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dean-winchester-is-a-warrior · 1 month

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Whiskey, Neat

Summary: Y/N is sweet and awkward, how will that work out for her when she meets the world's hottest rockstar.

Pairing: Rockstar!Jensen x Reader (Y/N)

Warnings/18+: Smut. Unprotected PinV sex. Oral (m&f receiving). Vaginal fingering. Bit of dirty talk. Shy/Awkward reader. Jensen being an absolute rock god. Jensen being irresistible. Jensen being the hottest mofo on the planet.

Word Count: 5,154

A/N: So I got a couple of requests (here and here) for a rockstar!jensen fic after the shows in Austin that murdered us all. I already had every intention of writing something to try and slake our thirst, so I hope this satisfies what you were looking for my friends! Got it out a day earlier than I thought I would! Yay! 😁

I also took some inspiration from this unbelievably hot TikTok. 🥵🥵

As always, of course, this is a single, multiverse version of Jensen. This is a complete and utter work of fiction. ❤️

Jensen Ackles was a fucking, rock god; Y/N wasn't denying that.

Her friend, Angela, was shaking her head at her and throwing her arms wide.

“He's fucking amazing! Girl! Why wouldn't you go? They're backstage passes and he is the sexiest fucking man on earth! How can you pass this up?”

Y/N's face became pleading, willing her friend to understand her trepidation. “Because he's the sexiest fucking man on earth, Angela! And what am I supposed to say when I meet him? ‘Hi my name is Y/N. I have four cats, and an inability to speak without horribly embarrassing myself. Please don't look directly at me or I might burst into flames.’”

Angela rolled her eyes. “All you need to say is, ‘Hi, I'm Y/N and I'd be happy to suck your dick.”

Y/N felt her cheeks get warm. “Not likely.”

“Y/N!” Angela whined. “You have to come. You won the passes and they're in your name. If you don't go, I can't go, and you'll be denying me my god given right to maybe fuck Jensen Ackles.”

Y/N scowled at her. “Your god given right? Really?”

“Okay, fine. My god given right to go drool over him up close!”

Y/N was hesitating and Angela could sense she had her on the ropes as she continued. “Look, you've been looking for ways to get over your shyness, right?”

Y/N scoffed. “Yeah and those ways don't include making a fool of myself in front of a rock god.”

Angela pouted. “Please? It will be so much fun.”

Y/N felt her stomach clench at the idea but finally relented. The truth was that alongside the unbelievable fear at the idea of meeting Jensen Ackles, was an equal amount of ridiculous excitement.

She sighed. “Fine but if it looks like I'm gonna throw up, you need to promise to get me out of there.”

***

The crowd was screaming and jostling Y/N around as she stood in the floor section, about five feet from the stage. Jensen hadn't even come out yet, but the musicians that backed him on tour were coming on stage, and everyone knew that meant he was minutes away from coming out.

Angela was quite possibly screaming the loudest. It was a lot for Y/N to be immersed in the noise and chaos. But she also had pleasant butterflies in her stomach, allowing the excitement to override her extreme nervousness.

Finally the lights went down in the house and the lights pointing at the stage came up, bright and colorful, and zooming around the stage.

The first blaring notes of Jensen's latest hit started just as he leapt out on stage. He began to sing the driving melody, using his rough, powerful voice to give the lyrics the feel of a battle cry.

The first four songs were performed one right after the other, whipping the crowd into a frenzied, frothing mob.

After that, he slowed things down a little, introduced the band and promised them all an unforgettable night.

He did a couple of medium tempo songs from previous albums, and one of his slow, slightly melancholy hits. Y/N sang along with every word.

She could have sworn that when he was close to the edge of the stage and looking down at them all, he made direct eye contact with her. It was only for a moment, and he may have been looking at something behind her, but that stare still made her toes curl.

The rest of the concert was incredible. Jensen dripped sex on stage, his body drenched in sweat. His voice cast a spell over the crowd as it moved back and forth from rough and full of grit, to velvety and full of warmth.

He did two encores before he left the stage for good. When he was gone, Y/N stood in the aftermath feeling like she'd been given a pleasure overload.

And now she had to go meet him.

Angela grabbed her hand so they wouldn't get separated in the throng, and followed the signs pointing the way for those with backstage passes.

They walked down a long rope line until they reached the very end. They waited behind the velvet rope for Jensen to arrive and start signing autographs.

It was easy to know when he emerged from the stage door because a wave of hysterical screaming started up once again.

Y/N could see him approximately twenty feet away, making his way down the line, smiling at fans and taking selfies with them, signing CDs and posters of him. More than one woman pulled down the neckline of their t-shirt so he could sign the heavy swell of their breasts.

As he approached them, Angela started screaming for him and waving her CD towards him. It was at that exact moment and not a moment sooner that Y/N realized she had nothing for him to sign. She carried nothing with her and there was no way she was bold enough to get him to sign her boobs.

Jensen approached Angela and smiled at her before shooting a quick look at Y/N. He focused his attention back on Angela as her friend gushed and yelled at him over the crowd.

“You're the absolute best! The show was incredible!” She told him.

He smiled, thanking her and handing her back the signed CD, before obligingly leaning in slightly to allow for a selfie.

Finally Jensen reached Y/N, the very last person in the line. He stared at her for a moment and Y/N just stared back, falling head first into the green magic of his gaze.

He raised an eyebrow and leaned a little closer to be heard over the crowd. “Got something for me, Sweetheart?”

Angela's voice was in Y/N's head and she was about two seconds away from shouting. “Sure, I can suck your dick.”

Thankfully before that happened, he made a motion like he was signing something and she realized he meant, did she have something for him to sign.

She shook her head. “No, I…I'm sorry, I didn't think. I don't have things.” She said, slightly rambling.

He smiled warmly and Y/N practically melted into the floor like the Wicked Witch of the West.

“Well, we gotta fix that.” Jensen said, nodding to the bodyguard standing at the end of the rope. The giant man unhooked the velvet barrier from its pole, holding it out wide so that Y/N could leave the line.

Jensen leaned towards her to make himself heard again and she was almost completely undone by the scent of him; clean sweat and salty skin combined with something masculine and tangy that made her desperate to bury her face in the t-shirt that clung to him like a second skin.

When he spoke into her ear, goosebumps spread over every inch of her body, and it took her a minute to actually process his words.

“Come on into the green room with us and we'll find you a CD so I can sign it for you.”

Y/N swallowed convulsively and then waved at Angela vaguely. “My friend…”

He smiled at Angela again and waved her forward. “She's welcome to come too, the more the merrier.”

Angela shoved Y/N forward in her excitement to follow him and Jensen reached out to steady her.

He grinned at her. “You good?”

She just nodded emphatically.

“What's your name, darlin’?” He asked, and his soft Texan drawl made her woozy.

“Y/N.” She answered in a shaky voice.

“Well hi, Y/N.”

Jensen ushered them forward, letting them precede him into a short, slightly dark hallway. As they turned a corner and continued down a longer, better lit hallway, the noise of the crowd slowly receded.

It was only a minute until they reached a big brown door and the bodyguard opened it for them.

Inside was a party. There was a makeshift bar at the back of the room and the band was already a couple of drinks ahead. They’d obviously brought friends too, some men, some women. Music played loudly and everyone gave a cheer as Jensen walked in.

They were quickly surrounded by people clapping Jensen on the back and congratulating him on a great show. There were some press people there as well, wearing press passes and snapping photographs.

Y/N was overwhelmed by everything happening around her, and she turned to Angela to silently freak out with her, but her friend had been immediately and completely distracted by the drummer who had approached her. She seemed to be very caught up in him as she wandered away from the group to chat with him quietly. Y/N shook her head, trying to snag Angela's attention again and force her to come back, but that was apparently impossible.

Finally as the crowd around him parted, Jensen looked back at her.

“Give me ten minutes to shower and change and I'll be back. Can I get you a drink first?”

Y/N shook her head no and then answered anyway. “I'd like a water.”

Jensen seemed slightly surprised by her choice, but smiled and took her hand to lead her to the bar, where one of the bodyguards was doing double duty as a bartender.

Jensen leaned over the makeshift bar and spoke loudly, above the music. “One water and one whiskey, neat.”

Y/N felt ridiculous as the bartender passed her a water bottle before pouring out about four fingers worth of Whiskey for Jensen. She wasn't a big drinker, but she'd certainly drank before. She liked vodka, she could have asked for something with vodka.

Jesus, I'm completely out of my element here. She thought, starting to feel a bit claustrophobic even in the wide and spacious room.

