in a messy but still legible scrawl. When you open the box, seeing ‘CC’ on the top CD case feels promising, and a little shuffling reveals some hand-drawn album artwork complete with a coffin and bats that can't be for anyone other than Corroded Coffin. With the correct box secured, you pick your way back to the closet door, setting it down to begin your search for a Walkman, some headphones, and a tape player, since you’d seen a couple of loose cassettes in there, too.

You’re nothing if not thorough. No one can ever accuse you of not doing your job.

When you re-emerge from the closet, the recording room behind the plexiglass is not peaceful like you’d left it. It looks like a television set put on mute as you see Gareth’s hair whipping, Jeff’s shoulders swaying, Harry’s nose scrunched in a concentrated grimace, and Eddie’s lips hugging the mic, pink crawling up the base of his neck, its cords stretched tight with effort. You avert your eyes to Argyle, whose long straight curtain of ink-black hair sways with each bob of his head, his ears enveloped by an oversized pair of fancy headphones. Everyone seems to be moving in time with one another, rocking to a rhythm you can’t hear, and the utter silence in the room combined with those frenetic movements strikes you as comical as you carry your box and its contents over to the smaller couch, placing it on the cushion beside you.

As instructed, you dig out each CD and cassette, organizing them methodically in chronological order and choosing to begin with the oldest one. The faded marker on the front tells you it’s from 1986, and the marker’s haphazard scrawl matches the scrawl of sound that blares from the tape deck when you slip the headphones over your ears and depress the play button. The sound is tinny, echo-y as if it’d been recorded in someone’s garage. And you suppose it probably was. Judging by the year, you figure they were probably still in high school or not far from it when they recorded this.

The Corroded Coffin of 1986 is not particularly remarkable. The kick drum holding the beat isn’t quite precise enough, and the bass is somewhat sloppy. Not every transition is tight; sometimes a beat that should be synchronized is just a split second too soon or late, whether guitar-strum or cymbal-strike. But there’s an unmistakable energy to the sound— a fervor, an insistence that demands you pay attention. You can feel that pouring-out of teenage aggression through the growls and licks and chugging of the guitars, through the lyrics sung in that voice that, though it sounds higher and less smoky than the voice you’d heard from your client today, is still unmistakable Eddie. Corroded Coffin has something to say, and you can’t help but listen.

Your gaze drifts up to the plexiglass of the recording room. Your eyes see them as men, but your ears hear them as boys. And you can almost picture them in that garage, surrounded by brightly-striped lawn chairs and deflated pool floaties, youthful bodies jerking and swaying with no less enthusiasm than what you see before you now. When you think about it, it’s kind of touching to imagine them as young boys with nothing but a dream. Clearly, it took years of effort to become what they are now. You watch Eddie’s long-lashed eyes scrunch closed and his dark curls cling to the sides of his jaw with sweat, and a sense of wistfulness wells up inside you as you think of your client as that boy in the garage, a boy who didn’t know what he’d eventually make of himself.

You’ve only heard three songs before the play button pops up, signaling the end of the tape. Quickly, you move to the next two— more garage recordings, all short and sounding similar— before you’ve exhausted the cassettes and are ready to begin on the CDs. The first is marked as a demo from 1988, so you know it’ll likely be longer than what you’ve listened to thus far. You slip it into the player, settling back against the cushions as you begin, eyes wandering over the wood-paneled walls as you imagine Corroded Coffin recording it right here seven years ago.

It begins with the ticking of cymbals, the clatter of the snare, and the whine of a guitar. Much more polished than the garage recordings but so unmistakably eighties in its sound that you can’t help but feel your lips curl up in a little deprecating grin. Still, your foot bobs along, and you end up listening to half of it before your curiosity for more overwhelms you. You switch to their debut studio album, which is what that demo eventually became, and that same song— now track  begins the same way— the ticking of cymbals mixed with a snare’s clatter, but you recognize the difference immediately.

This— this— is Corroded Coffin.

Eddie’s voice is grittier and deeper, and the band is tighter, and the addition of those grinding metallic sounds and the electronic synth parts, which have clearly evolved past that stereotypical pop-eighties style, create something truly special. You’d been truthful before when you told Eddie that you hadn’t listened to much of his music, but now that you are, you find it genuinely enjoyable. 

Time passes. Argyle’s head bobs, the guys grow sweatier, and your foot steadily bobs until Pretty Hate Machine concludes. And you should move on to the next EP, but you instead find yourself skipping back, back, back until the disc whirls in a blur of muted blue and pink and the first track starts again. You close your eyes and allow yourself to get lost in it until a muffled commotion of voices and thumps rouses you. It’s the guys exiting the recording room, chests heaving, shirts tacky against their chests, looking tired but pleased as they converge on Argyle in a tight circle. You watch their faces light up with smiles and eager chatter, smiling yourself as they seem all of a sudden more boyish for it. Even Eddie, whose visage was once marred with disdain for you, is grinning toothily; as the joy turns his dark eyes amber, you feel a tiny pang low in your stomach at the sight. 

Nuh-uh. None of that. 

It fades quickly under your quick dismissal, smothered by a reminder of the pride you take in your professionalism. He’s objectively attractive, sure. But he’s still your client, and nothing would change that.

Before long, the group around Argyle disperses. Gareth and Jeff wander towards the couches while Harry stops at the water cooler, gulping down two fills of the plastic cup dwarfed by his meaty hands. You quickly move the cardboard box beside you to the floor and pull the headphones from your ears as you watch Eddie divert from the path, heading back into the recording room without his bandmates.

“What’s he doing?” you ask Gareth as he flops down, sagging against the arm of the large couch across from you. He shakes his damp bangs out of his eyes, flicking sweat that narrowly misses you before he replies.

“He’s laying down the rest of the synth parts for the most recent track. We have to record it separately.” His lips tilt in a grin as he adds playfully, “Ed might be talented, but even he can’t sing and strum and play keys at the same time.”

You find your interest piqued as Eddie folds himself onto the bench behind the keyboard. “He doesn’t need a break?” You watch as he stretches his back with a grimace before shaking out his hands, ruddy fingers turning to a blur. 

Jeff just huffs out of his nose, drawing your gaze. His dark skin is shiny with the evidence of his exertion. “Oh, he needs a break,” he says, exasperated though his eyes are fond. “He just won’t take one.” 

“Yep,” Gareth adds, “He’s a stubborn bastard. Won’t stop ‘til it’s done.” Gareth and Jeff each accept a tiny plastic cup from Harry gratefully, and you shuffle closer to the couche’s arm to make room for him next to you. You tilt toward him as he sinks down carefully beside you, but it doesn’t draw your eyes. They’re stuck on Eddie, on the look on his face as he nods at Argyle: focused, as if his fatigue is nothing to him but an insect to be flicked away. Argyle nods back, tapping a button on the complex board of switches and sliders in front of him. As Eddie’s head begins to bob, you realize what they just recorded must be playing in that plexiglass box, silenced from your ears.

Before you can overthink it, you rise from the couch, the muffled thumps of your heels shifting from thick, plush rug to clack against wood. As you come up next to Argyle, he remains gazing evenly ahead, eyes never wavering as his head bobs in time with Eddie’s. You’re considering whether or not to interrupt him when, without looking at you, he asks mildly, “What can I do for you, brochacha?”

“Are you able to play it out loud?” 

Argyle glances at you then. “Alright,” he drawls, stretching out the word as if impressed. “You wanna hear the bitchin’ beats? Certainly.” 

And with the push of a button, the once-silent studio fills with sound. 

It’s a perfect marriage of grit and polish, evoking both the garage recordings and their first album in the best way. The distortion on the vocals makes Eddie’s voice sound even more imposing than it was in person when you first met him, and you watch his shoulders rock, brow scrunched tight. “This world rejects me. This world threw me away. This world never gave me a chance; this world’s gonna have to pay.” Eddie’s voice projects over the speakers, though his plush lips are motionless now. With such ease you almost don’t notice them, his fingers begin to dance over the keys, adding a subtle electronic melody beneath the drums and grating synth. 

You can feel the tension of the song— the building of something carnal, something furious brewing beneath the surface, threatening to whip your hair back from your cheeks. Its energy builds and builds as Eddie’s voice goes almost breathy underneath the effects, singing, “Something inside of me. It screams the loudest sound. Sometimes I think I could…”

You sense it’s coming, and yet you’re not prepared for it when Eddie’s voice becomes practically a howl: “I’m gonna burn this whole world down!”

The guitars, the drums, the bass and synth— they all explode out in a whirlwind of thrashing sound and driving noise as Eddie’s body rocks, fingertips turning white as he forces sound from the keys. His teeth are grit, his face is pouring sweat, and the sight of it speaks to one thing: determination. 

You can’t help but admire that.

You don’t even notice that your head’s been bobbing along to the beat until it ceases, and as you grow still, it whips to the guys at the couch. This song is better than almost all their others. If the rest of the album is like this… Your eyes sparkle with the force of your excitement as you beam at them, and in their pleased smiles and behind their eyes, you can see it: pride and confidence, knowledge that this album they’re creating is going to become something big.

That feeling is effusive, bubbling in your blood as the door to the recording room opens and Eddie emerges. His curly bangs are plastered to his forehead, his eyes are ringed by dark circles and his lips sag in fatigue. Yet despite it, from within, he’s positively glowing.  

Caught up in the moment, all you can do is blurt, “Holy shit.” You blink dazedly at Eddie for a moment as his face goes slack, and then he tosses his head back and laughs. 

Eddie’s laugh is husky and wild, unrestrained in his amusement. Utterly unfiltered. He laughs as if you’ve told the funniest joke he’s ever heard, and it’s then you realize this is your first day on the job, and you’ve just cursed in front of your client. 

Your face fills with heat, cheeks burning as you stutter, “Mr. Munson, I’m so sorry, that was entirely inappropriate—”

Eddie snorts, waving you off, looking not only unbothered but positively tickled that you’d cursed in front of him. To give yourself a moment to recover, you spin, clacking toward the water cooler to fill up one of those little plastic cups like you’d seen Harry doing earlier. You stammer past your indiscretion, and as you focus on expressing yourself, you feel the burn in your cheeks begin to recede. “I shouldn’t have forgotten myself like that. But that song was just… I mean, seriously. It was like… like a return to your roots or something, but not just that.” You pass him the cup carefully, falling back onto your hip as you cross your arms and your eyes dart to the ceiling. You’re trying to put it into words, and you feel frustrated that you’re struggling to. “Okay. It sounded like those early garage recordings where everything was just raw. It’s gritty and angry and cathartic. But it also feels so… new. Like compared to your last album, but also compared to what other bands are doing right now. You know?”

It doesn’t seem entirely adequate, but that’s all you’ve got— all you can do to express that almost intangible quality that you felt but can’t describe. You finally let your chin drop to meet Eddie’s eyes and are surprised to see them no longer dark and shuttered or squinty with mirth. Eddie’s eyes are wide and bright, amber like sun shining through whiskey as they stare unwaveringly into yours.

"Yeah, you picked up on that?” For once, there isn’t a sharp edge to his voice; in fact, he sounds almost pleased. “With this album we're experimenting with something a little different, really trying to focus on the textures and moods. Trying to find ways to create sound that’s not music. Not in a traditional sense, at least.” 

You nod eagerly, caught up by the enthusiasm in his voice. “Yeah! That’s it. I don’t listen to metal much, but it just doesn’t sound like what you typically hear nowadays.”

Eddie crosses his arms, holding his elbows as his tongue plays against the inside of his cheek. “You’re right,” he concedes, so easily that it comes as a surprise. “In a way, we are going back to our roots; all the way back to being the freaks who don’t want to be packaged up in some neat box. Especially seeing where this industry is going. Like, I’m watching bands that got me through the hellscape of high school crumbling and folding to the pressure. I mean, fuck.” A whip of sweat-damp curls as he shakes his head, his gaze heating with molten passion, pinning you so intently that you couldn’t look away if you tried. “Do you realize the irony of a genre that prides itself on being anti-establishment becoming part of the establishment?”

“Fuckin’ bullshit, man,” Gareth pipes up from the couch, and Eddie’s arm flies out, an eager finger shaking in his direction as his eyes go wide and almost wild.

“Fuck-ing bullshit,” Eddie enunciates, and as his voice roughens, he almost seems to puff up with the strength of his ranting. “Look, I do get it. They’re not the first to end up caught in the wheel; happens before you even realize it. But you know what you’re left with at the end of the day? Jack fucking squat. And we’re just as angry and powerless as we were as kids.” He jams two ruddy fingertips against his open palm, brows raised in emphasis as if willing you to understand. “This— this music was our escape back then. And it’s going to be our escape now. And I don’t give a fuck what anyone says about it.” 

He’s nearly craning over you now, breath hot as it puffs against your face, face drawn tight with his fervor. But you aren’t afraid. Because though he’s nearly yelling, Eddie’s ire isn’t directed at you. Your expression doesn’t harden up or crumble under the weight of his passion; instead, you accept it, letting it whip against you without faltering. 

Your steadfastness seems to temper him as the tension in his face eases slightly, though he doesn’t back away. More quietly, he says, “All they want is the next sound-bite, the next commercial success. Sorry, Arg,” he throws a glance toward his producer, “but I honestly don’t give a shit whether there’s even one song on this album that would be a successful single. It’s not meant to be consumed that way— picked apart like fuckin’ buzzards on a corpse.” 

Eddie’s amber eyes hold you as he breathes, “This album is raw. It’s ugly, and it’s personal—”

His words choke in his throat, and for a moment, there’s something tentative connecting you, drawn thin between your gazes. Something fragile but nearly tangible, like the foam of the sea that bubbles against sand but melts to nothing if you reach for it.

But then Eddie blinks, and the connection is severed as he seems to realize he’s talking to you: his personal assistant. 

His glorified babysitter. 

All at once, the passion is gone. He flattens, taking a step back. And there is no preamble to the sudden switch in his demeanor as he demands, “Where’s our dinner?”

the next chapter will be released on @abibliophobiaa's blog!

🌿bluey's masterlist | 🌙luna's masterlist | 💌myo's masterlist

[eddiemunsons80sbaby]

Hard on Myself

Pairing: EddiexFemReader

Summary: This was a request

Can you make another rockstar!eddie where they just had a baby and the reader goes to one of his shows with the baby to see her daddy and she gets dressed up but reader still has a bit of post partum body and the fan girls see it and shame on her and reader declines eddies touches and works out and later eddie finds out and she breaks down and they make love? :)

18+ only

“Hey, I just got Cadence down to sleep,” Eddie murmured in your ear as he slid up behind you in the hotel room, his hands holding onto your arms. “We should take advantage of the alone time.” Those hands slid down your arms and the minute they touched your waist you shot away from him, like a firework jetting off into the sky. 

“Actually, I was going to go workout,” you offered with a strained smile. 

You had brought the baby to Eddie’s show three nights ago, wanting to surprise him. Stella, Gareth’s girlfriend, had stayed with the baby on the tour bus while you watched the concert. You didn’t want to subject your ten week old’s ears to the deafening music. You had been so excited, putting on a red dress that Eddie had always loved on you. It had been a little tighter than usual and yeah, you had a little pooch in your middle and you had to wear a good bra because breastfeeding was not doing anything great for your boobs, but you’d just had a baby. You decided to wear it anyway, wanting to look perfect for your husband. 

But then the comments began, fangirls all around noticing you, knowing exactly who you were. Considering Rolling Stone had done a feature on the band and their families, with you and Eddie right on the cover, it didn’t surprise you that they recognized you as his wife. What did surprise you was what you heard them saying. You could still hear the razor sharp digs at you now. 

“How long does she think she’s going to keep him around if she doesn’t lose that baby weight?”

“Ugh…how has he not left her yet? She’s delusional if she thinks he’s sticking around.”

“She looks like a whale in that dress. Why would she even think she should wear that?”

“Oh my god, why does she still look pregnant? Didn’t she have that baby weeks ago?”

“Ladies, we need to get backstage. If that’s what he’s coming home to, Eddie will jump at the chance to be with a girl who actually takes care of herself. He deserves so much hotter than lard-ass over there.”

“Damn, has she ever met a donut she didn’t eat?”

Tears stung your eyes but you swallowed hard, forcing them back, refusing to cry in front of Eddie. You couldn’t let him see how much those remarks had hurt. You didn’t want him to feel bad. You had signed on for this life. You had agreed to stick by him as she sought out his rockstar dreams and now that it was happening, you couldn’t do anything to ruin it for him. 

But you couldn’t help wondering if they were right. You knew you should work out, but it was so hard when you barely felt human anymore. Cadence was perfect, but you couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a solid night’s sleep. Your brain felt foggy, everything coated in a mist that made it difficult to know where you were or what you were supposed to be doing at the moment. You were exhausted all the time. You barely had the energy to shower, let alone work out. 

“Sweetheart, didn’t you already work out this morning?” asked Eddie. 