She looked down at her feet as she spoke to Jensen. "You know, you don't have to sign anything for me. I mean...I don't wanna trouble you. I don't need anything."

Jensen tipped her chin up with his forefinger. "I'll let you in on a little secret sweetheart."

He smiled flirtatiously and his bright green eyes sparkled. "I didn't actually bring you here to give you an autograph. I just thought we could get to know each other a little."

Her heart started to hammer against her ribs and she blinked owlishly at him. The sexiest man alive just wanted to spend time with her?

His flirty expression softened a little and he dropped his hand, taking a step back.

"But if you just wanna go, that's no problem."

Y/N shook her head adamantly. "No, I wanna know you. Get to know you."

Jensen nodded. "Good."

He took a quick sip of his whiskey and then set it down beside her. "Then, guard that, will ya? And I'll be back in ten minutes max, and then maybe we can get some fresh air? You look like you could use it."

Y/N nodded in relief. "Yes." She said quietly. He reached out and squeezed her hand before striding off to disappear through yet another door.

Y/N stood awkwardly by the bar, occasionally making eye contact with someone and quickly looking away. Angela seemed to be the only person who's eye she couldn't catch, mainly because she was in a lip lock with the drummer.

Thankfully Jensen was as good as his word, because ten minutes hadn't passed before he returned.

His hair was wet from the shower now, and he wore a clean white t-shirt and pair of black jeans. He looked utterly scrumptious.

He picked up his glass and took a sip before smiling at Y/N. "Thanks for keeping it safe for me."

She shrugged. "I live to serve." She frowned at her stupid response and wanted to take it back, but Jensen chuckled and thumbed towards the ceiling.

"So there's a rooftop patio if you don't mind climbing a couple flights of stairs."

Y/N nodded. "Okay."

He place his big, warm palm on her lower back, guiding her through the room and making a shiver run up her spine from where he touched her.

As they left, she still couldn't get Angela's attention, so Y/N just took out her phone and sent her a text to let her know where she was so she wouldn't worry.

If she even noticed.

After walking up a couple flights of stairs, Jensen pushed through a metal door and they emerged onto the rooftop. There were a few tables and chairs set up, as well as a very comfortable looking, if slightly worn, leather couch. It was sitting inside a big canvas tent - likely to keep it from getting ruined if it rained.

There were a few other people sitting around the tables chatting quietly. A cool but gentle breeze blew and Y/N sucked in a big breath of it, exhaling slowly.

“Better?” Jensen asked, a smile in his voice.

Y/N nodded. “Much, thank you.”

“Good. You looked like you might pass out if we didn't relocate quickly. Even in the autograph line you looked a bit shell-shocked by everything.”

He was smiling but Y/N felt her cheeks get warm. Had she really looked so stunned and out of it standing there?

“No, I was…I mean I loved it. The show. You're so…you were so good.”

She wanted to scream at herself for using such an uninspired word. "Good" didn’t really describe the experience of watching him command the stage and hold every single person there in the palm of his hand.

But he just nodded. “Thanks. Glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“I really did.” She said trying to imbue more of her true excitement into her words.

Without discussing it, they wandered over to the couch, and set their drinks on the small table beside it.

“So, what do you do, Y/N?” Jensen asked as they sat down.

Their conversation was slightly stilted for the first little while, which was completely down to her. She was trying, but her words tended to be choppy and stiff as she second guessed everything that came out of her mouth and awkwardly tried to explain away her awkwardness…which in turn caused things to be…awkward.

Slowly but surely, though, as a couple of hours went by, Jensen pulled her out of her shell - charmed her out of it, really. He was funny and warm and his calm demeanor and patient, understanding vibe eventually made her feel relaxed and happy. Soon they were sitting close together, talking about when he’d started playing the guitar.

“I was about six.”

“Six?” Y/N asked incredulously. “Could you even hold onto the guitar at six?”

Jensen chuckled. “Amazingly, yes. And it was good I started young cause you need years of practice to build up good calluses on your fingers.”

Jensen picked up her hand, turning it palm up in his.

He clicked his tongue and shook his head like he was disappointed, but his voice was soft and teasing. “Could never make a guitar player out of you with these soft hands.”

He ran his fingertips over her smooth palm before raising it slowly to his lips. He placed a small kiss there and Y/N's stomach fluttered and her heart beat fast. Her breath was shaky and shallow as Jensen shifted his gaze to her mouth. He let go of her hand to cup her cheek and run his thumb across her bottom lip.

“Its got me wondering if your lips are just as soft.”

Y/N swallowed loudly and shocked herself with her response.

“You can check if you want.”

“Thanks, I think I will.” Jensen said with a wicked grin as he lowered his head, breathing softly against her lips. The whiskey on his breath made her dizzy, or maybe it was his scent surrounding her again. Either way her heart was pounding and her lower belly tightened almost painfully.

Jensen pressed his lips to hers and they were soft like silk, but warmer. Before he could even press his tongue to her lips, she opened up inviting him in immediately. Jensen groaned quietly as he slid his tongue inside. He tasted like whiskey and mint and she was instantly starving for him.

He kissed her senseless for several minutes, pulling gasps and groans out of her easily. He began to let his hands roam as he moved his lips down the side of her neck and Y/N let out a soft, breathless cry, throwing her head back as his big hand palmed her breast through her t-shirt.

Her mind whirled as he laid waste to her senses. She couldn't believe any of this was happening, but she chalked it up to a vivid dream, and she refused to do anything that might derail it. So she urged him on as he let his hands reach up under her shirt to squeeze her lace-covered breast and tease her skin where it swelled above her bra.

“Yes, god, your hands feel so fantastic.”

“Mmm…” Jensen moaned as he licked her pulse point. “Calluses aren't too rough? Cause, fuck baby, you’re soft all over.”

Y/N shook her head. “No, I like them rough.”

Jensen pulled his hands out of her shirt and sat up slightly, making Y/N whine at the loss of his hands pressing firmly into her flesh.

He nodded sideways towards the tent opening. “Should I close that?”

Y/N remembered suddenly that there were people at the tables barely thirty feet away. She was surprised to find she didn't actually care that they would likely hear them and guess what was going on inside their little enclosure.

She nodded at Jensen and he rose quickly, pulling the sides of the canvas together and tying them closed.

He moved back towards her, but instead of sitting beside her again, he pressed his hands into the back of the couch on either side of her shoulders and rested a knee on the seat between her legs. He hovered over her for a moment, fixing her with a stare that made her toes curl, just as it had when he looked at her the same way during the concert.

Her voice was hoarse with desire when she spoke.

“Was I imagining things, or did you notice me in the audience tonight.” It was a bold question, and ordinarily she wouldn't have the courage to ask it. But the look of heat and need on Jensen’s face as he stared at her so intensely made her feel fearless.

He shook his head in answer to her question. “No, you weren't imagining it. You were just so beautiful, you snagged my attention and made it hard to look away. Your expression was so wide-eyed and sweet.”

He leaned down a little and kissed her softly. “You sure you're okay being here with me, sweetheart? I don't wanna pressure you into anything.”

Y/N was shaking her head before he'd even finished his sentence; she spoke loudly as she desperately tried to reassure him.

“No, trust me. I wanna be here. So much wanna be here. Never in a million years would I have thought that I WOULD be here. Like, if you'd asked me which was more likely to happen tonight…aliens descending from the sky in hot pink convertibles to take over the world, or me having sex with Jensen Ackles, I can tell you I would have been looking for our alien overlords.”

Jensen looked slightly bemused at her rambling. “Wow.”

Y/N blushed. “Sorry, I’m quiet to start, but once you get me going, I can be pretty loud.”

A slow, sexy mile spread across Jensen’s face and Y/N blushed a deeper red. “Sorry, that sounded a lot dirtier than I meant it.”

Jensen shook his head, still hovering over her, trapping her between his arms braced against the couch.

“Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I like dirty.” He kissed her softly. “I like sweet too. They make a pretty incredible combination"

He pulled back from her and slowly lowered himself down till he was on his knees in front of her. “Just two things.” He said, raising two fingers. “One - I’m just confirming that you did in fact say you were going to have sex with Jensen Ackles, right? That wasn’t me just hearing what I wanted to hear?”

Y/N laughed breathlessly. “No, you heard right; there's no way I wanna stop at just a make out session.”

Jensen bit his lip, and his gaze smoldered hot enough to burn her to a crisp. As a result, her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke.

“And what’s the second thing?”