“Yeah, but I feel like getting another one in and the hotel gym is so nice. I don’t have time to do this back home when it’s just me and it feels good. I mean, Cadence is twelve weeks old. I should be getting this baby weight off. The doctor gave me the all clear.”

Eddie stepped into you, resting his hands on his hips, his eyes moving up and down your body, “I don’t see anything that needs fixing. You look perfect.” Those soft, brown eyes searched yours, as if he could see into your mind, what you were thinking. “And princess, if this matters to you, then I will support you but I’m also worried. You worked out three times yesterday and now you’re talking about a second time today. You just had a baby. Don’t overdo it.”

Sighing, you backed away from him, holding your hands in front of you, “Eddie, I’m fine. The doctor said working out was fine. It’s been twelve weeks since I had her. You’re acting like I just gave birth yesterday.”

“I’m not saying you just gave birth yesterday but you’re a brand new mom. Cut yourself some slack. It just seems like you’re suddenly a bit obsessive about working out. I don’t want to find you passed out in the hotel gym.”

“Jesus, Eddie, just let it go. I’m not going to pass out in the gym. Just watch our daughter, something you never have to do since you’re out being a rockstar. I just want a little goddamn time to myself, okay? Is that really too much to ask?”

Eddie’s head reared back in shock, those eyes flashing instantly from soft and warm to hard and disbelieving, “You signed up for this life. You told me you were okay with this when we decided to go for it. I can’t help it that we’re on tour right now. I offered to hire you a nanny to help. I planned more days off in between so I could be home. I suggested the two of you just come on the road with us because you know I hate being away from you.”

“Yeah, because that’s realistic. Let’s take a baby across the country in a bus. Come off it!” you yelled. You knew you weren’t being fair. You knew you were being a bitch but you couldn’t help it. All the hormones, the lack of sleep, the sheer exhaustion in your body, the words of those spiteful girls…it was all catching up to you and he happened to be in your line of sight. “I did sign up for this but it’s fucking hard. You’re not around and you’d think when you are, you could let me have just a little bit of me time! Is that really too much to ask?”

“Baby, I’m not saying that, but why don’t you actually take some time to relax? You could run yourself a bath or go sit by the pool and read a book? I will take care of Cadence all day if you need me to. I miss her. I would love to spend the day with her.”

“I am sure you would love it if I left you alone all day. Then you wouldn’t have to look at me and how disgusting I am now that I’ve bore your fucking child,” you snapped, hearing him yell your name as you charged out of the hotel room and down to the gym. 

____________________________________________________________

The next morning, you were making your way back to your hotel room from the gym again. You had gone twice more yesterday, ignoring Eddie in the process, not wanting to face the reality of what was happening to your marriage, the things you said. It had taken every ounce of your energy to get through your workout and you had grown irrationally angry when your legs shook so bad you couldn’t even do a squat. How out of shape were you? Your body couldn’t even handle the workouts. 

You had showered at the gym, trying to delay the inevitable, knowing Eddie would be awake when you returned. You stood in front of the mirror after your shower, scrutinizing every inch of your body, disgusted with yourself. How had you allowed yourself to get like this? Those girls were right. If Eddie saw you naked now, he’d be repulsed with you. You grabbed the rolls of skin around your middle, pinching them until it hurt, as if you could just pull them off and make them vanish. Tears of revulsion, self-loathing, and despair trailed down your cheeks as you took in the faint stretch marks around your stomach and thighs, the dark circles under your hairs, the wan appearance of the skin on your face. You hated yourself. You hated this body. You were going to lose your husband to someone thinner and prettier than you, someone who did yoga every day and spent hours primping until everything was perfect. You didn’t have time to be perfect. You were too busy trying to figure out how to keep a tiny human alive and happy.

Finally, knowing you couldn’t put it off any longer, you had decided to face the inevitable. Eddie was going to leave you. He would find a replacement for you. And could you blame him? You saw the girls who threw themselves at him night after night. Of course it was only a matter of time…how long could he resist temptation when you were what he had to come home to?

Using your keycard, you opened the hotel door, the soft sound of your husband singing greeting your ears. You dropped your workout bag and peered around the corner to find him swaying in the sitting area, singing sweetly to your daughter. You recognized it. It was ‘All My Love’ by Led Zeppelin, the first song Eddie had danced with you to, out by Lover’s Lake. Just the two of you underneath the moon, those strong arms feeling like the safest place in the world. It was in that moment that you knew he was the only thing you ever wanted in life, that you would do anything to hold onto him forever.

Your heart broke watching him. You knew he adored your daughter. Cadence was his whole world. He would call before shows and ask you to put the phone to her ear so he could talk to her, terrified she would forget the sound of her dad’s voice. Even if he left you, he would never leave her, but that didn’t make the agony any less. 

“Hey, there you are,” he whispered as he caught sight of you standing there. 

Walking over to the bassinet, he gently laid Cadence down. Moving to you, he took your hands in his, gesturing with his head to follow him into the bedroom. You swallowed the hard knot of emotion that was strangling you and followed him. Eddie sat down on the bed, patting the spot next to him. Your body tensed, everything in your wanting to run, to flee what was coming, but you fought against it, joining him, your eyes focused on the floor. 

“Princess, what is going on?” he asked, his hand covering yours, that calloused thumb gently running along your skin. In spite of yourself, your body immediately responded to his touch, your tense muscles relaxing. “You are obsessively working out and I can’t figure out if it’s because you want to or it’s a way to avoid me.”

“I’m not…” you began, but you knew it was a lie. You were avoiding him because you were terrified of what was going to happen. If you weren’t with him, he couldn’t tell you he was leaving you. “I don’t know. Maybe I am avoiding you.”

“But why?” he urged. “Sweetheart, I’ve missed you so much. I hate being away from you and Cadence. I understand your reasoning for not bringing her on tour, but if we’re only going to be able to have a few days every few weeks, then we should be making the most of our time together. All I want is to curl up with you and her and soak in every single second so it can hopefully be enough to get me to the next time. I don’t know why you don’t want that. Are you…baby, are you unhappy with me?”

“No! I love you!” you exclaimed, shaking your head. You couldn’t do it anymore. Your head dropped forward as your body shook with sobs, all of the ugly things you’d feared, you’d been told, you’d been telling yourself just crashing down on you. 

“Oh princess,” Eddie breathed, gathering you in his arms. 

He laid back, gently guiding you with him and just held onto you as your entire body released everything that you had been caging, as the dam you’d built broke and the exhaustion, grief, and fear just came flowing out in torrents of pain. You gripped his shirt in your hands, soaking the fabric with your tears, relishing the comfort only he could ever provide you. 

“Sweetheart, tell me what’s going on, please?” he implored, his fingers tenderly kneading the flesh of your back. “I hate seeing you like this. Let me help you.”

“I…I…” you gasped. Pausing, you took slow, small breaths to try to calm yourself so you could speak. “Girls at your show, they were saying stuff. How long did I think I could keep you? What was I doing wearing that dress when I looked like a whale? Why did I still look pregnant? Why wasn’t I taking care of myself? I just…”

“What?” Eddie’s head jerked back, his eyes gazing into yours with genuine shock. “Fuck those girls. Who the hell do they think they are talking about my wife, talking about anyone, that way?”

“But it’s true!” you argued, pulling out of his embrace and sitting up. “Look at me! I can’t compare to all those groupies that hang around with their toned stomachs, tight asses, and tits that actually sit where they should without a bra. I’m a goddamn mess! I wanted to work out because…I don’t know. I wanted to be good enough for you, sexy enough for you…so you wouldn’t leave me for one of them.”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie crooned, sitting up next to you. His thumb and forefinger gripped your chin, turning your face to his. “I am not going anywhere, ever. I love you. You. And yes, I think you’re beautiful and gorgeous and so damn sexy, but it’s so much bigger than that. What we have is so much deeper than that. You don’t have to do a fucking thing to be good enough for me. You’re more than enough. In fact, you’re too damn good for me. I sit back every day and wonder how I got to be the lucky bastard you chose.”

Tears pooled in your eyes again at his words as you took in this beautiful man who had your whole heart and had since junior year of high school. All these years later, and he still had the ability to take your breath away, to cause you to lose your train of thought, to completely knock you off your feet. He had no idea how goddamn perfect he was. 

“I love you, princess, just you,” he whispered, his hand cradling your cheek, his lips so close you could feel the warmth of his breath passing over your skin. “I am never going anywhere.”

Then his lips were on yours, soft and warm, sending shocks of pleasure straight through you. His tongue slid along your lips, parting them so he could explore your mouth. You released a quiet whimper, fingers tangling in his hair, your entire body recognizing him, remembering how much it enjoyed the feel of his mouth and hands. 

You gripped the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head. Your hands roamed along the familiar territory of his skin; his chest, his stomach; that little line of hair that led temptingly to what you desired most. You ran your fingers up his back, across his shoulder blades, relishing every single inch of him that you’d missed so much these last months. His fingers grabbed your shirt and shocked you back to reality. Your hands shot out, covering his and pulling them back.

“What?” he asked, pausing the kiss to look at you, concern apparent in that lovely face. “What’s wrong?”

“N…nothing,” you managed, shaking your head. 

Eddie’s head tilted slightly and you could see it in his eyes. He didn’t believe you. He stood from the bed, taking your hand and pulling you up. Those eyes bore into yours, ensuring you everything would be okay as he reached for your shirt again. You fought the urge to stop him as he slowly pulled it over your head. Turning you around, he pressed his chest to your back so you were both facing the floor to ceiling mirror in the bedroom. You cringed, closing your eyes at the sight, attempting to cover your midriff with your arms. 

“No, don’t do that,” he whispered in your ear, his hands covering yours and gently pulling them away. “Open your eyes, princess. Trust me.” Uncertainly, you obeyed, opening your eyes, but keeping them on him. “Look at yourself. You are a goddamn goddess and this stomach…” His hands splayed over your skin and you glanced at the mirror, meeting his eyes in it. “This stomach is beautiful. It grew our daughter. It nourished and protected her for nine months. It gave me Cadence. There is not a single part of you that isn’t absolutely perfect to me.”

“Eddie, but I'm not…” 

“Shh,” Eddie soothed, cutting you off. His tongue darted out, slipping along the side of your neck and you gasped, heading falling back against him. “Let me worship you like the goddess you are.”

His lips pressed against the skin of your neck, your shoulder. When his teeth joined in, nibbling the tender flesh between your neck and shoulder, you thought your legs would give out from under you. His fingers expertly released the clasp of your bra and it guided it down your arms until it fell to the floor. As his mouth continued torturing you with nips, licks, and kisses, his hands cupped your breasts, not squeezing, just holding them, being tender in knowing how sore they could be from breastfeeding. 

“You are gorgeous,” he whispered, his hand sliding down your stomach, slipping under your sweats and panties. A low groan fell from his lips when his fingers found your heat. “Fuck. You’re already so wet. I’ve missed you…I’ve missed this, so fucking much.”

He moved around to the front of you, guiding you back on the bed so your legs were dangling off the side. His hands pulled your sweats and panties off in one smooth movement and he threw them across the room. Kneeling down in front of you, he hitched your legs over his shoulders, putting you on full display for him. 

“I love you,” he growled, lips pressing along your inner thighs. “I love every goddamn inch of this body. I am going to show you just how much.”

Then his tongue ran through your folds, from your entrance to your clit and back again. You keened, back arching at the contact, the touch your body had been craving for weeks. Eddie’s hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging into the flesh as he expertly worked his tongue over you. Fuck, the things this man could do. It was like your body had forgotten, had fallen into a deep coma, and suddenly with one touch it was brought to life again. 

“Eddie…shit…” you panted, all concerns about your body and how it looked vanished from your mind as he sent you skyrocketing to the edge of oblivion. “Oh baby, yes…right there. Oh fuck, don’t stop.”

“Didn’t plan on it, princess,” he growled as you gripped his hair tightly in your fingers, grinding yourself against his face. He moaned against you and the feeling of it sent shockwaves of pleasure through you. 

Just when you thought this moment couldn’t be any better, Eddie plunged two fingers into you, adeptly twisting them so they instantly hit that pleasure button within you. Fingers grasping the sheets, you screeched, arching up off the bed. 

“Shh, sweetheart,” he chuckled, lapping circles around your clit, “don’t want to ruin our fun by waking up Cadence.”

You nodded, biting down on your bottom lip. Fuck, it was so hard to control your volume when he was so expertly sending you towards orgasm. You felt it coming as your stomach knotted, your legs quivered, muscles tensing. You tightened your thighs around his head, biting down on your knuckles as your hips rocked against him desperately. 

“That’s it sweetheart. Let it all go. You deserve this,” he urged, before sucking your clit between his lips like it was a hard candy. 

Your eyes rolled into your head as you bit down so hard on your knuckles that you broke the skin, pathetic whimpers and moans releasing from your body, sounds you couldn’t even describe if you tried. A half squeak, half shriek exploded from you as your orgasm came crashing like a tidal wave. You gripped Eddie’s hair with one hand, holding his face against you as you rode it out. 

Slowly coming down, he pressed a kiss to your center that had you whimpering before those lips began tracing along every inch of your body, not a single bit of skin left untouched. He kissed the tops of your feet, your skins, your knees, your thighs, your stomach, your breasts, your neck, before finally making his way back to your lips. You were a gasping, writhing mess beneath him, his mouth already setting a new fire ablaze in you before the first had completely extinguished.

“Goddamn, you are exquisite,” he said, running the back of his hand along your cheek. “You are so fucking perfect.” His arms wrapped around you, flipping you both so you were on top of him. “I want you to ride me, princess. I want to watch you, every single inch of you.”

“Eddie…” you began to protest but he pressed his finger against your lips, raising his eyebrows. 

“Uh-uh,” he insisted, shaking his head. “No more negative talk about yourself. No more mean thoughts about yourself. You are a knockout. You are strong. You are bad-ass. You are a mother. You are perfect and you are mine. I love every single inch of you and I want to see every single inch of you. Get out of your head and just be here with me, princess.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. You could do this. You wanted to do this. You wanted to let it all go, all the toxic shit that had been poisoning your mind and heart, and just be with him. Undoing his pants, Eddie lifted his hips, and you helped him pull them off. You placed one knee on either side of his hips as he held his cock in his hand and guided it within you. You lowered your hips until they were flush against his and you both groaned at the feel of him buried within you, something you’d both been craving for too damn long. 

“Jesus,” he hissed, his hands resting on your hips. “I’ve missed being inside you. You were fucking made for me, do you know that?”

You nodded, slowly rocking your hips forward and backward, causing him to hit that delicious spot all over again. You bit your lip, reminding yourself that you had to control your volume, something the two of you had never had to worry about before. Eddie’s hands slid up, gripping the sides of your waist and you paused, but only for a moment, before continuing to move against him. He loved you. He wanted you. You had to stop obsessing and just be in the moment with this beautiful man, this man you adored more than anything on this planet, Cadence excluded of course.

Your head fell back, hair draping down your back as you lost yourself in the sensation of the two of you becoming one, the two of you connected in a way you hadn’t been in too long. This right here, this had always been perfection with Eddie. You’d heard other girls talk about how the sex fizzled out, wasn’t as exciting, but seven years later, nothing about her desire for him had languished, it had only intensified. Seeing him as a father had just made him even more sexy. Seeing how much he loved your daughter was the greatest aphrodisiac. It had only been medical necessity and then your own insecurities that had hindered it, but right now, you were remembering all of the reasons you needed to let it go. You begin moving your hips in a circular motion and Eddie gasped at the new sensation.

“Fuck baby, that’s so good,” he murmured, eyes devouring you. One of his hands glided along your stomach, in between your breasts, resting on your throat. “You look like goddamn Sune right now, goddess of love and light…just fucking gorgeous.”

If you weren’t lost in the throes of pleasure, you would have laughed. Of course he would compare you to a DnD character. Damn, you loved that the nerd you fell in love with was still in there. He hadn’t lost himself to the fame and celebrity that came with his rockstar lifestyle. At his core, he was still just your Eddie. 

“Come here,” he urged, hands wrapping around you and pulling you down to his chest, crushing you against him as close as he could. He began to thrust his hips upward and you bit down on the flesh of his shoulder to keep from screaming in pleasure. He growled against your ear, one hand cradling your head, the other around your back. “Fuck baby, I am so close.”

“Me too…I…Eddie!” you screamed, gripping his shoulders for dear life as he plunged into you again and again, your orgasm shuddering through you. As your walls pulled tightly around him, he wasn’t long to follow, gripping you to him as he held himself within you, filling you with his release. 

You felt when his muscles relaxed, his body going slack beneath you. Eddie continued to hold you to him, moaning softly with gratification as he kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips. You looked up to see him looking at you, a sleep, satisfied smile on his lips. Your hand came up to rest on his cheek as you tucked yourself against him, burrowing into your own personal safe space.

“Jesus…” he muttered with a low chuckle. “That was goddamn amazing. I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you,” you stated, kissing his chest. “I’m so sorry I’ve been so distant during this trip. I’ve missed you so damn much and I feel like I’ve wasted our time together.”