“I just wanted to tell you that, when I make you scream my name? You don't have to call me Jensen Ackles. Just Jensen works.” He smiled mischievously. "Course, 'Oh Daddy!' works too.”

He shrugged. “I’m easy.”

He winked at her and Y/N felt her breath leave her body as he pushed her t-shirt up a bit and began to lick and nibble at her stomach, before he pulled it all the way off and tossed it aside, leaning forward to gently bite her nipple through her lacy bra.

Y/N shivered and stifled a moan. He slid his hands around to her back, unhooking her bra, which she pulled off. Keeping his strong hands pressed into her upper back, Jensen held her in place while he licked her nipple into his mouth, sucking on it hard before letting it go so he could flick the tip of his tongue against it.

He paid the same attention to her other breast and then alternated back and forth between the two. Soon her breasts were heavily marked with small purple bruises he’d sucked into existence.

He let go of her so she fell back against the couch, as he deftly unbuttoned her jeans, and slid his fingers under the waistband to pull them down. He nodded to her.

“Lift?”

She obliged and he slid her jeans over her hips and down her legs. He quickly pulled off her shoes and then took her jeans all the way off. He ran his big, calloused palms up and down her thighs and she trembled.

Everything still seemed a bit surreal, and the sensations he was evoking in her only made it seem more likely that she was dreaming. Outside of her own imagination, she never thought she’d feel this kind of thrumming need run throughout her body.

He spread her legs wide with his broad shoulders as he settled between her them. He pushed her panties to the side so he could lean forward to teasingly touch the tip of his tongue to her clit. He swirled it there for a moment, making her buck her hips and push her hand into his hair. It was still slightly damp from his shower, but incredibly soft between her fingers.

Jensen spoke and his breath was hot, even against her burning skin. “God damn, baby, you really are too sweet.” He said licking his lips.

He paused to slide her panties down and off of her, and then quickly buried his face in her cunt. She yanked hard on his hair, surging up against his lips and clamping her thighs tight to his ears. He wrapped his arms around her legs and pried them open again, holding them in place, while never once stopping his oral onslaught.

His tongue was magic, his mouth was heaven. Pure. Heaven.

He quickly had her on the brink of climaxing, but he pulled away, making her gasp in dismay. “Please, Jensen…” She begged, tugging a little on his hair and trying to direct his mouth back to her.

“Patience baby.” He cooed against her thigh as he nibbled on it. “Just let me take care of you, just let yourself feel it.”

She could definitely feel it. Blood pulsed in her throbbing clit and her muscles shook with her need. Still Jensen just teased her, sucking more marks into her inner thighs and occasionally lapping his tongue through her slick folds, making her jolt upward as though she’d been electrocuted.

Finally, when she was whimpering quietly and begging him to end the pleasurable torture, she felt his thick middle finger slide through her folds, teasing her clit briefly before pushing inside her slowly.

“God! Fuck!” She moaned as Jensen added a finger and stretched her open.

“That’s it, baby.” He said as he began to feel her walls flutter and tighten around him. “Come for me now.”

Proving he had complete control of her body, Y/N felt him press against the spongy spot inside her and she immediately followed his command and came fast and hard, clamping down on his fingers. He stopped pumping them, keeping them buried inside her, pressing on her g-spot over and over again, bringing on two more orgasms in quick succession.

As she was laying there trembling like Jello and recovering from her third orgasm, Jensen stood up, stripped off his shirt and yanked down his jeans and underwear. Her slightly blurry vision cleared immediately and she quickly focused on his cock, semi-hard and jutting out from his body.

Without even thinking about it, she just melted off of the couch and onto her knees, leaning forward to suck his tip into her mouth.

“Unf - fuuuck.’ Jensen groaned, drawing out the word.

He pushed his fingers through her hair, so that he could cup the back of her head with his hand. He slowly pushed her further down his dick before making a fist in her hair and pulling her off of him just as slowly.

She gasped as she came off of him, spit and cum keeping them linked. He took hold of himself with his free hand and tapped his cock against her lips.

“Open up, sweetheart. I wanna see you stuffed full of my cock while you look up at me with those beautiful eyes, gone all wild and needy.”

Y/N moaned and opened her mouth immediately to let him push further down her throat. Her eyes watered and saliva dripped out of the corners of her mouth as she looked up at him, and began moving up and down his thick cock.

He guided her head as she bobbed on his dick, and praised her with disjointed compliments.

“Fuck, Y/N, yes. So fucking perfect. You’re doing so good, baby…just…fuck me! Just like tha-”

His words cut off with a deep guttural groan as she slid slowly off his dick, hollowing her cheeks and sucking hard.

He threw his head back, and she could see sweat glistening on his neck. His face was contorted in pleasure and his teeth were sunk into his bottom lip, making her clit start to throb at the sight of him.

He whimpered slightly as she popped off of him. “God, baby!” He said, pushing her back down his length, even though he was shaking his head. “You gotta stop now or I’m gonna come down your throat and I’m way too desperate to ruin that fucking pussy for that.”

He tugged her off of him again and he helped her up off her knees, pulling her close against him so she could feel his burning skin against her own. She ran her fingers across his wide chest and over his flat belly, sighing as he slotted his mouth over hers to kiss her deeply.

She could taste herself on his tongue, overriding the whiskey, and it made her pussy clench just thinking about everything that very talented tongue had done to her.

Finally he pulled away and cupped her cheek, rubbing his thumb across her lips and then pushing it inside, pumping it shallowly. He raised an eyebrow.

“How do you want it, baby? I can put you on your knees on the couch and fuck you from behind, or bend you over. Or you can sit in my lap and ride me; I can lay you down beneath me and just bury myself in you so deep.”

His voice felt like warm chocolate and was just as delicious. Y/N nearly stopped breathing as she contemplated her choices.

He pulled his thumb out of her mouth as she finally she decided. “I just wanna be able to see you, that’s all I care about.”

Jensen kissed her again, soft and sweet, walking her backwards a few steps. He lowered her to the couch before following her down, placing a knee on either side of her hips. She looked up at him as he towered above her and felt a shiver of want run through her body. Her pussy was clenching painfully around nothing, desperate to have him inside her.

Taking hold of his cock, he pushed inside slowly; when he was about halfway in he stopped to give her time to adjust. He was very long, and very, very thick so she appreciated the time to get used to his size.

But very quickly she was desperate for more, pushing her heels into his thighs to urge him in deeper. When he was sunk into her completely he groaned and collapsed on her, holding some of his weight on his forearms, but still crushing her into the couch cushions, which felt absolutely incredible.

Then he began to move in and out of her in perfect rhythm, pumping his hips in long, fluid strokes. Y/N moaned deeply as she scored her nails across his shoulders. The action made him grit his teeth and increase his pace. She gripped the sides of his hips with her knees, her whole body tightening as he began pounding into her like a freight train.

She was crying out in ecstasy seconds before her climax even hit. The feel of him ramming into her body so deep, making her breasts bounce with each thrust, was just too perfect, too incredible to hold back.

As she was coming down, he rubbed her clit in fast, tight circles with his middle finger, making her scream and fall over the edge again. She opened her eyes in time to see him throw his head back again, a harsh, prolonged groan ripped from his throat as he thrust deep one more time, and came inside her, flooding her cunt with warmth.

He shuddered a few times, hips bucking sporadically as he emptied into her completely before his muscles went slack and he crushed her even further into the couch.

She laid there, happily running her hands up and down his beautifully muscled back until he pushed his torso up so he rested on one elbow, looking down at her, and pushing her sweaty hair back from her forehead.

“How you doing, sweetheart.”

Y/N nodded dreamily. “So good. Like…SO good.” She emphasized, making Jensen chuckle.

“Good.” He said, kissing her lips briefly. He shifted their position so that he laid with his back against the couch, stretched out on his side. He pulled Y/N back to spoon against him, tucking her head under his chin and offering his bicep as a pillow.

He nuzzled against her ear. “You were amazing, Y/N. This was amazing. I gotta admit when you ordered the bottle of water, I wondered if maybe you were just a bit too sweet for me.” He teased, chuckling low in her ear and making her stomach tighten pleasantly again.

Y/N reached over her head to grab his glass of whiskey. “Definitely not.” She said, arching a brow and taking a sip. The liquor burnt a path down her throat and she started coughing and choking almost instantly. Jensen calmly took the glass out of her hand and handed her the bottle of water.

His eyes danced and his smile was wicked as he watched her gulp down the water. “So, it might be a while before you’re ready to drink whiskey neat, but we can start with like, a wine cooler?”

She wheezed at him. “Good plan.”

He laughed softly before lowering his mouth to hers and sucking the whiskey from her lips.

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters:

@lyarr24

@lacilou

@deans-spinster-witch

@globetrotter28

@suckitands33

@alwaystiredandconfused

@evznackles

@jackles010378

@impala67rollingthroughtown

@krazykelly

@candy-coated-misery0731

@envyaurora95

@spnwoman

@deans-baby-momma

@luvr4miya

@arcannaa

@viviwatchestv

@winharry

@ladysparkles78

@kr804573

Any/All Fics Regardless of Character or Fandom:

@kazsrm67

@slut-for-evans-stan

@sexyvixen7

@nancymcl

@hobby27

@waywardcheshire

Everything Incl. Fan Edits:

@k-slla

@leigh70

@eevvvaa

@kickingitwithkirk

@foxyjwls007

@notinthislife50

@roseblue373

@mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@avanatural

@mrsjenniferwinchester

@all-alone-he-turns-to-stone

@deangirl96

@stoneyggirl2

@fanfic-n-tabulous

#jensen ackles rpf #jensen x reader #jensen ackles smut #rockstar!jensen #jensen ackles one shot #jensen ackles fan fic

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blueywrites · 2 years

Text

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

#blueywrites #i will wait #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #rockstar eddie munson #eddie munson rockstar au #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x fem!reader #corroded coffin #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson smut #eddie munson soulmate au #eddie munson fake marriage #myos ideas

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omg-hellgirl · 2 months

Text

If I am to be remembered at all let me be remembered as I am, a Free Spirit.

— Angela Bowie, 1980.

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forever-rogue · 1 year

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A little hurt to comfort request

A wannabe groupie makes comments about rockstar!eddie girlfriend (aka reader maybe plus-size!reader) eddie ofc defends his lady. But then reader starts feeling insecure about her looks and body she thinks she isn’t good enough for him. But he reassures her that she is the only one for him.

AN | I hope this is okay! I feel like this would be me too, Eddie would be the best the best 🥰

Warnings | Language

Pairing | Rockstar!Eddie x PlusSized!Fem!Reader

Word Count | 4.1k

Masterlist | Main, Eddie

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It had been no secret that you’d been dating Eddie Munson for close to a year now. The Eddie Munson. Sometimes it still felt like a dream, but then you'd wake up with him pulling you into his chest.

Life was…pretty fucking good. Or pretty fucking metal as Eddie liked to say.

You'd never thought twice about the fact that you were dating him, or rather that he had chosen you.

Not until, anyway, one night when you were at one of Corroded Coffin’s shows. It wasn’t odd for you to be there, but you usually watched from the front VIP area or remained backstage to watch everything. Today, something compelled you to go out in the thick of it all, to be with the crowd and experience it from a new angle.

You were walking in with Jeff’s wife, the two of you holding beers as you went to your seating area. A few curious glances were sent your way, almost as if the people recognized the two of you but just couldn’t quite place you. That was probably exactly what was going on; it was nice to retain some sense of anonymity.

The two of you siddled into your spots and you heard a burst of laughter coming from a few seats down. The noise was so loud and out of place that it caused you to look down the row. Much to your chagrin you found two women staring back at you, wicked smirks on their faces.

They were exactly the type of women you expected to be at a rock concert. Scantily dressed with large fake breasts, fake tans, bleached hair and too make-up. These were the type of women that you found after trying to get in with the boys. Groupies, and they were shameless about it.

You turned your attention back to Angela, but before you could fully do so, you heard a loud moo directed at you. Your breath caught in your throat as you heard them making very non-discreet and rude comments. They were directed at you, you knew that right away and they were making no point to hide it.

“Can you believe Eddie Munson is dating her?”

“She must be good at sucking dick because you know Eddie wouldn’t keep her around for anything else.”

“She’s clearly good at eating.”

“He could do so much better.”

“What a waste of space!”

“If you’re going to be a porker, you could at least try to look pretty.”

You felt tears prickling at the back of your eyes but tried to push away the feelings that were bubbling up. They were just words after all, they shouldn’t have any real effect on you, and yet…it was the worst feeling. Those girls were purposely being cruel and for no real reason. No reason other than the fact that they were jealous of the fact that you were dating Eddie.

Angela picked up on your sudden mood shift, and gently put her hand on your arm, “what’s wrong, babe?”

“Nothing,” you lied so quickly that it was clearly not true. A frown settled on her features but you shook your head, “really, it’s fine.”

You could see that she was looking past you and down the row where the two girls were standing, looking smug as can be, “was it them? Did they do something?”

“No - nothing,” you dropped your voice to what you hoped was only what she could hear so they didn’t make anything worse, “just felt a little odd for a few minutes. It’ll pass soon.”

“If you’re sure…” she was a good friend and would have done anything for you, just as you would for her. You took a sip of your beer and tried to put on what you thought would be a convincing smile.

“Of course!” you had never been more thankful for the band to come out and play. You watched the boys struck onto stage, Eddie looking every bit the showman. Your heart fluttered slightly at the sight of him, “c’mon let’s get this show started!”

It wasn't entirely enough to take your mind off everything, but at least you experienced the momentary happiness of getting Eddie on stage.

You tried to ignore the horrible girls that continued to make comments throughout the show. But it was fuckin’ hard.

Once the show ended, you allowed the crowd around you to disperse and leave, remaining behind so you could make your way backstage quietly. You really didn’t want to see or be around anyone else right now, especially not ones that were going to throw horrible comments at you.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Once the crowd had thinned out, you followed Angela to the back of the stadium. At least you had the promise of getting to see Eddie soon. She was talking about something but you were only half listening. There were tons of people, girls and guys, hanging around the dressing rooms, trying to sneak their way inside. Luckily the security was good and they kept prying eyes and nosey nancies away.

The guards recognized both of you now and there wasn’t even a need to show your passes. Eddie must have somehow sensed your presence because he opened the door as soon as you were near it. His entire face lit up as soon as he saw you, the beautiful and brilliant smile making its appearance as he studied you. Before you could even say anything, his brows furrowed and eyes grew worried.

"What's wrong?" and you had to fight the fresh wave of tears that threatened to well up. He gently took your face in his hands as he tried to figure out what was wrong.

"N-nothing," you lied and he was able to see right through it. It was the soft look on his face that caused it all to be too much and the tears spilled over. Eddie's touch was nothing short of reverent as he wiped them away, "its nothing, I'm just being dumb."

"It's not nothing if it's making you feel this way," he insisted but you pulled out of his touch and ducked into his dressing room. Angela saw what was going on and walked over to Eddie, "what's going on?"

"There were girls," she explained, "sitting near us. They were making horrible and rude comments about her. Totally unnecessary and I think they really got to her."

"What the fuck-"

"Yeah," she nodded sadly, looking around to see who was hanging around. And, to no surprise at all, the girls were trying to sweet talk their way backstage. Angela grabbed his hand and pointed in their direction, "them! It was the two of them."

A furious look crossed his features as he pulled away from her. Despite the whole bad boy image, Eddie was really soft and kind. But this had brought up a while different type of emotion and Angela had never seen him so mad.

"Hey," he barked at the girls, who immediately pushed to get to him. Little did they know they were not going to like what he had to say to them. The one that had instigated everything came forward and batted her eyelashes at him.

"Hi Eddie-"

"Which one of you was talking shit about my girlfriend?" Their faces paled as they exchanged nervous looks. Eddie raised an eyebrow, "huh? Not so brave now, are we?"

"We didn't say anything mean," the other one lied, "we were just talking. She probably misunderstood."

"Bull-fucking-shit," he shook his head, curls bouncing widely, "I know your type, you're just rude to others for no reason. What did you think you were going to get out of being bitches?"

"Listen, we didn't do-"

"I know you did," he glared at them, "did you think we'd somehow break up and one of you had a chance with me? Are you that fucking stupid?"

"We didn't mean anything by it…"

"Well, that's lovely but you did what you did," he took a step back and shook his head at them, "you're never allowed at another Corroded Coffin show. I'll make sure of that. And if this ever happens and I get word of it, I won't be as nice. Clear?"

Neither of them managed to say anything, only nodding dumbly before turning around and practically running away. Eddie told his security to make sure to get their information so he could make sure they were banned from any future shows.

"You're a good man," Angela squeezed his shoulder before turning around to find Jeff.

Eddie took a deep breath before letting himself into his dressing room. His heart broke a little bit when he saw you sitting on the couch, eyes red from crying.