“So, don’t go,” Eddie insisted. “What’s the rush? You can stay as long as you want.” You opened your mouth but he stopped you. “Look, I know the road is not a normal life for a baby. I’m aware of that. I get all your reasons but we’re not normal, sweetheart. We’re far from it. We have plenty of people on this tour to help. I miss you and Cadence so much. When you’re not with me, there’s just this hole…I’m not complete when you’re not here. I’m not happy. I’m not myself. Everyone notices it. Just, promise me you’ll think about it, okay?”

“There’s nothing to think about,” you said and his face fell, all hope vanishing instantly. Reaching out, you took his face in his hands, bringing his eyes back to yours. “There’s nothing to think about because I was already going to say that I think we should try it. I miss you too. I am miserable without you and Cadence needs her daddy. I knew what I was signing up for when I agreed to this and I am willing to give it a try.”

Eddie’s entire face lit up, those sweet simple appearing in his cheeks, his eyes like melted chocolate, so soft and warm as he pressed his lips to yours for a deep, gentle kiss.

“Yeah? You’re going to come on the road with me?”

“Baby, I would go anywhere with you. You’re my home, not some walls and a roof, just you,” you replied. 

“You have no idea how happy you…”

You were cut off as the sound of Cadence’s cries shattered the quiet of the hotel room. Sighing, you went to get up but Eddie stopped you, gently pushing you back to the bed.

“I’ve got her. There’s still bottles you pumped in the fridge. You get some sleep.” Leaning over, he kissed your forehead. “Let me do my job. And hey, I have to thank my daughter. At least she let her dad finish before interrupting.”

You laughed, burrowing down in the bed as you watched him pull on some sweats and head out of the room. This was going to be good. Everything was going to be okay. You knew if anyone could make this work, it was the two of you.

[abibliophobiaa]

I Will Wait

Chapter Two (9k)

a soulmate!fakemarriage!au with rockstar!eddie and personalassistant!reader (also featuring ronance)

cowritten by @abibliophobiaa, @blue-mossbird, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, and @fracturedarkness​ 

18+ only for mature themes, alcohol consumption, and eventual sexual content. fem!reader

one (9.9k) | next (15k) | masterlist  |  AO3  |  🎵 shmackin' tunes

in this universe, there is no upside down, the year is 1995, and corroded coffin = nine inch nails. if you didn't check out the prequel publications (hot off the press on our series masterlist), make sure you do, since they provide important backstory for the IWW universe! read them carefully; there are secrets. 😉

Eddie’s passion didn’t scare you, but anxiety now crawls up your throat as your eyes dart to the clock on the wall, which reads just after eleven. Frozen in sudden indecision, you just stare at him with surprised eyes.

“What?” Eddie scoffs, “Did you think we wouldn’t need to eat? What kind of assistant are you?” He crosses his arms, arching a critical brow, nose wrinkled in a scowl as your mouth falls open. For a moment, you’re at a loss. 

An unexpected voice interjects, smooth and calm. “My dude,” Argyle drawls, “to be fair to the little lady, she did ask you if you wanted her to do anything. And she did exactly what you told her to do.” Faced with Argyle’s defense of you, Eddie’s scowl deepens and the tension in the room rises.

You swallow down your panic, squaring your shoulders and standing tall under his disapproval. “I apologize for the oversight, Mr. Munson. I’ll take care of it right now.”

“Seriously, Ed?” Jeff cuts in, pushing off the sunken couch with his hands on his knees, eyebrows drawn together in frustration. “Was she just supposed to—”

“No, no. It’s my fault,” you assure the group with a smile, stepping in the line of fire to calm the sudden unease and keep the situation from escalating. “I’ll run and grab food for everyone and be back in no time.”

The other men mumble an agreement, seemingly happy that it didn’t become a larger issue. You attempt to make eye contact with Eddie as you prepare to leave in a hurry but he pays you no mind, bending at the waist to confer with Argyle. Deciding it would be better not to ask additional questions and potentially cause your new client more displeasure, you loop your pocketbook over your shoulder and push out into the hallway— leaving the pressure of the confrontation behind.

As soon as you reach the elevator again, the mirrored doors sliding closed behind you to grant a moment of privacy, you allow your shoulders to deflate. While you are no stranger to dealing with unearned irritation directed your way, the speed with which Eddie seems to ricochet between moods is staggering. It leaves behind a sense of instability that threatens to shake the very foundations of what rests upon it, as though even a single moment of vulnerability could send you flying off your feet.

With each passing hour, you understand more and more clearly what Steve was referring to when he insisted that Eddie ‘needed someone who could handle him.’ And, despite the subtle missteps so far, you find yourself ever more determined to make sure that person is you.

The doors slide open to the bottom floor and you exit with a renewed vigor, setting your attention to completing the task at hand. Your shoes echo even louder across the tile now that the building is seemingly devoid of life— the front desk and lobby beyond are entirely empty. With that sight comes the startling realization that you are in an unfamiliar part of the city in the middle of the night, and you have to find something quick to bring the boys to eat. A slight hesitation as you rack your brain for the best way forward ends up being your salvation: your savior coming in the form of an older man making his way out of one of the double doors across from the entrance. He pushes along a bright yellow bucket by the handle of his mop, water sloshing loudly as he inches forward, head bopping to the beat of whatever plays from the headphones settled on his ears. You immediately power walk over to him, the movement catching his eye as he rears back in near alarm and slides one of the cups off his ear to face you.

“Hi, sorry to bother you,” you greet with a smile, “I was wondering if you might be able to help me?”

Wrinkled, deep set green eyes blink back at you, surprised and unsure, as he drawls out, “What can I do ya for?”

“I’m not from around this side of town and I need to grab some food quickly. Do you have any recommendations for something that would be open around this time?”

He visibly relaxes, eyebrows raising in pleased surprise as he offers a grin that lacks a few of his teeth, the others yellowed from nicotine. “Boy, are you a fan of chopped cheese?”

In another strike of what feels like fate, you find yourself eternally grateful for the city that never sleeps.

Following the janitor’s vague directions, you cross the threshold into a brightly lit sandwich shop that is bustling with energy despite the hour. Blue collar workers of all kinds fill the space, conversing happily and giving each other a hard time between bites of greasy food. And, to your relief, none of them seem to pay you any mind as you make your way to the counter and pick out a variety of food from the handwritten board that hangs above the cash register. The man taking your order doesn’t say a word other than to tell you the total, which alerts you to the fact that you weren’t given a way to pay for this. Gritting your teeth, you offer up the cash from your own pocketbook, nearly emptying it completely, and watch with a sense of dread as he gets you your change and huffs that it should only be a few minutes before it’s ready. You make a mental note to reach out to Steve about how situations like this should be handled in the future and to get reimbursed for what you just paid.

Stuck with nothing to do but wait, your attention wanders across the room. There are many different types of men here – some young, some old, some dirty and tired, some fresh-faced and ready to conquer the day. Converging between the swap of shifts, sharing stories and shooting the shit. No one table is excluded from the revelry, each group interacting with what seems like everyone in the room. A contained ecosystem of hard earned repose and comradery between people who may not know each other by name, but by the hardships and struggles they each experience day by day. Forged in the dark of night and the effort of refueling around a hard day's work – both in body and soul.

A bark of your name rockets you back into reality and across the slightly sticky floor to receive what you’d ordered, throwing out thank you’s and other platitudes as you grip the plastic bags in your fists and push back out into the night in a hurry.

You’re borderline out of breath by the time you’re yanking at the cold metal handles of the studio’s heavy doors, a stark contrast to how you had crossed the threshold just a few hours ago. You shuffle across the tile as fast as your heels will allow; once safely in the elevator again, you take the time to catch your breath and return to some semblance of order, preparing to face what the rest of the night holds for you.

There’s a rush of air as you shoulder your way back into the studio, feeling eyes on you immediately. “Food’s here,” you offer, lifting the bags with a smile. Gareth and Harry sigh in what looks like relief, the former immediately hopping over to you as if he can not wait another second to get his hands on whatever you had brought. You shoo him over to the coffee table between the couches, sparing a glance through the glass as you pass. Jeff and Eddie face each other with warring grins, appearances almost taunting, fingers flying across strings as they play a duet that only Argyle can hear. Ripping your attention from the booth, it takes mere moments for you to spread your bounty across the wood, a huge pile of hot fries in the middle and a selection of sandwiches with vague lettering sharpied on their paper wrappers. Gareth and Harry both grab for one, seeming not to care exactly what’s on it, as you also grab one of the greasy sachets and slip it to Argyle. He looks surprised for a moment but then offers you a leant back nod, a lazy smile, and a thumbs up before returning his attention to the mixing board before him.

It doesn’t take long for Eddie and Jeff to realize the food is here. They tumble out of the recording room, exchanging friendly jabs as you sit down on the couch beside Harry, carefully unwrapping your own sandwich. Caught up in the whirlwind of your new job, you hadn’t noticed just how hungry you’ve become until the soft hero roll emerges from greasy parchment. The sandwich is split in the middle, and as you pull apart the halves, putting one on the coffee table so you can dig into the other, Jeff and Eddie stagger their way over to the couches, pushing one another as they go; Jeff makes it to the table first, flopping down beside Gareth on the opposite couch. You’re distracted from their bantering by a groan of deep contentment.

“Oh, my God,” Gareth moans around a mouthful, tilting against an unphased Argyle. “This is so good.”

Harry nods his eager agreement. “I love chopped cheese,” he says, his voice a quiet rumble beside you, and you smile at him. He glances at you shyly before returning to his meal with a pleased curve to his lips.

You’re about to take a bite when the couch dips down on your other side; it draws your eyes to wild curls and stiff limbs as Eddie snatches the final sandwich from the table. He unwraps it hastily, widening his knees and slouching against the creaky leather of the couch, eyes locked on his dinner. He looks largely neutral, but there is a vague tightness to his brow, a pinch to his mouth that implies he’s annoyed by something. And when his knee nudges even further into your space, nearly brushing against yours, it becomes clear what that is.

He doesn’t seem to like that you’re taking up space beside him, that he has to accommodate you in any way, even in something as simple as sharing a couch. Whereas Harry is sitting normally at your side, and on the other couch, Jeff, Gareth, and Argyle are happily fitted together, you are forced to shift over in order to avoid his aggressive elbow as Eddie tears at the paper of his wrapped sandwich. He slouches even lower into the couch, as if to insist on his own comfort at the expense of yours.

You scoot closer to Harry and return your gaze to your sandwich, trying not to let Eddie’s behavior affect you as you take the first bite. Savory meat, melty cheese, crisp lettuce and sweet tomato act as an adequate distraction, and all that fills the recording room are the crinkling of parchment and the muffled sounds of food being enjoyed until you ask, “So, what’s the new album going to be called?”

It opens the floodgates. The guys are more than happy to inform you of their creative decisions over greasy chopped cheese. They talk over one another as they gesture wildly, threatening to fling loose lettuce and bits of steak all over the leather couches and the cherry-wood coffee table as they recount the story of their latest album’s conception. The only one who stays quiet is Eddie— though, as you sneak peeks at him from the corner of your eye while you eat your sandwich as daintily as you can, he doesn’t seem to be sullen anymore. Instead, a faint smile plays on his lips in-between giant messy bites of beef and cheese as he lets his bandmates enthuse over their latest creation. Even when they mention him specifically, like when Harry remarks, “It was Ed’s idea to have the whole thing represent someone’s life going down the shitter,” Eddie merely nods, his cheek dimpling as he sucks grease from the pad of his thumb.

By the time empty crumpled paper hits the coffee table, the guys are ready to return to recording with a sense of renewed vigor. They lurch up from the couch, bellies full and fingers itching for their instruments as they file back into the recording studio. Argyle mosies his way to the soundboard and you follow him, surveying the different lights, switches and sliders with curiosity; you watch his hands flit around the complex board with practiced ease, tapping and nudging things so quickly it’s hard to follow.

Argyle angles the mounted microphone closer to his lips to drawl, “Alright, ah… Jeff—” He snaps his fingers, shooting a finger gun towards the plexiglass. “What’re we starting with?”

You look up towards Jeff to see him flash an open palm and a peace sign, which seems incomprehensible until Argyle confirms. “Track seven. Sweet.”

Jeff shoots him a smile and a thumbs up, and as you look away, your gaze catches deep brown.

Eddie is staring at you.

As soon as you register it— the split second you catch him watching you— Eddie’s eyes widen and dart away, expression flashing with an emotion that looks out of place on his typically-assured face. And then it’s gone. Just as quickly, as though it had never existed, that vulnerable expression is replaced by a quirked eyebrow, smugly narrowed lips, and an even, penetrating stare as his eyes return to yours. Before you can even think about it, he’s beckoning you toward him with a crooked finger.

Obligingly— it is your job, after all— you leave Argyle’s side and pull open the heavy glass door to the recording room.

The space is not overly generous, but it is large enough to give each band member a comfortable buffer of space with his instrument. The drums are set up near the back, with Harry on the left and Jeff on the right, a guitar strapped against his chest but flipped around to the back as he stands in front of the keyboard. There’s a boxy amp covered by a shield to dampen the sound in the corner opposite the door, and Eddie is standing beside it, dark-clad legs spread wide as he hooks a forearm casually against his red electric guitar.

“Yes?” you ask him neutrally, though it’s difficult to hold back the roll of your eyes when he doesn’t reply, merely beckoning you with that same finger again. You breathe slowly through your nose as you walk over to him, planting your feet right before him though your heels wobble slightly on the springy carpet. Your pleasant face grows a touch flatter as he regards you silently, blinking slowly— clearly wanting to keep you waiting, to make you pay for the split-second of whatever he’d felt when you caught him staring.

Eventually, a crooked grin spreads on Eddie’s lips as he looks at you, and your brow twitches in alarm as Eddie abruptly lifts one heavy booted foot and thumps it down on top of the amp. The move stretches his tight pants even tighter, pulling the rips at his knees to reveal pale skin underneath. It draws your eye, tempting it to run over the angular bones; they’re strong and dense, substantial beneath string that cuts shallow indents into his skin.

“Tie my boot.”

Your gaze shoots straight to his face. “Excuse me?” you ask, neutral mask slipping as some incredulousness leaks through. 

Eddie’s expression doesn’t waver as he nods his head towards his foot in a flippant little jerk. “Laces are loose, and I don’t wanna take Sweetheart off.” When he pats the guitar fondly, you realize he’s referring to his instrument. “Such a pain. So be a good little assistant and tie my shoe for me.”

You look at the scuffed Doc Marten propped against the top of the amp’s shield near your upper thigh. Indeed, the laces on Eddie’s boot are untied, dangling loosely, but you also notice that they’d clearly been tied very sloppily— they aren’t even laced all the way up to the top. Sucking your teeth and resisting a grumble, you comply with your client’s demand, bending slightly at the waist to tighten the laces before you tie them. But the thought of doing this again— ever, really— causes irritation to pang deep in your stomach. If he’d just tie his shoes properly, I wouldn’t need to do this. 

Rather than just knotting the laces, you take a moment to thread them deftly through each hole, tugging extra tight between each row until you reach the top where his pants are stuffed into them. With a quick pair of bunny ears and a double-knot, you’re done, straightening at the waist and staring again into Eddie’s face, unable to keep the defiant spark from your eye.

You find Eddie with his lips twisted smugly, tongue bulging against one cheek, dark eyes glittering with amusement. “Well,” he says, his voice deep and musical, “now you’ve gotta do the other one up to the top, too. A rockstar can’t have two mismatched boots. What will my fans think?”

“Fine,” you say, a little tightly, waiting for him to switch that foot to the amp. But he doesn’t; instead, Eddie just stares at you expectantly until you huff a tiny indignant breath and crouch down to retie his boot on the floor.

You know, then, that the entire thing has been meant to humiliate you, to remind you of your place— squarely below him, looking up at him as he towers over you, curls a wild cyclone around his pale, angular face. The fact isn’t lost on the others. “Really?” Harry’s typically quiet voice is a scoff, and you yank extra hard on Eddie’s laces as you hear his defense of you, feeling vindicated. I hope I cut his circulation off. He’ll never ask me to tie his shoes again, you think sourly, flexing your calves as you tug the double-knot tight and begin to rise.

Though the plush carpet in the recording room is good for sound absorption, it’s not so good for balance when one is wearing heels; you find your left foot wobbling as you try to straighten so hastily, and a spike of adrenaline bursts inside you as you feel your ankle weaken.

Two things happen.

One: your hand darts out, automatically seeking stability from the closest object, which just so happens to be Eddie. Your fingers clutch the bony knob of his knee, pressing desperately to threads and the hot skin exposed between them.

Two: as you waver, Eddie sways forward and his hand jerks out to catch your opposite elbow in a firm, broad palm, applying pressure to keep you stable.

Instantly, you burst with feeling. 