"Baby," he came over and sat down next to you, attempting to wrap his arm around your shoulders. You flinched out from under his touch and shook your head at him, hastily wiping away the rest of your half-dried tears. His heart ached; you’d never shied away from his touch before, “what’s wrong? Please just…tell me. Let me make it better. I talked to those girls-”

“It’s not…” you pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed, “it’s not just them. It’s just…me.”

“You? How is it you?’ he crossed his arms over his chest, pale skin covered in various ink, “you know I’m not going to quit asking until you tell me. I’m a stubborn bastard, you know that.”

“Look at yourself,” you gestured to him and confusion marred his features as he looked at himself. He was still sweaty, in desperate need of a post show shower, only wearing a pair of skinny jeans and his beat up sneakers. He shrugged as you huffed, “now look at me.”

He looked you over, the same look as always in his eyes. You were gorgeous and he honestly had no clue what you were going on about, “umm…baby, you’re beautiful. You know that.”

“No,” you stood up and shook your head, “I’m…fuck, Eddie, you have eyes, I’m not skinny and I don’t look like all those other girls who throw themselves at you. I’m-”

“Fuck that,” he shook his head, “so what? I love that you don’t look like any of them, I don’t want them - I want you. I love you, baby, all of you.”

“You could have someone better,” you turned your back to him and hid your face in your hands. Eddie didn’t even know how to possibly respond because you were so wrong - so wrong, “someone that looks good like you and that deserves you.”

“I don’t know how else to tell you this, but I don’t want anyone else but you,” Eddie’s hands found your shoulders as he gently turned you around, so he could properly look at you. He put a finger under your chin and turned your face up to his. He hated seeing you cry and even more he hated the idea that you could ever think so lowly of yourself. You were everything to him and he wished he could make you understand that, “only you. You’re it for me, baby.”

You knew Eddie, and you knew that he wasn’t lying to you. But it still didn’t help the feelings of self-doubt and worthlessness that was settling into the back of your mind. Instead of arguing with him or pushing the issue further all you could do was nod in response, “me too, Eddie. You’re it for me too.”

He relaxed slightly before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Despite Eddie’s reassurances, the run in at his show stuck with you. You weren’t able to completely shake off the feelings that those cruel words had brought up. Despite trying to hide them and pretending that they weren’t there in order to trick yourself into letting them go, nothing worked. Instead, it just kept getting worse and worse and you found yourself drifting apart from Eddie.

You felt like you were suddenly aware of every single time someone else looked at him, or read too much into everything that was said to him. You couldn’t help but think that he deserved someone better, someone different - someone that wasn’t you. You wanted only the best for the man you loved so much.

That’s how you made the hardest decision of your life.

Eddie practically bounded to the door when he heard the silly little knock that the two of you had come up with. He wasn’t expecting you, but he was always more than happy to see you. He threw open the door, ready to wrap you up in his arms.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the somber expression on your face. You caught his eye for just a moment, looking away and staring at your feet, “h-hey.”

“What’s wrong?” of course he dove right into it; not that you could blame him. If the roles were reversed, you’d probably be doing the same thing, “baby?”

“L-listen,” you swallowed thickly, “I’m sorry to do this so late, but umm…I think - I think we should break up.”

“What?” his doe eyes grew wide as you rocked back and forth on your heels before stepping back from him. Eddie ran a hand through his dark curls, trying to rationalize why you were suddenly breaking up with him. He never once thought about the two of you breaking up; in his mind it was forever, and that’s what he had always planned on, “what are you talking about?”

“I’m breaking up with you,” your words caught in your throat and it sounded even more harsh and choked. This time you hadn’t even bothered to hold back your tears, instead they fell down your cheeks and landed onto the marble of the apartment building’s floor, “I can’t date you anymore, Eddie.”

Eddie was a smart man; it didn’t take him long to put two and two together. He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his tired face, “can’t date me or won’t date me?”

“What’s the difference?” you threw up your hands in exasperation.

“You know what it is,” you groaned. You loved his tenacity but right now you just wished he’d accept what you were saying, “either way, Eddie, this is over.”

“Baby,” he tried to grab your arms but you just pulled away, “baby. Is this about what happened a few weeks ago?”

“No,” the blatant lie was obvious, “I just…I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

“Give me one good reason,” he asked, some desperation creeping into his voice despite how cool he was trying to play it, “give me one good reason why we can’t be together.”

You looked at him, squarely in the face, “I don’t love you.”

And that, those four simple words, cut deeper than anything he would have expected. He knew - or at least desperately hoped - that you were lying to him. Right? Right? The last three years you’d spent together couldn’t all have been a lie, surely. The love you said was real…it couldn’t just have been pretend. That might have actually killed him.

“That’s a lie,” he said through gritted teeth as you shrugged at him, “please, wait, I…we can talk about this and figure it out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out,” your voice was barely audible as you created an even larger distance between the two of you, “it’s done.”

Eddie watched silently as you walked towards the elevator. When you stepped inside you turned around so you could face him before pressing the button for the lobby.

“I’m sorry,” was the last thing he heard you say before the doors closed, “I’m sorry.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It felt like an eternity since you’d last seen Eddie. In reality, it had only been four months, but it felt like the longest time in your life. Every day without him felt achingly long and dreadful. The fact that he was famous and you had to see him in magazines, on TV, in advertisements and posters didn’t help. In some ways it was a small comfort getting to see him, but it also made your heart ache more for him.

You had been tempted to go to his apartment and explain and try and work it out but you stopped yourself. All of this was because of you; and now you had to live with the consequences of your actions. The fact that he was on tour again helped your dilemma slightly - he wasn’t going to be home.

Even if you were miserable, you hoped that he would be happy. He would find someone that was worthy of his love and that matched him as best as possible. Someone that wasn’t you. Maybe one day you would have your turn too…maybe.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You groaned as you heard knocking at the door. You set down your glass with a huff before pausing the movie you were watching. You’d already gotten the pizza you ordered and had no clue what this could have been. Whatever it i was, it better have been worth getting off the couch.

“Hang on,” you called out before opening the door; you didn’t even bother to look to see who it was before opening, “what?”

“Hi,” and there stood Eddie Munson. A small, tired half smile was on his face; he looked like he’d just come from a show, that similar glow on his face, “h-hi there.”

“Eddie?” you asked softly as though it wasn’t obvious that he was standing right there in your hallway. You opened and closed your mouth a few times before leaning against the doorframe in disbelief, “w-what are you doing here?”

“I was just in the neighborhood-”

“Bullshit,” you cut him off softly, “you’ve been on tour. I thought your last show was tomorrow night?”

“Still keeping track, huh?” he teased as warmth crept into your cheeks before offering him a single affirmative nod, "the last show was umm…tomorrow but I just…I wanted to see…you."

"Me?" You pointed at yourself and he nodded with a smile, "why? After everything I said and did. I was awful to you."

"It wasn't you," he stated simply, "I mean it was you but it was…circumstances."

"Eddie-"

"Can I come in?" You stepped to the side and motioned for him to come in. Once inside, he took a look around the familiar space, feeling more at home than he had in a long time. You went into the living room and plopped on the couch. He sat down on the other end, keeping a bit of distance between your bodies, "so…"

"What are you doing here, Eddie?" you allowed yourself one little look at his face. He looked tired and run down, but there was an expression of fierce determination on his face.

"I'm here to see you," he was never one to beat around the bush, "and I guess…asking you to take me back."

Your tummy erupted in butterflies and your heart felt like it was about to beat out of your chest. You turned to him, "I - what…you want me to take you back?"

"It's been four months and everyday has fucking sucked," he admitted, letting out a shaky little exhale, "and its because you're not there. I…my life isn't complete without you."

"But…I," he really had to go and be the best man ever. You smiled softly at him, "why would you want to be with me?"

"Are you kidding me?" He sounded offended, as though the answer was so obvious. To him it was obvious - you were everything to him. You looked at him, searching his pretty brown eyes, "babe, I'm in love with you. Everything about you, I'm so fucking in love with you it scares me some times. I don't want anyone but you. Like ever."

"But…"

"But what?" He asked gently as you searched for the right words, "tell me, baby."

"You deserve better."

"Why?"

"'cause," you shrugged him off but he wasn't going to have it.

"Nuh uh," he moved even closer and reached for your hand, "I'm not going to let it go until you give me a real answer."

"Look at me, Eddie!" You hung your head before sighing heavily, "I'm not skinny and pretty like all those other girls! You could have any and every single one of them. They'd be so much better for you and they'd be more like you. You'd have someone that deserves you."

"Is that what…baby, is that what this has been about?" He had his light bulb moment but it was a harsh reality. This was still bugging you for so long and he hadn't even realized, "you should have…fuck, I'm so sorry I didn't realize."

"It's not like you can fix anything," you wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of your sweater, "I am what I am and I don't want to feel like I'm holding you back."

"Fuck that," he shook his head, "I barely deserve you, you're so much…you're everything. I know you don't look like some of those other girls, but so what? You're gorgeous, you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. I don't want anyone else."

"What if you change your mind one day?"

"I hate to break it to you, but that's never going to happen," he promised, "I love you and that's it. Nothing else matters. If anyone has anything to say, fuck 'em. They don't matter."

"Eddie…"

"Here," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box, holding it out to you. You raised an eyebrow but took it gently and opened. Staring back at you was a beautiful diamond ring. Your mouth dropped open in surprise as you looked at him, "yeah. I was, ugh, I was actually planning on asking you before you broke up with me."

"You were going to ask me to marry you?" Your voice cracked as you came to the realization that he really was in it forever. Not that you had any reason to ever doubt him, it was the voices in your head that grew too loud.

"Yeah," he whispered, his own throat thick with emotion, "I just…I wanted you to know."

"I'm sorry," you closed the box and handed it back to him slowly, "really, Eddie. I went and fucked things up."

"No, you didn't," he promised, touching your cheek, "your feelings are valid. Even though I don't agree with how you've been feeling about yourself. It also makes me mad that those girls, or anyone, would ever say something like that about anyone else. It's immature and just shows their own insecurities."

"Thank you," you put your hand on his wrist and squeezed gently, "you're the best, I hope you know that."

"I do," there was a playful little smile on his face, "because there's this amazing woman that constantly reminds me of that."

"You silly man," you couldn't help the small laugh that bubbled, "someone is going to be very lucky to have you one day."

"Yeah, I sure hope so," he snorted in amusement, "and I hope it's you."

"Me?!"

"Of course," he was beaming at you and it was enough to make your entire body feel like jelly, "did you really think you were just going to get rid of me like that?"

"I should have known better," your heart felt lighter than it had in months, "you're a stubborn man, Eddie Munson."

"Maybe so," he traced his fingers along your jaw and down your neck, "I'm also stubborn enough to think that you might still marry me."

"I think that might be something that could happen," and yeah, you were definitely and madly in love with this man, "its definitely in the cards."

"Hmm," he mused gently, "well, it's getting pretty late…I guess I should get going."

"Stay," you held onto his arm and kept him anchored towards you, "stay."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," you nodded, never more sure than anything else, "please."

"I love you, baby. So much."

"I love you too, Eddie. So, so much."

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson one shot #rockstar!eddie #joseph quinn #plus size reader

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profesionalpartyguest · 11 months

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3 30s AllAboutStyle outfits for teens! my first ever age conversion! yippie!! huge credit to both @kaluxsims and @nonsensical-pixels for assisting me in meshing! you're both rockstars. All of them have a fat morph and are repo'd to the originals (which are included in the rar since her site died) Included are 4 outfits: The Playsuit (on Meadow) comes in 2 casual/athletic swatches + 1 swatch that's undies only. A 30s dress with heels (on Lilith) with 8 swatches (come as both formal and everyday) A 30s Maternity Dress (on Angela) with 2 swatches, everyday only + it's the only dress with maternity morphs. DOWNLOAD HERE! all the credit to AllAboutStyle @penig for your depression riverblossom hills needs

#sims 2 download #sims 2 #s2cc #ts2cc #sims 2 maxis match #maxis match #ts2 #sims 2 clothing #sims 2 historical #sims 2 1930s

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cowgurrrl · 1 year

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Too Close

Pairing: rockstar!joel x actress!reader

Author’s note: this isn’t exactly where I wanted it to be but I still like it (ps fic named after this song)

Summary: “Why, get you gone! Who is’t that hinders you?” “A foolish heart, that I leave here behind.” A Midsummer Night’s Dream Act III, Scene II, Lines 318-319 [2.5k]

Warnings: arguing, language, tumultuous co-parent relationships, the l word, allusions to substance abuse, vague depictions of a panic attack, brief description of disassociation, poor sleeping habits, fictional situations of survivor’s guilt/traumatic events, this one’s a doozy y’all

Joel ushers you into his bedroom and quickly closes the door behind him like you two are sneaking around and don't want to get caught. You bite your thumbnail as you think, replaying the brief moment you saw Angela over and over again. He stands there, hands on his hips, and takes a deep breath. You don't know where to start. Two hours ago? Last week? Twenty years ago? Time seems to collapse between the two of you.

"If you want to be mad at someone, be mad at me. Not Sarah." He says as if getting pissed at Sarah was even on your radar.

"I'm not gonna get mad at her. She's a kid," you scoff. The fact that he even had to specify that makes your skin crawl. At what point during your relationship have you made it seem like you would ever be angry with her? "How long have you known?" You ask the million-dollar question, and he sighs, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Sarah reached out to her a couple of months ago, and she responded. I didn't think she'd actually show up."

"How long is a couple of months?"

"She emailed her before we left for New York." He says, and you have to sit down on the ottoman at the front of his bed to catch your breath. You bury your head in your hands and fight the tears stinging behind your eyes. Your knee bounces with unspent anger and anxiety, and your heart hammers in your chest.

"So, the entire time I was telling you everything about my past and showing you where I lived and trusting you for the first time, you were in contact with your ex-wife?" You ask, but he doesn't say anything. You look up to stare at him, and he shakes his head.

"I didn't think she'd actually come into town."

"That doesn't matter, Joel! You should've told me!"

"I didn't know if we were even anythin' before we went to New York, so it didn't feel important." He says like it's your fault, and you raise your eyebrows at him. You walk over to him, fire in your veins and venom choking you as all your frustration spills from you.

"Oh, is that why you fucked me? Because you didn't know and wanted to try something? Wanted to see if I was worth keeping around?" You ask. "Because you seemed to have a pretty good idea of what we were when you stuck your tongue down my throat, so please tell me what revelation you had that made you think you didn't have to tell me you were talking to the woman who left you with a baby."

"I didn't want to ruin our time together."

"Well, it's pretty fucking ruined now, isn't it?"

"You don't get it!" He raises his voice, and you throw up your hands in defeat as he turns his back to you. You groan and rub your face, looking up at the ceiling in hopes that some sentient being will smite you right then and there.

"Then, explain it to me, Joel." You say, and he shakes his head as he faces you. You think of the young Joel you saw in the picture you saw two weeks ago. The Joel who was a single dad working construction to afford formula for his daughter. The Joel who was in his early twenties and divorced and scorned. The Joel who wrote one of your favorite songs and released it alone, not knowing what his future would hold. That Joel is hard to find when you look at him now.

"She's sober. She has a steady job in Texas. She's finally gettin' back on her feet. I've been tryin' for eighteen years to get her to even pick up the fuckin' phone, and now here she is, and she's better. This could be a chance."

"A chance for what?"

"For us to be a family or, at least, for Sarah to have a relationship with her." He says, and you nod, biting the inside of your cheek. You’re not family. You’re an outsider, someone to hang around until Mom gets to come back and take what’s hers. You’re not permanent in the grand scheme of his family.

"Do you still love her?"

"What?"

"Do you still love her?" You repeat slowly. He gives you a look before running his thumb over an invisible ring on his left finger. It might've been a nervous habit, but you saw it. You saw the way he flinched when he felt skin instead of metal.

"I…" he starts. "I will always have love for her. I-"

"Oh, my God." You can't even stand to hear the rest of his sentence. You push your hair out of your face and start pacing.

"She's Sarah's mom!" He yells.

"And she left! She left and didn't give a shit about either of you, Joel! And now that you're famous and have money, she suddenly checks her inbox?!"

"You don't know what you're talkin' about."

"Apparently, I don't know a lot," you say. He softens momentarily as the words hang in the air, and you shrug. You furiously wipe at your eyes as unauthorized tears roll down your cheeks. "I trusted you. I let you into my life. I told my fucking parents about you. Do you know how hard that was for me? Do you know how many years I spent protecting myself from this exact situation? But I trusted you not to do that. I," your voice catches in your throat, and Joel rushes over to put his hands on your arms. You know he's trying to rub his hands up and down your skin to soothe you, but you push him away, stumbling back from his touch. "I don't know where to go from here. I don’t know if there’s even anywhere for us to go after this.”