Sparks bloom from each point of contact, racing up your arms and trailing goosebumps in their wake until they meet in the middle behind your ribs. They pop and fizzle, colliding as tingling waves that reverberate outward from your center. The feeling overwhelms you, making your breath catch in your chest and your spine jerk ramrod straight as you push up from Eddie’s knee. The cold solidity of his guitar brushes against your front as he straightens with you; his head jerks back so you don’t collide with his chin.

Just as quickly as it happened, in the matter of a second, Eddie’s hand drops from your elbow and you step back from him, crossing your arms beneath your breasts. That same uncanny feeling from earlier— that low pang in your stomach, not altogether unpleasant— returns, reignited by the feeling of his hot skin under your fingers and the firmness of his grip on your arm.

“T-thank you,” you start to say, voice wavering slightly as you try to recover from the sudden unexpected intensity of your feeling. But then Eddie rubs the side of his neck with the same hand that caught your elbow. When his chunky rings glint in the light of the room, demanding your attention, it lingers on one in particular.

It’s a heavy dose of reality when you see the platinum band on his ring finger, more elegant and polished than the chunky aggressive rings adorning his other fingers. He’s my client. And he’s married. 

It’s all that’s needed to have you stamping insistently down on that feeling again. When you glance at Eddie’s face, the wideness of his eyes and the downturn of his mouth belies the same tension you suddenly feel. Desperate to cut through what suddenly envelops the room, you blurt a lightly teasing remark. “Next time, Mr. Munson,” you say, “wear velcro shoes if you don’t know how to tie your boots.”

Thankfully, your voice doesn’t waver this time, and your lips even curl in a small smirk when you hear the strength of Gareth’s sudden barking laughter. You don’t wait around for Eddie to offer a response; with Gareth’s mirth accompanying you, you stride from the room, letting the thick glass door mute the sound of his amusement as it thumps closed behind you. You’re grateful for the privacy that the distance affords you; you have no interest in letting Eddie see how his proximity affected you in the booth. You won’t let him see the momentary chink in your tweed armor, the effect just a knick of his touch has had on your composure.  

The cold glass door provides respite for your heated body as you lean against it. You take a moment to collect yourself, to rescue your composure from the pull of Eddie’s rip current before it can be swept further out into turbulent waters. Your hand settles over your heart, feeling it thud wildly against your palm as you wait, reminding yourself of the need for patience. You’re no stranger to feeling this pressure of restraint. Breathe in. Breathe out. Eventually, your goosebumps settle, your blood stops burning, and your lungs fill with air once more. 

Once you feel a little more composed, you retreat to the soundboard to keep Argyle company, hoping that his mellow presence can imbue in you the tranquility needed to survive the night. Gathering every remaining ounce of poise you possess, you lift your chin and look through the glass to see the band preparing for their next take. Gareth makes himself more comfortable on his stool. Harry and Jeff check the tuning of their instruments. And then there’s Eddie, who appears to be more interested in staring you down with those dark eyes instead of preparing to play. He folds his arms over his chest, and his sharp gaze sizes you up in a clear response to your earlier sass. You stare back, eyes unblinking and face impassive. Though the prickling heat threatens again, you don’t let it show, thinking of Jason and all of his attempts to intimidate you into submission. Don’t let him. I never gave Jason the satisfaction, and he won’t get it either.

“Alright, my talented amigos. Show me just how rad you can be.” When your staring contest with Eddie is broken by Argyle’s fried drawl, you’re not entirely sure who is the victor.

Argyle leans back in his swivel chair, lacing his fingers behind his head, his giant headphones hung abandoned on the hook mounted beneath the soundboard as the studio blares with sound. You stand at his side for some time, watching the guys perform. And as the music picks up, you find yourself hypnotized by their talent once again. The familiarity of lifelong friendship makes the band’s coordination appear seamless, almost second nature as Eddie and Harry catch eyes across the room, nodding together when guitar and bass fall into sync. Eddie leans back, lifting his angular guitar as he flourishes at the end of his next lick, and you watch the bobbing of Jeff’s head deepen as he shoots his friend a broad grin.

Time passes, enough time for you to retire to the couch, though you choose the one that still affords you a view into the recording room. There’s no less wanting from the men— no less striving for their product—  but as the night goes on, the process seems to begin taking a physical toll on them. You’d watched the growing consternation as Argyle asked Eddie to re-record a verse several times; his voice is straining, fatigued from the hours of singing, and you can hear the difference. When it cracks again not even two lines in, resulting in another failed attempt, instruments squeal to a halt as Eddie shakes the dented microphone by its stand, soft nose wrinkled up and teeth bared in frustration.

“C’mon—!” he grinds out, and you’re half up off the couch before Argyle takes over, interjecting with his calm drawl.

“Bro, maybe you should think about resting those bodacious vocal chords,” he suggests. “Give those puppies a break.” 

 Eddie snorts in stubborn refusal, his damp curls shaking until his head abruptly stills. His face lights up as though he has had a groundbreaking revelation; a playful smile slides across his plush lips. 

“I know just the cure,” he sing-songs dramatically, pursing his lips as, with a jerk of his arm, he snaps his fingers in your direction. You can hear the sharp sound vaguely echoing through the microphone inside the recording room.

Within a moment, you’re at the glass door; despite the earlier tension, it’s all water under the bridge now that it’s time to do your job. You dutifully pull it open to poke your head inside. “You summoned me?”

“Yes,” Eddie says, brows flashing and voice utterly serious. “Listen carefully, now. I have an incredibly urgent task for you.” He pauses dramatically, brown eyes wide in an attempt at earnestness. “It is of the utmost importance.” 

Internally, you brace yourself, knowing that whatever he says next will be anything but important. You feel the impulse rise up your throat, sarcastic words dancing on the tip of your tongue. Maybe you should take acting lessons from your wife. It takes considerably too much effort to resist it, but you do; instead, you raise your eyebrows and incline your head towards him in a nonverbal prompt— Go on. 

“I need you,” he claps his hands together, folding his fingers until just his indexes are pointed at you, “to go get me some whiskey.” 

The recording room hums with reactions from the rest of his bandmates: a groan from Jeff, a delighted guffaw from Gareth, and an uneasy sway from Harry, accompanied by a little uncomfortable chuckle.

Exasperated disbelief creases your brow. “...Whiskey?” you question once you’ve recovered from the initial shock of the request. You’d known what Eddie would ask wouldn’t be serious, but you didn’t expect it to be this absurd.

Eddie’s voice, even croakier than usual thanks to his fatigued vocal chords, is full of condescension. “What’s wrong, sweetie? Don’tcha know that whiskey can soothe a sore throat?” His tone sharpens, a victorious smile curling on his lips as he eyes you. “You wouldn’t want me to delay this album now, would you? This voice is our money maker.”

“More like his voice drives us up the wall,” Gareth wisecracks. Eddie swiftly knocks him upside the head, hushing the drummer immediately, though the younger man’s eyes glitter in amusement as he rubs the back of his head. 

When you continue to hesitate, any last vestiges of playfulness slide from Eddie’s face. “Listen.” There’s that hardness you’d been confronted with at the beginning of the night; his tone brokers no argument. It’s the tone of a man who’s driven countless personal assistants toward the door with their tails between their legs. “You’re my PA. Doing what I say is your job. So if I ask you to get me a bottle of fuckin’ whiskey, you do it. Do you understand?”

You swallow. He is right; it is your job. “Of course, Mr. Munson,” you reply, face carefully impassive as his eyes search yours. When he leans back and huffs through his nose, your shoulders relax fractionally.

“Alright, guys, let’s take a break ‘til the good stuff gets here,” he says, pulling Sweetheart over his neck and setting the guitar on the stand beside him. “Run along, now,” he says mockingly, flicking his fingers in your direction.

As they all start to drift towards where you stand, your mind races; automatically, you move out of the way for them to exit the recording room, holding the door as you think. Yes, it is your job to do what he asks, and it would also give you a chance to escape the studio for some time to be away from his taunting. But something makes you pause. You’ve already depleted your cash source from buying the men dinner. How were you going to pay for a bottle of whiskey, too? You’re not their ATM. And while you aren’t typically in the habit of pressing the issue, as the men take their seats on the couches to wait for you, you decide you will not be jeopardizing your financial stability for the sake of buying this man booze.

You let the glass door thump closed, mentally steeling yourself as you pull your pocketbook over your head. “And how would you like to pay for your whiskey?” you ask Eddie. “I can take your card, or you can give me cash.” 

He casts a glance of disbelief around the couch he’s sprawled on, catching his bandmates’ eyes. They’re quiet, attention bouncing between you both as Eddie scoffs, “I’m not giving you shit. Just pay for it yourself and get Harrington to reimburse you.”

“Well, seeing as how I already paid for your dinner, I’m a little low on funds,” you explain, careful to remain firm but not contentious, standing tall against his onslaught. “So, it’s either you give me a way to pay or you don’t get your whiskey. The choice is yours.”

 The silence in the room after you deliver your ultimatum seems heavier, more oppressive than a moment ago. It’s a tense standoff: you in your heels and tweed, standing calmly at the edge of the coffee table, and Eddie in his leather and chains, staring up at you through the wild curls of his disheveled bangs. Everyone else in the room is looking between you and Eddie as if they’re eager to see the next serve in a verbal tennis match. The silence extends for an uncomfortable duration, but you refuse to break under the heaviness of his stare. You know your request is more than reasonable, and the justice of it keeps you from backing down.

Eddie Munson may be stubborn, but so are you.

With a huff, Eddie shifts his hips, tilting so he can reach into his back pocket to retrieve his wallet. With a sneer, he digs limber fingers in the envelope and pulls out a hundred-dollar bill, holding it between two fingers and extending his hand with a dramatic, resigned flop. You smile politely in thanks, but when you attempt to take it from him, his fingers tighten on the paper. 

“Don’t get any of that cheap shit,” he orders, eyeing you as he keeps a firm hold on the bill. You two are tethered by the thin, green paper, which would tear if one of you applied more force. But you don’t; instead, you reply, “I understand, Mr. Munson.” When he still doesn’t let go, you add, “Is there a brand you prefer?”

Eddie grunts, finally releasing the bill, effectively freeing you from his hold. “Just none of that Carver piss-water,” he mutters. “Top-shelf, or as close as you can get with this. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” The word slips out automatically, like it would for Steve Harrington, or Jason Carver, or your boss at the community college you worked at prior to Carver Distilleries. Eddie doesn’t comment, but the sudden gleam in his eye— amber brown, like sun through whiskey— follows you onto the elevator and onto the sidewalk as you burst out onto the city streets.

The hustle and bustle of New York city has noticeably waned now, and it has you hastily pushing up your sleeve to check the dainty watch strapped on your wrist. The time is late— later than you are typically awake, nearly too late, in fact— and it dawns on you that you’ll need to find an option soon since closing time for most places is rapidly approaching. Your eyes dart across the buildings on the block, searching for the word ‘liquor,’ but a quick survey yields no results. Picking a random direction and hoping for the best goes against everything inside you, but in your desperation, you realize you have no choice. 

A glance to the right yields nothing but darkened windows and silence, so left it is.

You hasten your pace, walking one block and then another. And when the neon sign flickers the words ‘Starcourt Liquor’ above your head, managing to find a liquor store with ten minutes to spare before closing feels like a miracle. 

The shop owner seems less than thrilled to have you entering his business so late, so you toss an apologetic grimace in his direction before rushing to the whiskey section, eyes scanning for nothing but price— as close to a hundred bucks as possible to follow Eddie’s instruction. Being so unthorough makes your stomach squirm as you rush back to the front and thump the thick glass bottle on the countertop, but you don’t have even a moment to second-guess yourself. You always ruminate on your options, assessing the choices carefully before selecting the best one. This— plunking down a pricy purchase without even examining the label— is enough to have panic biting at the back of your throat.

Nevertheless, the purchase is quickly made, and you jingle out the shop door with Eddie’s whiskey bottle wrapped in paper. As you make your way back to the studio, you try to shake away your negative thoughts. Clearly, if I want to survive being Eddie Munson’s PA, I’m going to have to stop overanalyzing everything and go with my gut sometimes. 

More than anything else tonight— Eddie’s taunts, his cold demeanor, the nerves that accompany a new situation— this thought is what rattles you the most. It’s something you’ve always struggled with; the pressure to be the best version of yourself has led you to dissect every decision that is presented to you. Every choice, no matter how seemingly small, feels significant when you consider the implications of what’s awaiting you. There’s always this little voice in your ear whispering insidiously: 

Choose right, and you’ll find what you’ve always been searching for. All that you want will be yours. 

Choose, y/n. 

Just choose, but you’d better not be wrong.

When your heel nearly gets stuck in a crack on the sidewalk and you stumble to keep your balance, you realize you need to snap out of it. This is just a bottle of whiskey, you remind yourself. Eddie will have to take what I give him. Finally, you’re back inside; the records line the walls, the elevator dings, and before long. you’re faced with that heavy metal door again, the one that separates you from your client beyond. 

You pause before opening it. You think of all the tasks you’ve accomplished today; you think of how you’ve prevailed against all of Eddie’s little tests.  

“I can do this,” you remind yourself in a whisper. “I can do tough things.” And you know it’s true. It just takes your own voice sometimes to drown those sibilant whispers out, to remind you of the light inside, standing strong and tall and steadfast against the waves.

Confidence renewed, you open the door to find the band deep in discussion with Argyle. Their heads turn at your entrance, and the conversation pauses. But unlike earlier this evening, when the pressure of their stares felt oppressive, they glance off you now. Your light swings in their direction, washing them with a glow that chases the threat of shadows away.

“Will this suffice, Mr. Munson?” you ask, handing the bottle over to Eddie. He takes your offering from your outstretched hand, leaving it empty. You fold your hands in front of you, waiting as he silently turns the bottle over in his broad grasp, assessing the label carefully. After a moment of extended silence, Eddie finally looks up at you. A dimple emerges with the stretch of his smirk; ruddy ringed fingers close firmly around the neck as he wrenches the cork off with a pop and takes an unceremonious swig.

The whiskey must be strong, because his adam’s apple only bobs twice before he’s lowering the bottle from his now-slick lips. And you were right; when he isn’t glowering at you, the amber of Eddie’s eyes looks just like warm light shining through a whisky glass.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” Eddie quips, swiping the back of his tattooed hand across his plush lips. They drag with his fingers before pulling into a grin. “Now buzz off, you little insect. We’re busy here.” 

Eddie waves you off as if you actually are an insect, and the sting of his blatant dismissal is only soothed by the sympathetic looks Harry and Jeff dart your way as he continues planning with his fellow band members. It’s rude, certainly, but at least it releases you to your own devices.

Still, when the men shuffle back into the recording room, your hands begin to fidget with the anxious desire to feel productive; you’re caught between aiming to make a good impression but not wanting to disrupt the band’s creative process, especially as Eddie has made it clear that he doesn’t need anything from you. If they don’t need me right now, then I’ll just have to make myself busy.

An idea comes to mind. You think back to how your first task of the day brought you to the mess that is Schmackin’ Records’ studio closet. The small space is overflowing with cardboard boxes affixed with nonsensical labels, which only makes everyone’s job harder— yours and Argyle’s, in particular. Revisiting the closet would allow you to continue familiarizing yourself with Corroded Coffin’s discography while helping to make things more organized— two birds, one stone. 

You search the studio for supplies; masking tape, a marker, and other items useful to you are all, ironically enough, found buried within the very place you’re looking to organize. With a quick roll of your sleeves and accompanied by the gravelly voice of Eddie in your headphones, you get to work. You methodically relabel each box by artist and organize each item within in meticulous chronological order. You’re careful to store away any loose cords and equipment scattered on the floor, winding each coil in a perfected loop before tucking them away in appropriate storage spaces. It’s soothing to make sense of the chaos, to bring peace to disquiet, to bring order to the disorderly. You’ve always found comfort working like this, left to your own devices within your element, thriving in the peace of solitude.

Nearly three hours later, you’ve rearranged the collection in its entirety. The closet looks neat and tidy, vastly improved from what you initially stumbled upon hours ago. You return to the lounge area feeling accomplished, heels thumping against floors, head tipped up high as you move to rejoin the main room. The band is situated around the soundboard, listening to a playback from one of the tracks they just recorded while Argyle offers feedback. Upon seeing you reappear, Argyle pauses his commentary, wheeling chair twirling enough until he’s facing you, eyes darting up to yours.

“Hey there, dudette! Where have you been hiding?” he asks, head bobbing with his words. That dark, shiny raven hair dances in the dim light, casting it in a honey glow, those soft eyes of his kind and comforting—enough so to quell the rapid thrum of your heart as the others shift to gaze your way.

“Ah, I noticed that some of the items in the storage closet were in need of organization,” you reply sheepishly, awkwardly throwing a thumb over one shoulder, indicating the closet you’ve since reorganized. “I fixed some of the labels and cleared off the floor. I hope that isn’t a problem.” 