"We can work through this. We just needa talk bout it and figure somethings out, but we can move forward."

"No, we can't." You cry, and he gives you a confused look.

"Honey, look at me. Yes, we can."

"The contract is ending early. Apparently, your team is fucking ecstatic with how things are going and decided you don't need me anymore. That's what Melanie came to tell me before I fired her," you laugh, wiping your nose on your sleeve and letting out a sharp exhale. "I should've fired her a long time ago, but I did it today because she said I shouldn't be with you. It was my last straw, and I thought that not having any auditions or work lined up would be okay because this morning, I believed in us so hard that I was willing to endure that. I let myself make the stupid choice to be happy for once because I-" You cut yourself off. You can't even bear to think the words, let alone say them out loud. Joel stares at you with big watery eyes, but you can't find it in yourself to feel sorry enough for him to comfort him.

"I have to go. I can't be here right now."

"Please, just wait," he begs, and you shake your head, pulling your jacket closer to your body. He might've tried to say more, but you don't wait to hear it. You fly down the stairs, hiding your tears from the girls, and leave the house. You don't slam the door or throw one last comment Joel's way. You're sane enough to know not to put children in the crossfire of anything, let alone relationship problems.

Once you're at the curb outside of Joel's house, you let out a loud sob. Your hands shake as you pull your phone out of your pocket and hit the first number on speed dial. Ryan picks up on the third ring. The second he says your name, more tears fall down your face, and you feel like you can't breathe.

"What's going on?" He asks urgently, and you hiccup.

"Can you come get me, please? I don't... I can't go home. I don't want, fuck," you press your palm to your scorching forehead and try to force yourself to think. "I really need you."

"Stay where you are. I'm getting in the car now. Where are you?"

Ryan and Carolina hold your hands, rub your back, and offer you tissues as you tell them everything. The contract, the fake dates, the phone calls from Texas, New York, the girls, Melanie, Angela. Everything. They don't yell at you for lying about your relationship or blame you for what went down with Melanie. They just offer soft assurances that you're okay, and they love you. You cry through most of it, and they take turns holding you while you three sit at the dining room table.

You don't remember the last time you've cried this hard about anything. It feels like there's a gashing hole in your soul, and you're desperately trying to keep everything together so you don't lose it. And you want to blame it all on Joel because that would be easy—convenient. But you think that maybe this hole in you has always been there, and you've slowly been losing pieces of yourself without even realizing it.

You think Melanie took a lot of it, pawning your shiniest pieces for brand new Range Rovers and Birkin’s. You think you left a bit here and there every time a director pushed you too hard, and you sat in your trailer for hours, staring at the wall and wondering how you could feel so disconnected from your own body. And you think that more was taken in every unwanted picture taken of you, in every headline talking about your appearance or lack of a partner, in every interview question that had nothing to do with your work as a trained actor. You want to go around Los Angeles with invoices, demanding that people give you back to yourself because how dare they take those pieces. You want to gather them in a box and try to fit them together again like a puzzle with bent and missing connections. You want your fucking life back, but it’s not yours anymore. It’s theirs. Maybe it always was.

"I'm so stupid," you whisper as you stare at your hands. Carolina wraps her arms around your shoulders and presses her cheek to yours, the smell of her floral perfume and Elizabeth's baby lotion surrounding you.

"You're not stupid. Not by a long shot, okay?"

"God, why does this hurt so much? I feel like I'm dying."

"Because you love him," she says, like she didn't just destroy your world. You clench your jaw and try to stop yourself from crying more, but her soothing presence around you is enough for you to break. "You love him, and he loves you, and it's not enough to change anything."

"That's dismal." You try to laugh as you wipe at your eyes, and she nods. Ryan reaches across the table for your hand and holds it like it's fragile china.

"It's awful, and I wish I could take this pain from you. But, I swear to you, one day, you won't hurt like this. One day, you're gonna sing and dance again. You're gonna smile and laugh and make jokes again. You're gonna make beautiful art and fall in love with the way leaves fall, and you're gonna be okay."

"How do you know?" You ask.

"Because I know you."

Because I know you. Those four words scare you and make you grapple with the terrifying reality that they've seen the rotted parts inside you and still chose to love you. They remind you of how much you love them. They remind you of how much you love Joel, and it doesn't even matter because it will always end this way. It will always end this way, but it matters that the love was there. You wonder if it always will be. You wonder if one day you'll hear his song on the radio and be able to sing along. You wonder if he'll be able to see your movies. You wonder if supporting each other from afar is enough and decide that it has to be. There is no other choice. It will always end this way.

Carolina and Ryan let you sleep in the guest bedroom down the hall from them. The one that's always ready for you when you need it. The one with a pile of borrowed clothes with your name on it and the one with the soft sheets and extra quilts. You lay in the dark, your head throbbing with the weight of your tears, and you should be sleeping, but you're not. You're running through every single moment with Joel like you can will things to change. He fucked up. You both did. There are a million things you would change or take back, but Jesus Christ, were you happy.

You shake the tears out of your eyes and reach for your phone, ready to mindlessly scroll through social media until you feel the tiniest bit better. However, your email inbox flashes with an unopened message before you can get to Instagram. You furrow your brows and open the app to see an email from Melanie. You open it out of habit and almost immediately sit up in bed.

From: Melanie Lundquist

Subject Line: Opportunity

Pike's assistant reached out since I'm your last manager on record. The role's written specifically for you, so it's yours, without a doubt. Don't say I never did anything for you.

-Mel

Attachment: THE_BEGINNING_OF_THE_END_R.PIKE

Richard Pike wrote you a role. An Oscar-winning producer wrote you a role. You immediately open the document and begin reading. You really should be asleep, especially after the day you've had with reshoots, but you can't stop devouring the words. It's about a young woman dealing with the survivor's guilt of living through a terrorist attack, mental health, and substance abuse issues. She's angry, sad, and hard to love at times, but she's also so fucking funny and caring. She's dynamic and heartbreaking and raw. She's everything you've ever wanted in a role.

You stay up reading and crying over her story, feeling her pain so deep in your heart that it hurts. When you get to the end of the script, the sun is slowly rising, and you're almost certain that you'll die of dehydration, but you don't care. You find Pike's assistant's email address and tell her you need this role. Surprisingly, she writes back not even ten minutes later despite it being almost six in the morning.

Happy to hear it. Mr. Pike will produce the movie, but Mrs. Liliah Hanover will be directing and working with you directly. I will pass the message along to her team. Shooting begins at the beginning of next month in Ireland. The expected film time is six-twelve months, and housing will be provided upon arrival. Are you still interested?

For some reason, you type back a single, enthusiastic "yes!" before locking your phone and falling asleep for fifteen hours.

#one for the money two for the show #rockstar!joel #tlou au #the last of us au #the last of us #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel tlou #the last of us x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller the last of us #the last of us hbo

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anthemof-gvf · 10 months

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Naughty or Nice

Summary: It’s holiday season and your best friend is hosting a christmas sleepover! Oh, and her older brother will be there too ;).

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x F!Reader

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI!! oral (f!Recieving), f!ngering, unprotected sex, rough sex, dirty talk, choking, overstimulation, mentions of alcohol.

✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥

Walking up the driveway to your best friends house, you were careful not to slip as your feet made contact with the icy pavement. A feeling of nostalgia overwhelmed you as you walked up the steps to the front porch, decorated in an array of colorful christmas lights.

Christmas music and conversation filled your ears as you knocked on the door. It only took a few seconds, but you knew Ronnie was coming by the sound of her bare feet hitting the ground. The door swung open and you were immediately engulfed in a big Ronnie bear hug.

“Y/n!” “Ronnie!”

Ronnie had been your best friend for as long as you could remember, and these sleepovers were something you did together annually. After moving away for college, you rarely spoke to Ronnie, so to say you were excited would be an understatement.

“It has been way too long, I was starting to think you forgot about me.”

She crossed her arms and gave you a sassy look. You couldnt help but laugh, always having adored her spunky personality.

“I’d never dream of it.”

You pulled her into another hug, unable to contain the excitement you were feeling, finally being reunited with your other half.

“Mhm, come on, the others are waiting.”

She grabbed you by your wrist and lead you inside. It looked and smelled exactly how you remembered it, and it warmed your heart.

Making your way to the kitchen, you were able to see a group of your old high school friends sitting around a table, entranced in their own little conversation.

“Guys, look who’s here!”