“Well that is mighty nice of you,” Argyle compliments, reaching his hand up to give you a high five. Your hand claps against his, warmth curling around your palm, lips tugging into a soft smile at the man lounging before you.

Your actions seem to intrigue Eddie, those liquid amber eyes of his darting in your vicinity. He peers around you towards the newly-organized space, brows climbing high against his forehead. When his gaze returns to yours, his face is masked in an unreadable expression. He looks as though he is trying desperately to hide that he is impressed. 

“Maybe I should tell you to buzz off more often,” he comments, and only then does he allow it: the slightest dimple of his cheek as he smirks. And yes, it’s still a smirk, but it’s significantly less sharp and cutting than the ones he’d aimed at you earlier tonight. 

The observation isn’t a compliment, but you suppose it’s the closest thing to one you can expect from Eddie. Despite the urge to rise to challenge those words, his manner makes you pause; you’re still trying to think of how to respond when he turns away from you, seemingly already exhausted by showing you a scrap of kindness. 

As the boys file back into the recording room and the night continues to stretch on, you feel a palpable shift in energy within the studio. Their playful nature has transitioned to something less enthusiastic and more irritable. They reach a point where they’re spinning in circles – stuck on a track that isn’t quite ready yet. You listen to them debate over stylistic differences, hung up on the minute details embedded in the sound. As an observer, you clearly recognize that exhaustion has clouded their creative flow and left them feeling drained, each quick to argue and reluctant to concede to the others. 

You’re empathetic to it, really. Your feet are screaming for solace after spending hours confined in heels. Your head is pounding from the constant barrage of sound and pressure to problem-solve. You check your watch – 4:37 am. Your new schedule is so out of sync with your normal circadian rhythm, and your body is paying the price for it. 

The boys continue to bicker, too engrossed in perfecting the song to recognize the need for a break. You are not alone in your observations, as Argyle suddenly leans forward on his chair, pensive and serious as he regards the room.

“Alright, my dudes. I think we’ve made some gnarly progress. How about we pick up with these shmackin’ tunes tomorrow. Same time?” Argyle’s suggestion sends relief through your exhausted body, knowing that you may soon be graced with some respite. 

A silence befalls the group as they weigh Argyle’s counsel. Gareth, Harry, and Jeff remain silent, looking to Eddie for a decision. You find this odd. Is it because Eddie is the front man, or because they believe he is most likely to be defiant? After a moment of consideration, Eddie acquiesces to Argyle’s suggestion. You take this as your cue to call a private driver on Eddie’s behalf. 

You watch the men as they gather their belongings and prepare to leave. The impending rest lifts their spirits, and their banter returns in full swing. Gareth and Harry playfully nag Jeff about ‘getting home to the Mrs.’ while making kissing noises. The loving undertone in their teasing is indisputable, and Jeff waves them off goodnaturedly. As the three continue exchanging quips, you notice that Eddie remains uncharacteristically quiet, his lips downturned as he watches them joke around. Chin tipped down, dark eyes not quite caught in a glower, but he’s certainly no ray of sunshine. He turns away from them, choosing instead to hang back with Argyle as he prepares to close up the studio. 

“You did good, newbie. See you around!” Gareth playfully calls out as he leaves. Harry opts for a simple, shy wave as he follows Gareth’s lead. 

“Hey, uh… can I talk to you for a minute?” Jeff’s quiet request feels gentle, so unlike the orders Eddie has sent your way today, the latter’s requests feeling more like demands. The two of you make your way to the corner of the studio to speak privately. 

“Yes, of course. Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, nothing like that. You don’t have to be in PA mode with me, okay? I just wanted to tell you that you did a great job today.” Jeff offers, smiling kindly. His words bring warmth to your cheeks. 

“That’s very kind of you,” you answer, grateful for the small reassurance. 

“Listen, I understand that Eddie isn’t the… easiest person to work with.” His whole body stiffens with a sympathetic wince. “I’ve known him since we were kids. Trust me, his bark is worse than his bite.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” The defense falls from your lips instinctually, ingrained in you from your days at Carver Distillery. 

Jeff is quick to reassure you, “I’ve seen you handle it all day. I wasn’t lying when I said you did a great job. Just remember that the first day is always the hardest. Hang in there, okay?” 

The two of you watch as Argyle and Eddie head in your direction, encroaching on the privacy of your conversation. With a gentle pat to your shoulder, Jeff leaves your side before making his way to the door. On his way out, you catch Jeff giving Eddie a hard stare. His eyes convey a clear message: play nice. 

“Really rad to meet you today, dudette. Catch you later!” Argyle sees you and Eddie out, offering a friendly wave as he closes the door. 

As you stand in the hallway with Eddie, you realize that this is the first moment you’ve been alone with the rockstar since meeting him. The entire night, you’ve watched him parade around the studio - soaking up the attention that his skills and antics attract. As quickly as the realization hits you, it’s replaced by shock. Eddie is making his way down the hall without so much as a glance in your direction. By the time you realize what’s going on, he’s halfway to the elevator. 

You quicken your step, heels clacking loudly against the tile as you increase your pace. Eddie enters the elevator, and hits the button for the ground level. Without hesitating, you wedge your arms between the doors to halt their closing. 

“Thought you could escape?” Your tone is light as you attempt to break the tension of being stuck with someone who clearly does not want you around. Eddie stares firmly ahead at his distorted reflection stark against those silver walls, seemingly too indifferent to look your way. 

“More like you need to learn how to keep up,” he snorts as he rolls his eyes. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion. Perhaps it’s Eddie’s endlessly mocking tone. Either way, his unfair dismissal irks you in a way that has sarcasm rising to your tongue.

 “Are you sure you can fit in this elevator with the size of that head?" You retort. With that, he turns his gaze toward you. The weight of his stare feels imposing in the small elevator, amber eyes practically molten as they dart upward and greet yours.

A smirk plays on his lips, the sight of it curling deep within your gut. "And which head are you referring to, doll?" Steve warned you this would happen, but Eddie’s audacious flirting still bewilders you. Your surprise is interrupted by the ding of the elevator signaling your arrival. Unsurprisingly, Eddie does not wait for you. You follow after him, quick behind his step having anticipated his rush. 

“You're not going to tell me how I did on my first day?"

“You survived, didn’t you?” he offers, sounding wholly bored with the question.

Undeterred, you press on, “Is there anything I could have done better today?”

“Are you always this needy?” He doesn’t even look your way, voice dripping in disdain.  His brusque tone further stokes the flames of indignation you felt spark to life in the elevator. 

“Says the man who asked me to tie his shoes,” you retort. You’re too caught up in your annoyance to notice Eddie has stopped walking. You collide with his back, feeling his hard muscles tense from the unexpected force. Slowly, Eddie turns to loom over you. Your breath catches in your throat, panic starting to build. You took things too far, and he’s going to fire you on the spot. You’re sure of it. 

To your surprise, you find mirth dancing in his eyes. A smile tugs at his lips. 

“Keep that up, and I might have to keep you,” he chuckles. With a wink in your direction, Eddie exits the building and swiftly slides into the awaiting vehicle. 

I might have to keep you.

I might have to keep you.

I might have to keep you. 

His words haunt you on your commute. They keep you company like a phantom friend on the subway. They trail beside you with every step closer to home.  

The sky awakens with hues of pink and orange, ready to welcome the sun in a new beginning. You pass strangers on the sidewalk, and you note the contrasting personalities present at this time of day. People on the still crowded streets of New York City stumble home after the last call. Runners rise to hit the pavement to chip away at their morning mileage. Twilight offers these night owls and morning birds the chance to cross paths in the painted sky, a contained ecosystem of push and pull that circles around itself with the same ease as the moon and the sun. A stark reminder that sometimes, that’s all you need for opposites to flourish together – the right circumstances. 

You stand in front of your apartment door, and you make a promise to yourself. Once you cross that threshold, you will take care of yourself. You’ve spent hours sprinting to accommodate the needs of others today. From now until your next shift, you will be unhurried in your self care. 

You savor the warmth of the shower soothing your aching muscles. You relish the softness of pajamas against your skin. You enjoy the cleansing feeling of your skincare routine.  

You run your fingers through your hair, and you stop at that cherished spot behind your right ear. You can’t see it, can’t see the swirling patterns you’ve only seen captured in pictures throughout the years, but you know it’s there. You press your fingertips to your soulmark with the gentleness owed to such a sacred gift. You briefly allow your mind to wander, to wonder if somewhere out there your soulmate does the same, gentle brushes of fingers against the mark that signifies an eternal bond with a person you haven’t met, yet feel you’ve known your whole life.

Turning to your towel rack, you gently pat your face dry of any remaining droplets of water, slipper-covered feet careful as they meander down the small hallway so as to not wake a sleeping Angela within her own bedroom. Once inside, your fingers curl gently around the golden door handle and slowly push it shut, flicking on your bedside lamp as you lower yourself down into your bed. You root around in the top bedside drawer for a familiar notebook and pen, stickers scattering onto the floor from where they’re tucked into the front page of the well-loved spine, little hearts and smiling faces, flowers that you’ve previously decorated pages with. You bend to retrieve them, clicking the top of your pen and pressing it thoughtfully against your chin once settled back on your pile of pillows. You open to a new, unadorned page. The blank sheet stares up at you, lines stark against pages, full of space for your thoughts to be written. The tip brushes the page, etching the present date into the top left corner, and you begin. 

Dear Soulmate, 

I started a new job today. It’s…definitely different. I’m working for Eddie Munson. Yeah, Eddie Munson from Corroded Coffin. He’s…well, he’s not Jason Carver, that’s for sure. He’s rough around the edges, but I don't think he’s particularly cruel. Sure, he made me run around doing errands for him, and I wasn't particularly fond of having to tie his boots, but it’s not like the blatant disrespect Jason would casually throw my way.

If anything, he’s a little confusing. And yet there’s something in him. I don’t know what it is yet, but it seems like he’s…searching for something, almost. Does that even make sense? I mean, what could he be looking for? He’s a rockstar. But there were just moments sometimes where I felt this… restlessness inside him or something. I don’t know. It makes me wonder who Eddie Munson is. Who he is really, at least. Not the Eddie Munson from all the news articles and bad publicity, or the Eddie Munson he tries to portray himself as in front of others, but the real man beneath. 

Anyway, enough about me. What was your day like? I hope it was better than mine, at least. I’m just getting home and the sun is coming up, but there’s this new excitement I feel growing. This could be really life changing. I hope one day soon I can tell you all about it. Who knows? Maybe it’ll bring me closer to you. I should probably head to bed. Not sure when I’ll be needed come tomorrow, but I’ll write to you soon and tell you everything. 

Giving the ink on the page a chance to dry, you reflect on the wild nature of your first day. It proved to be challenging, and it tested the strength of your resolve. You think back to Eddie’s simple assessment – “You survived, didn’t you?” He was right. You did survive. In fact, you might even argue that you had thrived under the watchful gaze of Eddie Munson.  

You are smart. You are capable. You are resilient.

You repeat these affirmations to yourself like a promise, as you shut the notebook and settle down to go to sleep. They’re a reminder of your inner flame, which flickered today under Eddie’s scrutiny. Yet, you know this to be true - Eddie Munson will not be the one to extinguish your light.

the next chapter will be released on @blue-mossbird​’s blog!

🌿bluey's masterlist | 🌙luna's masterlist | 💌myo's masterlist

[oddussy420]

[mmunson86]

Y’all you can’t tell me that this is not Rockstar Eddie Munson coded

Just imagine them in the green room before a show and reader takes out her phone to record Eddie messing with Gareths drums 🤣💗🥹

[lavendermunson]

songs about you | rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary eddie left town to chase his dreams, writing songs about you is killing him so he goes back to Hawkins to get you back.

warning break up mentioned (not with eddie), no use of y/n. just pure fluff so so fluffy.

a/n first fic after my break, sorry if it's messy. got the inspo from a scene from empire records ? kind of.

wc 1.5k

inspired on this moodboard i made

Eddie left town after he met Chase, a guy who worked at a recording studio in LA. When Chase met Eddie and his band Corroded Coffin he promised they had potential, since then they’ve been making songs and becoming a bigger band. You on the other hand, decided to go to the community college and started to teach music to children, it was a good job and not so tiring and left plenty of space to do homework and have a lot of fun with your friends.

When Eddie came back to Hawkins last week for a break, he promised to spend time with you and your friends. Movie nights with Robin, Steve, Nancy, and Jonathan, playing d&d with the kids and teaching Max and Mike how to play guitar.

It has been a couple of fun days until yesterday, your relationship with your boyfriend has been a nightmare since he cheated on you, and you decided to forgive him and give him a second chance but after the fight last night you wanted to be as far away from him as possible and luckily for you, Eddie accepted you to stay in his trailer, just like in the old days. You had plenty of sleep, and Eddie kept his distance from you not knowing you had broken up with your ex-boyfriend, still the bed was warm and you didn't feel alone anymore.

Eddie missed you like crazy, writing and singing songs about you was ripping his heart apart. He wanted to stay back in Hawkins with you but he had to take your advice "go, be a rock star. iʼll be here supporting you as always" After you slept in his bed last night, he had a feeling that he could win you back, he hated your boyfriend for keeping you apart from him but it was a sacrifice he had to make.

—

You wake up late in the morning, patting down the space beside you, it was empty. Eddie woke up earlier but he left a note.

"Hey sweetheart, I have practice and soundcheck all day but I hope you can come and watch us at 8:00. Here's your ticket, please eat well… you can stay here as long as you want. — Eddie"

You sigh leaving the note in its place after tracing the words with your fingers, knowing there is not much to do on a free Saturday. You decided to go home after picking your breakfast from a cafeteria nearby, take a shower, relax and get ready for Eddieʼs concert.

—

It was 8:00 pm, the hideout was full of people who loved Corroded Coffin. The show was starting, you found a place close to Robin and Steve keeping your eyes glued to Eddie and the way he performed every song. It was hypnotizing, the way the blue glow of the lights made his face look angelic, the shiny rings on his fingers while he played guitar, and the emotion in his voice from every lyric of his songs. He was a very talented songwriter, the way he played the guitar so easily and the way his jaw moved as he sang and his curls moved as he was shaking his head at the rhythm.

Your heart couldn't resist it anymore, all the feelings from the start flowered up, you loved Eddie, and you have always been in love with him. Every night you wondered what he was doing, writing, performing, recording, signing autographs. You were beyond proud of him for chasing his dreams and he was absolutely crushing it.

The set ended after a few songs, it was an awesome show, mostly when Eddie looked right at you as he pronounced some of the most heart-wrenching lyrics. You didn't know those songs were for you, but he made your heart race anyway.

Robin and Steve made their way to the bar, they asked you to come with them but you just wanted to see Eddie. Pushing some bodies away from you as you made your way to the side of the stage, Eddie followed you with his eyes to catch up with you at the top of the stairs.

"Hey, you" he reached out for your hand, helping you get on stage and walking you backstage where the rest of the band relaxed "Did you like the show?"

"Like it? I loved it, Eds" your smile got bigger as you locked eyes with him "you are so talented, you all are"

He laughed at your words, Gareth screamed a ‘thank you’ and the rest of the band laughed too.

"C’mon there is something I have to show you" he squeezed your hand, and you followed him to a couple of stairs and walked with him. The stairs lead you to a rooftop, the neon sign of the hideout was the only source of light aside from the moon.

"Wow, this is awesome" The view from the rooftop was breathtaking, you were able to see some of the houses from the town, and the other side filled up with trees, the night was cold and you shivered. Eddie noticed, he placed his hands on your biceps in an attempt to warm you up.

"I- I hope you noticed that... When I looked at you, I sang those words to you. I guess I wasnʼt performing for everyone but you, I wrote them for you I, I feel that way I really do"

His bottom lip quivered, not much but you noticed. You took a deep breath parting your lips to talk, but he interrupted.

"I know you have a relationship, I get it if you donʼt want to go back in time to when we were so close but god, do I miss you" he rubbed your arms, his hands tightening up on them so they stopped shaking.

"I broke up with him," you said, in a whisper "he cheated on me, we got into a fight... Itʼs over"

"He is an idiot, you know?" he sighs.

"yeah, believe me, I know" You close your eyes for a moment, trying to process everything that was happening "but it also felt like I was cheating on hi, if someone gave me a penny anytime you crossed my mind iʼd be a millionaire by now" you giggled, Eddie did too.

You looked at him, he looked at you. Both of you had a warm pink tint on your cheeks, your heart was pounding and so was his. His hands slid down from your arms to your hands, he gave them a gentle squeeze before letting them go. He placed his hands on your waist, pushing your body towards his and making your chest bump with his. One of his hands rested on your back, the other traveled all the way up to your chin, lifting your face up.

"Now that I have you in my arms, I don't want you to go anywhere else" his soft puppy eyes were glossy as he got closer to your face.

"I only want to be with you, you have me now Iʼm all yours"

Before you could say another word, he leaned in to kiss your lips. You curled your arms around him as he pressed your back with his hand trying to pull you closer, the blood rushed through his veins like ocean waves as his heart beat with so much intensity he was scared you could hear it.

Your stomach filled up with a warm sensation, there weren't any butterflies or an anxious feeling, instead, it was peaceful and safe. You felt safe around him.

It was a tender kiss, gentle, delicate, and filled with love, the love you had for each other bottled up in your bodies was finally put to good use. Your lips melted with his, he moved his head to the side and slides his tongue into your mouth, exploring, tasting, enjoying it. After a few minutes, both of you pulled your heads back, catching the air you needed and giggling.

He took a look at you, your glossy eyes, your puffy lips, your body. "Shit, you are perfect" he muttered, making you blush.

"You are too, come back here" You push him back to you, tangling your arms around his neck. He does the same gripping your waist and lifting you up, he leaves a few pecks on your neck making you giggle.

"You just broke up with that asshole, I feel like I need to give you time or space to mourn but know that after you feel okay again iʼm going to be glued to you"

"I donʼt need time, I want you." You shake your head slightly, wrapping his waist with your legs. "You were gone for a long time, I will follow you everywhere from now on"

“I’m so writing a song about this moment” he says, earning a giggle from you.

He smiled at you, and you imitated his actions. He feels like a new man, a happy man and you feel comfortable, happy, secure. The love you deserve has finally been given to you.

i hey im back guys ♡ sorry for the inactivity, i’ve had this scenario in my mind for so long i had to write it. reblog & comment if you like it, im open to more requests about rockstar Eddie!!!!!

[exilynn]

(não roube as edições do meu livro)

Pov: Edds manda foto* tentando seduzir*

Existem duas versões: A original é pt-br E outro está em ingles

Você pode ler este capítulo no meu Wattpad

[eashmo]

-Welcome Home-

Warnings: SMUT and small fluff

A/N: I seriously have so many short stories that I need to finish for Eddie, Billy, and Steve.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It has been 3 months since I last saw my precious boyfriend. Eddie was on tour with his band Corroded Coffin. After so long,  the phone calls just didn't even begin to cut it anymore. I needed him, I craved his kisses and cuddles. He was coming home today, so I decided to give him a surprise welcome home. 

I grinned at Eddie as he entered our bedroom, watching him closely as he stood there smirking as i fucked myself with a dildo, and his eyes didn’t move away from it. I brought my other hand down to rub my clit, my fingers gliding over it easily. 

“Welcome home, rockstar.” I moaned out. 

“You couldn’t have just waited until I got here?” He asked, but he couldn’t even pretend to look disappointed.

“I figured you’d enjoy a surprise,” I breathed heavily. The dildo was a perfect shape and size, hitting my G spot perfectly. It was the same size as him. Which was perfect when we had phone sex. It felt like he was there when he was miles away from me. But I craved the real thing every day.

“Oh trust me, babygirl, I’m enjoying it,” he smirked. He ran a hand over the bulge in his boxers, hearing the pet name made me wetter, biting my lip as I rubbed my clit faster as I pumped the dildo in and out of me. Eddie watched intently, his eyes going darker by the second.

“Feels so good, Eds,” I whimpered. 

“I’ll bet it does,” he groaned, taking out his cock from his boxers, jacking himself off to the sight of me “keep going, babygirl”

I did as he told me, and I began to move my wrist fast and bring myself close to the edge. I stopped before I came, not wanting to let go before Eddie got his hands on me. I pulled it out of me slowly, his eyes completely dark when he saw how much it stretched me out as it popped out “I need you baby” I breathed. 

He startled me when he roughly grabbed my ankles and pulled me closer to him, 

He kisses my lips, moving down to my neck, making me moan. He circles my sensitive clit with his thumb, making me cry out more. I bite his neck firmly, which always drove him crazy. I rake my nails roughly down his back.

“Eddie please” I gasp into his shoulder. 

He grabs my hips, and runs the tip of his cock over my soaking core before he roughly shoves himself inside of me, making me cry out loudly. I need him in me. Now. He gives me a second to adjust to his thick member before pulling out and slamming back into me over and over and over. He picks up his pace, leaning over me to rest one hand on the headboard, to use it as leverage. I was not going to last long like this. This man knows exactly how to please me. He knows I love it rough.

“Fuck i’ve missed this pussy…” He growls into my neck. My hands grab a fistful of his hair, making him groan again.

“Eddie…” I whine. I was getting dangerously close, and he knew it.

“Don't you dare...cum…” he warns me. He began thrusting harder, driving me even closer to the edge. I try my best to hold back my quickly approaching orgasm.

“baby...please…”

“Please what?” He says in a low voice, beginning to lose control of his rhythm. He is close, too.

“Please let me cum…” I whine.

He continues his now erratic thrusting, and relentless playing with my oversensitive clit for a moment. “Cum with me, babygirl” He whispers in my ear. I shout his name as I am consumed with wave after wave of pleasure.

 “y/n” I hear him groan, finding his own release. His fingers on my hip dig into my flesh, definitely leaving his mark. He collapses on top of me, breathing heavily. He slowly drags himself to lay next to me, pulling me with him. I turn to face him and snuggle up to him.

“God, I've missed you y/n…” He says; his voice deep and gravelly.

“I missed you too.” I say, running my hand up, resting it over his heart. “I love you, eds”

“I love you too, baby girl. Also, thank you for the welcome home sex” 

“Anytime, baby”

 We both laughed as we savored the moment of him finally being back home. Back into my arms.

masterlist

2023

[earthlyangelbby]

Meeting Rockstar! Eddie sfw (flirty)

Hes kinda flirty omg

Minors dni 18+

All photo credit to @themunsonator5000

Here is the same audio just on my soundgasm if audio above isnt working:

[final-girl96]

STOLEN HEARTS: CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

SIX MONTHS LATER

EDDIE

All I have been doing is writing songs. All songs about broken fucking hearts. Yes my heart was broken, but it was more about the heart I had broken by my stupidity. I felt like I came in the dark of night and stole something that wasn't mine. I had Stolen her heart but she had stolen mine as well. That's all it was just two stolen hearts.

Midnight Thief

(Verse 1)

Sneaking through the shadows, in the dead of night

A heartbreaker on the loose, stealing love at first sight

With a glint in their eye, they strike without a sound

Leaving broken hearts scattered all around

(Chorus)

Midnight thief, stealing hearts with ease

Leaving a trail of shattered dreams and memories

No one can resist the pull of your dark art

Midnight thief, tearing love apart

(Verse 2)

Whispers in the alleys, tales of love gone wrong

The midnight thief dances to their tragic song

They move through the night like a ghostly wraith

Leaving behind a trail of heartbroken faith

(Chorus)

Midnight thief, stealing hearts with ease

Leaving a trail of shattered dreams and memories

No one can resist the pull of your dark art

Midnight thief, tearing love apart

(Bridge)

But one day the tables will turn, the thief will fall

Their stolen treasures will mean nothing at all

For in the end, love will conquer all

And the midnight thief will meet their final call

(Chorus)

Midnight thief, stealing hearts with ease

Leaving a trail of shattered dreams and memories

No one can resist the pull of your dark art

Midnight thief, tearing love apart

(Outro)

So beware the midnight thief, with their dark allure

Their reign of heartache will not long endure

For true love will rise, strong and unbroken

And the stolen hearts will be awoken

I couldn't stop. It's the only way I could keep myself sober. I got help. I went to rehab. While in rehab I started to write. Maybe all these songs are all the same. I don't know. I also don't care. It was a way to get it out and to help keep me sober. I wanted to apologize but I didn't know how. I didn't know if she would accept my apology. I had a good feeling she wouldn't. I sent her flowers every week for the past six months. I didn't expect her to call or write. I don't expect her to forgive me. I just want to show her that I'm working on myself. I'm working to clean myself up and keep it that way. Or at least I'm trying to.

Bloodstained Souls

(Verse 1)

In the shadows of the night

Where the demons take their flight

Whispers of love turn to spite

Stolen hearts in the pale moonlight

(Chorus)

Bloodstained souls in the dark

Torn apart, leaving their mark

Forgotten love, a broken heart

In the symphony of metal sparks

(Verse 2)

Crimson tears fall like rain

As the echoes of pain sustain

A metal heart, a soul in chains

Forever haunted by love's disdain

(Chorus)

Bloodstained souls in the dark

Torn apart, leaving their mark

Forgotten love, a broken heart

In the symphony of metal sparks

(Bridge)

Rage and sorrow intertwine

In the power of a screaming mind

Lost in a world so unkind

Stolen hearts left behind

(Chorus)

Bloodstained souls in the dark

Torn apart, leaving their mark

Forgotten love, a broken heart

In the symphony of metal sparks

(Outro)

In the echoes of the night

Where the darkness takes its flight

Stolen hearts forever ignite

In the flames of metal might.

I saw her the other day, walking in town. She was so fucking beautiful, it took my breath away. She always took my breath away. I realized that I haven't felt that in a long time though. I haven't felt that feeling she always gives me. That feeling where your heart skips a beat or two or five. It feels like it stops completely. I feel like I'm floating on air and time feels like it stops completely. I look at her and everything disappears.

I fucked that all up though. I was also high or drunk or both. I was also too fucked up that it started to disappear because the drugs and alcohol numbed everything. She's the only thing in my life besides my music that makes me feel anything. I always said that if I made it big that I would never end up like every other rockstar out there. I said I would never let fame get to me. I wouldn't get caught up in drugs, not with how easy it would be to get them whenever I wanted them. That didn't turn out well for me. It didn't go well for any of us.

Eternal Betrayal

(Verse 1)

In the shadows of the night, a darkness creeps

A sinister plot from within, a love asleep

Promises broken, lies spoken, hearts torn apart

Betrayal's curse, a venomous dart

(Chorus)

Stolen hearts, bleeding in the night

Echoes of deceit, screams out of sight

Eternal betrayal, chains that bind

Lost in a maze of anguish, losing our minds

(Verse 2)

Whispers of treachery, a silent storm

Betrayed by an angel, once thought to be warm

The fire in our souls now turns to ice

A shattered dream, a twisted device

(Chorus)

Stolen hearts, bleeding in the night

Echoes of deceit, screams out of sight

Eternal betrayal, chains that bind

Lost in a maze of anguish, losing our minds

(Bridge)

Beneath the veil of shadows, we search for light

But the darkness consumes us, the end in sight

A symphony of sorrow, a dirge of pain

Our stolen hearts, forever stained

(Chorus)

Stolen hearts, bleeding in the night

Echoes of deceit, screams out of sight

Eternal betrayal, chains that bind

Lost in a maze of anguish, losing our minds

(Outro)

In the realm of broken dreams, we stand alone

Haunted by the echoes of a love now gone

Stolen hearts, forever entwined

In the cruel embrace of eternal betrayal's bind

One day I will get her back. I will show her that I can change; that I have changed. I will prove to her that I can stay clean. That I can turn my life around. That I can be good for her and take care of her. Treat her the way she deserves to be treated. I took advantage of her love; of her heart.

Forged in Regret

(Verse 1)

Darkness surrounds me

My sins weigh heavy on my soul

I've broken promises

And taken a heavy toll

(Pre-Chorus)

I kneel before the gods

Begging for forgiveness

But the echo of my apologies

Falls upon deaf ears

(Chorus)

I'm sorry, for all that I've done

Regret consumes me, I can't outrun

Forgive me, for my transgressions

In the shadows of my confessions

(Verse 2)

Blackened hearts, scars that won't heal

A broken mirror reflects my pain

I'm haunted by my mistakes

Forever chained in shame

(Pre-Chorus)

I scream into the void

But redemption seems far

My heart is heavy with sorrow

As I face my inner war

(Chorus)

I'm sorry, for all that I've done

Regret consumes me, I can't outrun

Forgive me, for my transgressions

In the shadows of my confessions

(Bridge)

In the flames of my remorse

I'll burn away my pride

A phoenix rising from ashes

I'll cast regret aside

(Chorus)

I'm sorry, for all that I've done

Regret consumes me, I can't outrun

Forgive me, for my transgressions

In the shadows of my confessions

(Outro)

Forged in regret, I'll rise again

My sins will be my strength

I'll wear my scars with defiance

And face my demons at arm's length

[carolmunson]

rockstar!eddie getting thrown in jail with his band cause of public intoxication and disorderly conduct in a hotel lobby and you have to go bail him out of jail with their manager cause he called you

and he has his tattooed arms hanging out of the bars of the cell, elbows leaning on the cross bar. bandana tied like around his forehead under his bangs.

“oh-ho-ho nooo, baby, don’t be mad,” he laughs when he sees you come in with your arms crossed in a pair of his sweatpants and a merch shirt. you can smell the liquor spilling out of his pores from the other side of the room.

“are you mad at me sweet thing? we were just havin’ fun, i promise,” he grabs the bars and leans back and forth, his biceps bulging with every pull.

“i told you not to be calling me at three in the morning anymore to clean up your mess, ed. just bobby,” you’re sleepy and annoyed. the CO opens the cell and the boys file out, eddie immediately cozying up to you in a drunk haze.

“yeah but,” he kisses your forehead, “bobby’s not gonna give me a big kiss when i get out like you are.”

[blueywrites]

Chapter Three of I Will Wait

Will be released on Friday, March 31st @ 5pm EST.

@abibliophobiaa, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, @fracturedarkness and I stared at this photo for quite a while when planning this chapter, and it inspired some thoroughly delightful content that I think you will all enjoy 😉📸

See you tomorrow at 5pm! 💙

(photo credit: @eddiemunsons-missingnipple)

[eddiemunsons80sbaby]

Nothing Compares 2 You

Pairing: RockstarEddieMunsonxReader

Request: Thank you to @munsonfire for this request and for allowing me the use of her edit! I love emotional drama and you are very good at it (as you are very good at everything else). Eddie has to leave town because he's becoming famous and they break up. They still love each other after all these years, but they've never spoken to each other. Eddie may have had many girls in his life, she may have always followed him in the tabloids and thought he had forgotten about her. somehow, by chance, they might see each other again... when she thought she'd never see him again?

Word Count: 7.5K

18+ ONLY

“I don’t understand why we’re going to Rockefeller Center in October,” you mused, walking along with your best friends, Nancy and Robin. “Isn’t seeing the massive Christmas tree and ice skating the whole point of Rockefeller Center?”

Nancy sighed, looping her arm through yours, “Yes, but the whole area is full of shops and great restaurants. We can do a little shopping and grab a late lunch.  And how can we travel to New York City and not see Rockefeller Center?”

You shrugged. The three of you were having a girls long weekend in New York City. Only Nancy would want her bachelorette party to be a weekend of Broadway, culture, and history. The three of you had seen Anna Kerenina last night and it had been amazing. You’d also gone to Central Park, gone to the top of the Empire State Building, seen Times Square, and gone to The Met. Tomorrow was supposed to be the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. 

Jonathan had popped the question last Christmas and your two friends were getting married in November. They were keeping the wedding fairly small. You and Robin were the only bridesmaids. Jonathan’s brother, Will, and his friend, Argyle, were the groomsman. The guys were doing a camping weekend, inviting along the rest of the crew. Jonathan and Nancy were not interested in the usual partying or strippers and while it may seem odd to most, you thought it was actually kind of refreshing.

As you approached Rockefeller center, you smiled. It was a perfect fall day, a world of color and warmth. The leaves were changing, the trees blazing in shades of red and orange. The sky was a clear, bright blue and you could sense the excitement in the air, the city vibrant and full of life. It felt like walking through a painting, every corner you turned a new picture full of beauty and wonder. 

“Oh!” Robin squealed, darting away from the two of you. “They have thrift stores!”

“Oh boy,” you laughed, you and Nancy shaking your heads at each other as you followed Robin into ‘The City Opera Thrift Shop.’ 

Robin looked like a kid in a candy store as she perused the mish mash of clothing on racks, sorted by size and then color. Robin was not a shopping kind of girl unless you got her into a thrift store. The girl loved nothing more than quirky and cheap. Growing up in a family that had to pinch every penny had taught her to be frugal. You loved her sense of fashion because it was so uniquely her. 

You meandered over to a rack of concert shirts, pushing them back one by one. Band tees were your go-to on weekends and oversized ones made the best pajamas. Used ones already had that soft, worn, washed feeling, leaving you from having to break them in. You pulled out a Black Crowes one, holding it up to yourself and your entire body froze, as if ice water had been dumped over your head, when you caught sight of the shirt that had been hiding behind it. 

A strangled sob lodged in your throat, cutting off your air supply, your hand moving on its own in slow motion. Your fingers gripped the side, running over the black cotton. Your eyes devoured the jagged lettering, like words carved into wood. You knew it intimately because you’d been the one who had drawn it years ago in high school. 

It was from their first tour, four years ago, in 1988. Your eyes slipped closed as you swallowed hard, forcing the sob down, locking it back into the dark box you tried to keep everything that had to do with him trapped in. But the image of him, those big brown eyes pleading with you to understand that he had to go, begging you to come with him, flashed behind your lids and your eyes shot open against the assault to your heart. 

“Hey, are you ready to go?” Robin called from the front of the store, a large bag hanging off of her arm. 

“Uh…yeah…” you cried out, shoving the Black Crowes shirt back in front of the shirt you wished you’d never seen, covering it up the same way you’d covered up everything to do with him. Out of sight, out of mind. At least that was how it was supposed to work.

Who were you kidding? That had never been how it had worked. How could it when he was everywhere you looked? His music videos were all over MTV, he was on every show doing interviews and performances, and forget about going to a store. That face that had haunted you for five years was plastered across every magazine. 

He clearly wasn’t thinking about you. He’d moved on, being pictured with a different woman on his arm every week. Making out with some supermodel at a party, having lunch with the hottest young actress in Hollywood, or catching some groupie’s panties on stage. The man had gotten what he’d always wanted. He was a rockstar, known across the world. He was the guy every woman wanted to fuck. He was the guy every guy wanted to be. He’d gotten out of Hawkins, away from their small minded ignorance, away from you. 

“Hey, you okay?” asked Nancy, her eyes narrowing in concern as you followed them out of the store. 

“Yeah,” you replied, forcing a smile on your face, “I’m good. So, what’s next?”

“More shopping, obviously,” giggled Nancy. “I need to find something for my mom. She’s always wanted to come to New York so I want to get her something very New York but not like the silly tourist stuff, you know? No snowglobes or keychains. I want to find her something cool.”

“Okay, well, then let’s get on it,” you stated, relieved to have a mission to focus your energy on to keep you from slipping down into that dark hole. That dark hole you’d disappeared down for six months after he’d left, that dark hole you swore you wouldn’t allow to swallow you anymore.

You spent the next hour and half in and out of stores, Nancy insisting nothing was right for her mom. You’d pointed out hand painted bags, shirts, paintings of the skyline, but nothing seemed to be right. Just as you were getting ready to give up for now and grab some lunch, Nancy gasped, pointing ahead. 

“The NBC Studios shop!” she squealed. “My mom loves Jay Leno. Her and Dad were so upset when Carson was leaving but they wound up loving Leno. They watch it every single night. I bet I could find her something there.”

She grabbed onto yours and Robin’s hands and dragged you through the doors of the shop before instantly abandoning you to peruse all the merchandise. You looked over at Robin and shrugged, the two of you splitting up to browse yourselves. There was an entire section of merchandise just for popular shows on the channel.

You picked up an X-men mug, thinking Dustin would love it but you quickly put it back. If you bought him something that would be an avalanche of spending you couldn’t stop or afford. You couldn’t get him something without bringing something back for all of them. You’d never hear the end of it from Mike, Lucas, or Max if you got Dustin something and not them. Will would be gracious about it. El would probably be confused as to why she should care. Steve would definitely give you shit, offended, claiming you loved Dustin more than him. 

Just as Nancy walked over, triumphant, with a mug and a shirt, you turned, your attention caught by a cavalcade of dark SUVs pulling up in front of the building. Your two friends spun to see what had caught your eye and Nancy sucked in a sharp breath. 

“Oh…I bet it’s someone famous. Someone who’s going to be on the Tonight Show or something. Who do you think it is?”

You shrugged, “How would I know? I don’t want it. Do either of you know who’s supposed to be on tonight?”

Robin shook her head, “No idea. Nancy, you said your parents watch it every night.”

“They do, but I don’t. I mean, I have here and there when someone I like is going to be on. But I haven’t watched tv all week so I haven’t even seen a preview. I was too busy with wedding plans and getting ready to leave for our trip.”

You watched curiously as a big guy in a suit with an earpiece came around the side of the SUV and pulled the door open. A familiar mop of curly dishwater blond hair appeared first, followed by the sweet face of one of your favorite people in the world. It should have filled you with pleasure to see him again, the guy who’d always treated you like a little sister, but instead a sense of dread seeped into your body. No. It couldn’t be. Because if he was here, then that meant…

You were falling, slipping sideways, as your world tilted on its axis at the sight of him climbing out of the SUV. Those coffee hued eyes were concealed by a large pair of sunglasses but you didn’t need to see them because they were forever imprinted on your brain. He looked so damn good, of course he did. In place of his usual ripped jeans and leather jacket, he wore a fitted brown suit, a white dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to provide you a peek of his chest.

“Oh shit,” muttered Robin. 

“Hey…hey…” Nancy called out next to you, her hand holding your bicep in a vice grip, as if she were scared you’d collapse which was a very real possibility at this moment. “Hey, you okay?”

You couldn’t answer. You had no air. Your throat tightened, your lungs were paralyzed, unable to pull in precious oxygen. You were trapped, suffocating under the weight of memories, memories you’d buried deep but that now broke free, flashing before your mind like a slideshow of pain. Eddie winking at you from the stage at the Hideout, him leaning against your locker after class, lying in the back of his van sharing a joint, sitting on his bed as he worked on a new song, dancing at prom, the day he left…image after image attacked you, a knife slicing into you over and over, leaving you bleeding and helpless. 

“I…no…I can’t…” you whimpered, shaking your head, taking small steps backwards as if you could run from him, as if he wasn’t about to come through the exact entrance you would need to escape. 

“Hey, calm down. It’s okay,” Nancy urged but her words fell on deaf ears. 

You were drowning, everything muffled, the lights were too bright. You couldn’t breathe. Your hands clawed at the neck of your shirt, a v-neck, which was in no way hindering anything but it felt like it. Your clothes felt restricting, too tight, caging you in. 

One of the large men pushed open the door as two others flanked Eddie, leading him through it. Gareth, Jeff, and Grant came behind him, each with their own bodyguards. Jesus, there must have been twelve guys with them, covering them on all sides, the front, and the back, ensuring no one was getting close to them. That was fine. There wasn’t anything you wanted less.

As they passed in front of the gift shop’s floor to ceiling windows, you took two more steps back, bumping into a mannequin, sending it crashing to the floor along with a display of drinking glasses. A clerk glared over at you with a sigh, coming over to assess the damage. But that wasn’t what you were focusing on as Eddie’s head turned toward the sound. He stilled, pulling the sunglasses off his face, and there was those eyes, going wide as he took in the sight of you standing in the middle of the shop. 

“Shit…no…no, no, no, no…” you pleaded, eyes darting from one side to the other, desperately seeking a way out of this situation but there was none unless you were willing to run past him.

“It’s okay, just breathe. It’s okay.” Nancy’s hands rubbed over your arms, attempting to soothe but only succeeding in making you even more agitated. 

You shrugged her off as Eddie leaned into one of his bodyguards, whispering something in his ear. You were frozen, your feet stuck to the floor as the burly guy nodded and followed Eddie, pulling the door open. Suddenly the man you’d only seen in pictures and on television for the last five years was standing in front of you and you wished the Earth would open up and swallow you whole. 

“Princess? Robin? Nancy? What are you three doing in New York?” Eddie asked, his sunglasses held between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes never leaving yours. He looked as if he had seen a ghost, as if you were a mirage. 

“Girl’s weekend before my wedding,” answered Nancy when you hadn’t responded. 

“Wedding?” Eddie’s eyebrows lifted, but still he didn’t look at her, his eyes glued on you as if you would disappear if he looked away. “You and Jonathan?”

“Yeah. He popped the question last Christmas,” she replied. “So, how’s the rockstar life?”

“Huh? Oh…uh, you know.” He shrugged. “Very rockstar.” His head tilted, those brown eyes threatening to pull you under, to consume you entirely. You wanted to look away but you couldn’t. “I can’t believe you’re here. I, well, I have to do this Tonight Show thing. It could take a few hours but would you want to come to my hotel after?”

His hotel? Was he serious? There was no way you could trust yourself alone in a room with him. Your body reacted to him, remembered him, his fingertips an imprint on your skin. This man who had known you more intimately than anyone else had in your entire life. This man who had been your first. This man who you’d thought would be your only before he shattered your heart. 

Robin’s hand wrapped around yours, sensing the distress your body was under as Nancy stepped in front of you. Your friends who had been there, who had witnessed that dark time in your life, who had been the ones to pull you back from the edge just as you were ready to plummet into the abyss. 

“How about you give us the information and let her think about it?” Nancy offered.

“Princess?” Eddie asked, concerned, his face peering around Nancy to find you again but this time you looked away. “Look, I just want to talk. I haven’t seen you in…god, it’s been…”

“Five years,” you mumbled, shocked at the sound of your own voice. 

“I know,” he said softly. “Trust me. I know exactly how long it’s been. Look, if you tell me where you’re staying, I can have my driver pick you up. Or if you’d prefer, I can come to you. Just tell me your hotel and room number and I can come over after. I can bring dinner or we can order something or we can go out somewhere if that would make you more comfortable.”

“Look, Eddie,” Robin began, stepping into him, forcing him to step back. “She’s a bit overwhelmed at seeing you. I’m sure you can understand that.”

“I can because I feel exactly the same. I just want to talk.”

“Well, maybe she does and maybe she doesn’t but maybe you need to take a step back and give her some time to process all of this,” Nancy suggested calmly. “Give us your information and she can have a couple hours to decide what she wants to do.”

But you knew what you wanted. Of course you knew. There hadn’t been a choice from the moment you’d seen Gareth, knowing Eddie was not far behind. Seeing the man you’d been hopelessly in love with years after he left left you in a flurry of mixed emotions. You were both overjoyed to see that face you’d adored so much and overcome with old memories and thoughts of what could have been if he’d never left. A tug-of-war between the past and the present, battling for your heart with such force you feared it would rip in two. 

Yet, even with all the conflict inside you, there was never any doubt of what you would do if given the choice. Wasn’t this the exact kind of situation you’d fantasized about endless times? Running into him, him missing you, him telling you that you’d always been the only one for him, that he still loved you.

“Room 1562 at The Mayfair,” you said, all three heads turning to look at you as you inhaled deeply and brought your eyes back to his face. “And you can bring food. That’s fine.”

“I’ll see you in a few hours then,” Eddie said, giving you that smile that swept your feet out from under you every damn time. “I can’t wait. Thank you, princess.”

Blinking back tears, you walked past him, past his slack jawed bandmates, ignoring Gareth when he called out to you, and out of the building. You weren’t trying to be bitchy but you had to get out of there. If you didn’t get some fresh air to your brain, you were going to pass out. Stopping on the sidewalk, you gulped in precious oxygen, wondering what in the hell you’d just gotten yourself into.

The door flew open, your two best friends flying out and running over to your side. Nancy’s hand came to your back. Robin’s arm locked around yours, the two of them guiding you away from the building, understanding that you needed distance. 

“Holy shit…holy shit…” Robin gasped. “I cannot believe that just happened. Are you okay?”

“I had no idea. I am so sorry,” Nancy crooned, her hand making soothing circles over your back. “Who would have thought of all the weekends in the year, the one we chose to come to New York, Eddie would be here?”

“Not me,” you managed, a nervous giggle, frantic and squeaky exploding from you. 

“Honey, are you sure you want to do this?” Nancy questioned. 

“Yeah. If you’re rethinking this, we can go get our stuff and check out right now. We can switch hotels. He’ll never know where to find us,” Robin told you. “You don’t have to see him if you don’t want to.”

“No…no…I do,” you assured them, slowly coming down from the very near panic attack you’d just experienced. “I do. I want to see him. I want to talk to him. It’s okay. It’s going to be hard. It’s going to be painful but maybe it will also be good.”

“Good? Do you remember how you were after he left? Because we do,” Robin commented, one eyebrow lifting. “You don’t have to subject yourself to that again.”

“I know. I know. But he’s not a bad guy. He didn’t try to hurt me. He had an amazing opportunity and he couldn’t pass it up. And I am happy for him. Really, I am. It sucked but he’s not the bad guy. There is no bad guy in this story. It was an impossible situation. I’ll be okay. I was just taken by surprise. It was unexpected but I am expecting him to show up later so it will be fine.” Her two friends eyebrows lifted, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. “Seriously, it will be fine.”

____________________________________________________________

It wasn’t fine. Nothing about this was fine. You paced across the floor of your hotel room as you’d been doing for the last hour. You had no idea when he was arriving. How long did a taping for The Tonight Show take? Why would you know that? You had no experience in the world of celebrity. Maybe he wasn’t coming at all. Maybe he’d thought about it and realized that he didn’t need to waste his time seeing you. He had gorgeous women throwing themselves at him all the time. Why would he sacrifice an evening with a supermodel to hang out with his average ex-girlfriend from small town Hawkins?

This was ridiculous. Why had you agreed to this? What good was seeing him going to do? Just the sight of the man had brought on a panic attack, a shirt with his band’s name had sent you spiraling down the rabbit hole of sadness. Didn’t you know this? How many times had you lost track of time, disappearing into memories when you’d spotted his face on a magazine cover at the store? 

No, you definitely should not have given him your hotel information. You should have said it was nice to see him, good luck with his appearance, and then left. Polite but keeping everything casual. You hadn’t been anything to him for five years. Five years was a long time. He’d obviously moved on. What did it say about you that you hadn’t?

Sure, you’d dated. You had that thing with Dylan that lasted for a year but it ended eight months ago when he confronted you, demanding to know if you were in love with him and you couldn’t give him the answer he wanted. You wanted to be in love with him. You wanted to be able to give someone else your heart fully but it had never belonged to you. It wasn’t yours to give. Your heart was currently touring the world and maybe it was time you got it back. Maybe that was what this meeting would do for you. You could finally sever that string, take back what was yours so you could move on and give it to someone else. 

A sharp knock on your door paused your thoughts, your feet skidding to a stop on the carpet. Your entire body responded to the possibility of Eddie on the other side of that door, heart racing, lungs rushing, the hair on your arms raising. Closing your eyes, you took in a slow inhale through your nose and then calmly walked over, opening it. 

“Oh!” you shrieked in surprise to find one of the large bodyguards standing on the other side. He pushed past you and began looking around the room, checking in closets, under the bed, and in the bathroom.

Eddie shrugged, smiling sheepishly at you, “Sorry about this. They’re very serious about my safety.”

The bodyguard appeared content that nothing was lurking in your room to attack his charge. He gave Eddie a small nod, saying, “Jack and I will be right outside the door.”

“How about just down the hall, man?” Eddie suggested. “A little privacy, maybe?”

The big man did not appear happy about it but he nodded, “Just down the hall. We’ve given very strict instructions that no one is to be allowed onto this floor until you leave, unless they are being escorted by James. He’s down in the lobby.”

“Got it. I feel very safe,” Eddie assured him, closing the door behind him. He turned to you, eyes rolling, hooking his thumb toward the door. “These guys are so fucking annoying but management insists. I had a stalker situation last year and ever since then, I’ve gone nowhere without Mr. Tall and Surly.”

“You had a stalker?” you asked, a weight weighing heavy in your stomach at the thought of him being in any danger. 

Eddie shook his head with a snort, wild brown waves tossing around as he began unpacking a large brown bag onto the table, “It was nothing. Seriously. Some twenty year old who had convinced herself that we were destined to be or something. She sent notes and flowers. It was all harmless at first until she managed to figure out where we were staying and I got back late one night to her hiding in my closet.” He chuckled darkly, opening containers, the smell of Italian food permeating the room. “Scared the shit out of me, let me tell you. But she didn’t have any weapons or anything. She wasn’t trying to hurt me. She just wanted to convince me we were soulmates. Hotel security showed up and escorted her out. Poor thing was clearly struggling with some kind of mental illness. I tried to convince CJ, our manager, that it wasn’t a big deal but ever since then he’s been adamant that we have a security detail.”

“Well, better safe than sorry,” you sighed, moving over to sit across from him at the table as he took a seat. “I mean, stalker situations can be very scary. You’re lucky she wasn’t out to hurt you.”

“I guess.” He held up a container of chicken alfredo. “This still your favorite?”

“Uh…yeah,” you nodded, smiling as he scooped down on your plate, along with garlic bread. “Thanks.”

“Well, I was trying to figure out what to grab and then I remembered how much you love Italian food. You always picked Enzo’s for your birthday dinner. You still go there every year?”

“No. I don’t. This past birthday, I actually went out of town for my dinner to a new Thai place in Indy. Dylan didn’t really like…” You stopped, pressing your lips together. Shit. Why had you mentioned Dylan? And no, you hadn’t stepped foot in Enzo’s in five years. That had been your and Eddie’s place. You couldn’t stand the thought of going in there without him.

“Dylan?” asked Eddie, not missing a beat. He sat up, leaning back in his chair, legs spreading wide, those ring clad fingers running over his thighs as he looked at you. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“He was.”

“Was? What happened?”

You swallowed hard. This was not a topic you wanted to be discussing with him. But you’d been the one to open the flood gates, to stick your big old foot in your mouth.

“We broke up,” you replied with a shrug. “It wasn’t really going anywhere, you know? He was nice. I liked him. But he asked me if I was in love with him and I just…I couldn’t lie. So, he ended it. It was probably for the best anyway.” You needed to change the subject before he had you admitting things you did not want. “So, anyway, who cares about me? I’m still living the same boring life in Hawkins. I want to know about you, the big rockstar.”

Eddie flushed, those cheeks turning bright ride as he grabbed onto his hair, bringing it across his mouth. Your heart tugged, remembering how he did this when he was embarrassed or uncomfortable. 

“It’s not as amazing as it sounds. I mean, it is. I love playing music for a living. I love being in the recording studio, working through the kinks with the guys, that moment when we finally get it right. There is nothing like standing on that stage, a sea of people screaming for you, singing your songs back at you. That part is…there really are no words. But the rest of it, all the interviews, the photo shoots, the required appearances at different functions, that’s just all the extra shit that I have to do to keep management happy. Sleeping in a different town every night gets exhausting. Sometimes I really do lay back at night and dream of my simple life back in Hawkins…sometimes I dream about that last night, laying next to you under the stars. I’ve missed you, princess.”

You swallowed, emotion threatening to choke you at his words, “Eddie…”

“What?”

“Don’t, okay? Please don’t.”

“Don’t what? Tell you that I miss you?”

“I can’t do this,” you whispered, closing your eyes and shaking your head, tears building up behind your eyelids. “I can’t. You have no idea. You have no idea what it was like for me when you left. You have no idea how hard it was.”

“But I do know how hard it was,” he argued, reaching for your hand but you pulled it back quickly. “I know exactly how hard it was because it was hard for me too.”

“Really? It was hard for you,” you challenged, eyes opening to glare at him. “It must have been really hard to have those models suctioned to your lips, to have your hand up the skirt of beautiful actresses you were dining with, to be sleeping with a different girl every night. I saw all the photos, Eddie. Your epic love life has graced the pages of many magazines.”

His eyes widened, nostrils flaring, “Yeah, okay? I’ve had a pretty healthy sex life since I left. I was a goddamn mess for a while. I was burying myself in other women because I was trying to forget you.”

“Well, good for you. I’m glad that worked for you! Because nothing ever worked for me!” you cried, jumping up so hard you knocked the chair back.

“It didn’t work for me! And how can you be so pissed off at me? I begged you to come with me and you refused. Do you really hate me for chasing after my dream? You knew I wanted to play music when we started dating. You knew I would go for it if I could.”

“No. I don’t hate you. Fuck, I wish I could hate you because it would make things so much easier but I can’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. I can’t fault you for chasing your dreams. And look at the life you have now. I’m proud of you, Eddie. I really am, but I…I never thought I would recover when you left.”

“Neither did I but I begged you, princess! I begged you to come with me!”

“I know you did but what would that have even looked like, Eddie? What? Me waiting in hotel rooms while you trekked from place to place? Me becoming the third wheel that was dragging you down because your focus wasn’t solely on the band? I couldn’t be that person. I couldn’t become someone you resented because I was standing in the way of you getting what you wanted. And obviously you’ve gotten it. You’ve moved on! Good for you. I can’t. I’m still stuck in that town where memories of you assault me on a daily basis. I can’t get away from you!”

“You think I’ve moved on?” he demanded, rising from his chair. 

“You obviously have. I’ve seen the evidence. I know about you and that starlet. It’s been five years. Of course you moved on. You have this exciting life, traveling all over, meeting all kinds of people. You should have moved on but then you don’t get to come in here and give me those damn eyes and tell me you’ve missed me. That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” Eddie’s eyes flashed as he began moving forward, backing you up with each step until he was so close you could feel his breath fanning your face. “Moved on? Princess, I have never moved on. You crawled inside me. You’re in my blood, my fucking skin. No matter how many women I’ve fucked, I never moved on. You want to talk about not fair. Not fair is your face haunting me everytime I’m fucking someone else, wishing it was you beneath me. Not fair is you suddenly being in my town, finally within reach, and you telling me I don’t get to tell you how much I’ve missed you. Not fair is how badly I want to bury myself inside you right now even knowing it will destroy me because it will have been worth it.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, stepping back again, the backs of your knees hitting the bed and sending you toppling onto your back on the mattress. Those brown eyes darkened with lust, the only warning you had before he was on top of you, fists on either side of your head, gazing down at you with such desire that you were sure to drown in it. 

“This is a bad idea,” you managed to choke out, knowing his words were true. Allowing him to consume you would mean the end of you but you didn’t have the strength to stop it because you wanted this. Jesus, you wanted this so badly. 

“Yeah, it probably is,” he rasped, ducking his head down, his nose trailing over your cheek and down along your neck, inhaling the scent of you, sending shivers racing down your spine and straight between your thighs. “But I don’t fucking care. Let me have you, princess, even if it's only for one night.”

“Yes…”

You barely had the word out before his lips were on yours, devouring you like a man starved. Your lungs expanded as if this kiss were breathing life back into you. Your heart jumped, responding, coming back from being dormant for so long the moment his lips touched yours. Your soul pulled, reaching for him, recognizing in him the thing it had been missing for too long. 

“I’ve missed you,” he growled, teeth pulling at your bottom lip before his tongue slid past and over yours. You met it, the two reacquainting themselves, dancing to a tune you both remembered the steps to as if it had just been yesterday. 

A large hand slid along the outer edge of your thigh, up your dress, cool metal pressing into your skin as he gripped your ass through your panties and you whimpered at the feel of those hands on you again. His lips moved, exploring every inch of your face and neck, leaving no part of you untouched. 

“You smell so damn good,” he whispered, tongue snaking along the column of your throat. “Taste good too.”

Your body shuddered. His other hand grabbed onto the strap of your dress, dragging it down your shoulder and arm until the cool air hit your exposed breast. 

“Fuck, no bra, baby? Was that just for me?”

You could not formulate words as his mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking hard. His tongue lazily swirled, lavishing it with attention as he ground his erection down into you, fingers digging into your ass, pulling you as close as possible. His teeth raked over the tender bud and you cried out, back arching, pressing yourself against his face. 

“You like that, baby?” he crooned, doing it again, grinning when he got the exact reaction he wanted. “Feel good?”

“Yes, Eddie,” you whined, your hands grabbing at his leather jacket. He pulled back just long enough to pull it off and your fingers latched onto the hem of his shirt before he could stop you, needing to feel his skin. You sat up, his thighs straddling your, lifting it over his head and tossing it to the floor. 

Your eyes greedily ran over every inch of him, your fingers tracing the familiar tattoos inked over his skin before moving to the unfamiliar ones. He sighed at your touch, his eyes fluttering closed, his body exhaling as if in relief. There was a dragon running over his ribcage and a familiar guitar on his arm. Fuck, he was beautiful. He was still your Eddie, a bit more toned, but still lean and pale and just as perfect as you remembered. 

You pressed your lips against the black widow on his chest. Eddie moaned, one hand cradling the back of your head as your mouth explored his chest just as he’d explored yours. You teased one nipple and then the other, nibbling, enjoying the hiss of pleasure that escaped between his clenched teeth. And then you paused, your head snapping back, tears burning your eyes when you caught sight of the small black letters just to the left of the demon head he’d gotten when you were juniors. Your fingers reached out hesitantly, running over the letters.

“Is this…?” you breathed.

He glanced down, a soft smile curving his lips as he took your fingers, pressing a kiss to them, “Yeah. It’s a copy of the carving I put in that tree of our initials senior year.”

“But why? Why would you get that when we weren’t even together anymore?”

“Because,” Eddie began, those hands coming down on the mattress, leaning into you, forcing you to lie back as his mouth scorched your skin, trailing over your collarbone. “My heart is yours. It always has been. It doesn’t matter how far apart we are or if we’re together, it’s always been with you, sweetheart.” His hand slid under your dress again, palming your pussy over your panties and he hissed. “Fuck…your panties are already so wet. Is that all for me? Did she miss me?”

“So fucking much,” you whined, rolling your hips toward his hand, needing to feel his fingers on you, inside you. It had been so long and only Eddie knew how to bring you to earth shattering orgasm. No man since had made your toes curl the way he did.

Eddie’s nose ran over your hair, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear. His hand slid under your panties as he stretched out next to you, fingers slipping through your slick to find your aching clit. Your body bucked and you keened, arching as his thumb brushed over your clit. Small circles teased the sensitive little bud as two thick fingers pressed into you, your body immediately pulsing around them. 

“Mmm…she remembers,” he breathed against your ear, pulling your earlobe between his teeth. “She knows who she belongs to.”

“Fuck,” you whimpered, his words sending shockwaves of pleasure rocking through your body, your hips rolling to meet the pumping of his fingers. 

His fingers began scissoring, spreading you, preparing you for him just the way he used to. The pleasure coursing through you was like your own sweet little oasis. You had opened the door to a world you’d long hidden from yourself and any stress or worry about what this meant, what happened after this, disappeared. Eddie, his fingers, his words, his body, was all that mattered in this moment. 

He curled his fingers within you, hitting that spot that only he had ever found, that spot that had you seeing stars, that had you hurtling through the universe toward a never ending void. You screeched, eyes rolling back and then closing, chest heaving with every single gasp of air, knowing you weren’t going to be able to hold on much longer. 

A strong grip on your chin turned your head toward Eddie, “Open your eyes for me, beautiful. I’ve waited far too long for this. I want to see you lose control.”

It was a struggle, your body fighting back against you as it thrashed around in the waves of the storm that was your approaching orgasm. You finally opened your eyes, finding those brown ones that reminded you so much of perfectly melted chocolate staring into yours with such intensity that your stomach coiled even more. 

“You’re close, aren’t you, princess?” he asked with certainty. “I can feel it. Come on, baby. Let go for me.”

You screamed his name as your body trembled violently, your back arching, that knot in your stomach loosening. And then he was dragging your underwear down your legs, pushing his own pants and boxers past his hips. His lips were on yours and your hand slid between you, fisting his cock and the groan he released sent a whole new shock of pleasure through you. 

“Fuck baby, yes…” he moaned, his forehead rolling over yours. “Feels so good…missed you…missed your touch.”

His tongue slid into your mouth once again as you worked him in your hand and then teased him, guiding his cock through your slick, up and down. Each time the head of it bumped over your clit, you whimpered, the sound swallowed into his mouth. 

“Love when you use me to get off,” he growled. “Need to be inside you, sweetheart. You still on the pill?”

“Y…y…yes…” you stammered.

The word was barely out of your mouth before he thrust into you, pressing until his pelvis was flush with yours. You groaned simultaneously at the feel of your bodies connecting once again. Your pussy fluttered around him, as if welcoming him home, everything feeling as it should be for the first time in far too long.

“Jesus, baby, you feel so fucking good. So fucking good,” grunted Eddie, his body still, nose bumping over yours and you blinked when something wet fell onto your eye. Looking up, you saw he was crying and your heart squeezed as if in a vice. 

Your hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing over the drop, collecting it. He smiled softly, pressing his lips to yours as he began to move his hips slowly, rutting within you each time until he was bottomed out. His arms came around your back, crushing you against him, melding your two bodies until no inch of you was untouched by him.

“Eddie, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed you…” you breathed, fingers moving into his hair, your foreheads stamped together as he thrust into you as if he were trying to climb into your body.

“Me too, baby. Me too. This is how it’s supposed to be. You’re mine. You were always meant to be mine.” His mouth fell on your neck, biting and sucking, marking you. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours…yours…” you cried, feeling as you climbed toward release once again. 

“And I’m yours. I’ve always been yours. Just yours.” He growled, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your upper shoulders. “I’m gonna, princess. Cum with me, baby.”

It wasn’t a choice. You were barely hanging on by a thread. He buried himself deep within you, his body stilling as he cried out your name, his cock twitched, filling you with his release. Your head pressed into the pillow, legs locking around him, joining him in sweet ecstasy as you peaked once again. 

Eddie shuddered above you and then collapsed against you, his face buried against your neck. Your fingers toyed with his hair, tears burning your eyes. Fuck, you were going to pay for this. How long would you bury yourself in that miserable dark hole this time after you inevitably parted, after he headed off to be a rockstar again?

“Jesus H. Christ, princess…that was fucking amazing,” he sighed, nuzzling against your neck. “I love you.”

Your entire body stilled, completely rigid at his words. That vice around your heart tightened, threatening to crush it into a million pieces. No. You’d never recover from this. The sex would have been hard enough to get past but those words…this was too much. Silent tears slid down your cheeks. 

“Hey, hey,” Eddie soothed, his mouth pressing where the tears were. “Why the tears, princess? Why are you sad?”

“I can’t…I can’t do this,” you mumbled, attempting to sit up but his arms came around, pulling you back down to the bed, cradling you against his body. Tender kisses pressed against your forehead and you sunk into the safety and comfort of him, knowing it wouldn’t last. 

“Can’t do what?”

“What are we doing? You’re just going to leave again and I am going to have to try to get over you again. And I didn’t do a great job the first time. Why do you think I wasn’t in love with Dylan? Because I’ve never been able to get over you!”

“Baby, I never got over you either. I tried. And yes, I do have to leave again. That’s my job. But come with me.” His fingers brushed your hair back from your face, his eyes begging you the same they did five years ago. “Come on tour with me. You belong with me. I know it and so do you. Don’t make me have to live without you anymore.”

“Eddie, I don’t want to be in the way.”

“You won’t. You were worried the band wouldn’t take off if you were there distracting me but the band’s already taken off. The guys have missed you too. They would love to have you come along. Gareth’s got a girl and she travels with us. Nobody cares. Besides…” he grinned, teasing your neck with kisses, “you are the best kind of distraction.”

“I…I mean…”

“You mean what? I’ve been miserable without you. Are you telling me you haven’t been miserable without me?”

“No. I have,” you admitted. 

“Then come with me. Be with me. Let’s be happy.”

He was right. All of the reasons you’d had five years ago to not go on tour with them were mute at this point. Corroded Coffin was the most popular band in the world. You weren’t going to stop them from becoming big because they were already big. You tried picturing it, traveling the world with Eddie, seeing and experiencing things you never had before, sleeping next to him every night, getting to watch him on stage again. And you realized, you wanted it. You wanted it badly. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” His eyes lit up. “You’re going to come on the road with me?”

“Yes. I’m so tired of trying to be happy without you. I just want you. You’re what makes me happy.”

“Oh sweetheart, I am going to make you happy every day for the rest of forever, starting now,” he grinned, and then his lips were traveling down your body and your head was humming with bliss.

[abibliophobiaa]

Chapter Two of I Will Wait will be released Friday, 3/17 at 5:30pm EST on @abibliophobiaa’s blog

a soulmate!fakemarriage!au with rockstar!eddie and personalassistant!reader (also featuring ronance)

one | masterlist | ao3 | shmackin’ tunes

cowritten by: @abibliophobiaa @blue-mossbird @breddiemunson @fracturedarkness @myosotisa

here’s a little preview to hold you over until then...

Eddie is staring at you.

As soon as you register it— the split second you catch him watching you— Eddie’s eyes widen and dart away, expression flashing with an emotion that looks out of place on his typically-assured face. And then it’s gone. Just as quickly, as though it had never existed, that vulnerable expression is replaced by a quirked eyebrow, smugly narrowed lips, and an even, penetrating stare as his eyes return to yours. Before you can even think about it, he’s beckoning you toward him with a crooked finger.

Obligingly— it is your job, after all— you leave Argyle’s side and pull open the heavy glass door to the recording room.

The space is not overly generous, but it is large enough to give each band member a comfortable buffer of space with his instrument. The drums are set up near the back, with Harry on the left and Jeff on the right, a guitar strapped against his chest but flipped around to the back as he stands in front of the keyboard. There’s a boxy amp covered by a shield to dampen the sound in the corner opposite the door, and Eddie is standing beside it, dark-clad legs spread wide as he hooks a forearm casually against his red electric guitar.

“Yes?” you ask him neutrally, though it’s difficult to hold back the roll of your eyes when he doesn’t reply, merely beckoning you with that same finger again. You breathe slowly through your nose as you walk over to him, planting your feet right before him though your heels wobble slightly on the springy carpet. Your pleasant face grows a touch flatter as he regards you silently, blinking slowly— clearly wanting to keep you waiting, to make you pay for the split-second of whatever he’d felt when you caught him staring.

Eventually, a crooked grin spreads on Eddie’s lips as he looks at you, and your brow twitches in alarm as Eddie abruptly lifts one heavy booted foot and thumps it down on top of the amp. The move stretches his tight pants even tighter, pulling the rips at his knees to reveal pale skin underneath. It draws your eye, tempting it to run over the angular bones; they’re strong and dense, substantial beneath string that cuts shallow indents into his skin.

“Tie my boot.”

[mmunson86]

So I just got done reading the latest chapter of POF by @purplehazed-h and this is exactly how I envision Eddie during the very last part of the chapter like once y’all get to it just remember this clip because my heart I don’t know if I’ll ever recover 🥹🫶🏻😭