Ronnie announced. You exchanged a series of “hello’s”, “so good to see you’s”, and so on, before taking your respective seat next to Ronnie.

✥✥✥✥

Hours felt like minutes as you reminiced on your high school days with the girls. Angela, a friend of yours you’d known since 6th grade, was currently on the topic of her obsession with Jake.

Jake was one of Ronnie’s older brother’s and was totally gorgeous. You’d never admit it, but you’d secretly also had a crush on Jake during your adolecent years. How could you not? He was a rockstar babe, gorgeous brown hair and a smile that would make you melt on the spot.

Unfortunately for Angela and yourself, Jake always had a girlfriend. Not that you’d had a chance with him anyways. There was always this unspoken rule between Ronnie and her brother’s that each other’s friends were off limits, so you were forced to admire from the side.

You were pulled out of your thoughts by Ronnie’s gagging and wretching.

“If I have to hear one more thing about my brother I will throw up on all of you.”

You all laughed as she rolled her eyes and sipped at her empty budweiser.

“Y/n would you be a doll and get me another drink please?”

She bat her eyelashes at you and pouted.

“Why me?” You retaliated, crossing your arms.

“Because you love me, and this is basically your second home so it makes more sense for you to do it.”

You pretended to ponder, already set on doing it for her. You finally agreed, earning a slobbery wet kiss to the cheek.

“Thank you! Love you! You’re the best!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” You rolled your eyes at her playfully as you got up out of your seat and made your way to the garage, where the alcohol was stored.

Approaching the garage door, you could hear the soft melody of a guitar playing from the inside and you stopped dead in your tracks. ‘I didn’t know he was here.’ You thought to yourself.

You stood outside the door like a deer in the headlights. You considered turning around and telling Ronnie they were all out of beer, and you almost did until the sound of a raspy laugh interrupted your contemplating.

“Are you just gonna stand there or are you gonna come in?”

You wanted nothing more than to disappear. You’d been caught. Awkwardly opening the door, you made eye contact with him. Jake Kiszka. The Jake Kiszka you were just daydreaming about a few minutes prior.

“Hi Jake, uh sorry I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

You mentally cringed at yourself for feeling like a teenage girl all over again, but he was gorgeous. Even more so than before. He’d grown his hair out, so it reached his collarbones, and the shirt he was wearing left a good portion of his chest exposed. He looked older, he looked good, and you were practically drooling at the sight of him.

“Ronnie didn’t tell me you were coming.”

He wasn’t looking at you, but you knew he was talking to you because there was no one else in the room.

“Hm thats weird.” You responded as you made your way to the fridge.

You didn’t know how to act around him, and it was apparent in the way that your hands trembled while holding the fridge door open. He was staring at you, you could feel him.

You found the pack of budweisers resting on the bottom shelf and you bent down to retrieve them, arching your back ever so slightly. You stood up slowly and turned back around to face him, a smug look plastered on his face.

The way his eyes scanned every inch of your body sent shivers down your spine. He’d never looked at you like that before and you didn’t know how to proceed. You felt the need to say something, anything.

“So uh, how are things with Hannah?”

Stupid question. You wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. He watched you with a look you’d never seen before, and opened his mouth to speak.

“We broke up.”

The bluntness of his voice was like a strong gust of wind. You felt like a mouse in a snake cage with the way he was looking at you.

“I’m sorry”

You genuinely were. As much as you envied the girl, and spent hours on end daydreaming about being in her position, Jake seemed to really love her, and you could imagine the split having some sort of affect on him.

“I’m not, she was a bitch”

He shrugged and placed his guitar next to him on the couch. He stood up and began to approach you. You could practically see your heart beating out of your chest as he got closer. He made eye contact with you as he began to reach behind you to open the door.

“After you.”

He motioned for you to exit and you did, him following close behind. You made your way back to the house and he followed you, the only thing breaking the silence was the sound of feet hitting the snow that rested on the ground.

The door to get back into the house was a glass sliding door that liked to get stuck sometimes. Praying that this time would be different, you slipped your fingers into the handle and gently tugged. Your prayers went unanswered and the door didnt budge. You continued to tug in hopes of it giving in but it just wouldnt.

“Here let me help-“

Jake placed one of his calloused hands over yours and the other on the glass. You were boxed into him and your breath got caught in your throat. You tried not to think about how close he was as you continued to pull at the door, but the feeling of his breath on the back of your neck made it difficult.

He had to press up against you to get the door open, and you made your way inside with flushed cheeks and a burning sensation between your thighs. Walking back to the kitchen, you tried your best to compose yourself as the group of girls looked at you.

“Took you long enough” Ronnie complained as she took the pack of beers from your hands. She gave you a weird look as Jake entered from behind you. You averted your gaze, careful not to look at either Kiszka while the other girls giggled and whispered amongst themselves.

✥✥✥✥

You hadn’t seen Jake for the remainder of the night, and you honestly didnt want to. That didn’t stop you from thinking about the interaction you’d had with him though.

Laying on the floor of Ronnie’s bedroom, you found yourself unable to sleep. The room was filled with the sound of soft snores and shuffling around, but that wasn’t what was keeping you up.

Giving up on trying to sleep, you quietly got up from where you were laying and went to the kitchen, hoping a drink of water could calm your racing mind.

As you faced the sink, allowing yourself to ease into the feeling of the cool water rushing down your throat, you caught something in the corner of your eye. You turned to see Jake rummaging through the fridge for something and you jumped, sending yourself into a choking mess.

He watched and laughed at you as you tried to recollect yourself and you flipped him off in the process.

“Jesus Jake you scared the shit out of me”

You managed to get out in between coughs. He mumbled a quick apology, still smirking at you as he pulled a slice of cold pizza out from the fridge. He leaned against the counter next to the fridge, wearing nothing but sweatpants that hung low on his waist.

“What’re you doing up?” He questioned, taking a bite of his cold pizza.

“Couldn’t sleep, you?” You lifted yourself onto the counter opposite of him. Little did he know he was the reason sleep refused to come to you.

“Couldn’t sleep either.” He shrugged, chewing the last of his food before swallowing. You couldn’t help but stare at the way his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He laughed, and you realized you’d been caught yet again. You laughed too, you mustve looked so ridiculous fawning over him like that.

“You’re cute, you know that?”

You started blushing profusedly. The boy you’ve wanted since you were a little girl just called you cute. You were internally screaming.

“I must be if it’s coming from you.”

You weren’t sure where your sudden confidence came from, but the near incoherent hum that escaped his lips let you know that he liked it. He approached you, placing his hands on either side of the counter where you were sitting.

You made eye contact with him, and he held it, a smirk threatening to form on his lips. He let his eyes flicker to yours, but only for a moment before looking back up. You couldn’t tell if you were dreaming, but if you were, you never wanted to wake up.

You don’t know who made the first move but before you knew it his lips were on yours. The kiss started slow and hesitant. This was new territory for the both of you and it was dangerous. You let your arms rest on his bare shoulders while his wrapped around your waist.

You deepened the kiss, parting your lips for him to enter. He wasted no time in exploring your mouth with his tongue, grunting into the kiss. He slid his hands up and down your thighs a few times before taking hold of your hips and pulling you into him.

Your bodies were flush against each other and you could feel his growing erection against your clothed core. You wrapped your legs around him, wanting to feel more of him, and he practically moaned. He pulled away from you, and struggled to catch his breath before he spoke.

“Fuck y/n, you have no idea how long i’ve wanted to do that”

His confession made you smile and you pressed your forehead against his, running your hands through his hair. He pecked your lips roughly before moving down to your jaw, and then your neck, making you moan softly.

“I need you Jakey.”

He moaned into your neck. It was as if he’d never heard anything so beautiful before. He swooped you up off of the counter and carried you up the stairs to his bedroom.

He quietly shut the door with his foot before placing you down gently onto his bed, climbing on top of you and caging you in between his arms, returning to his spot on your neck.

You were growing needier by the minute, and he was taking too long. You arched your back into him and moaned out of frustration.

“Needy are we?” He teased, as he placed wet kisses down your neck.

He toyed with the hem of your shirt and began to lift it before looking up at you, silently asking for permission. You nodded slightly, and he wasted no more time in yanking your shirt off and tossing it somewhere behind him.

He paused when he realized you weren’t wearing a bra, and if he’d allowed himself to stay frozen like that for one more second, you wouldve grown self concious. He didn’t though and instead dove down to explore the newly exposed skin.

He started lapping at your left nipple while using his calloused fingers to pinch and rub at the right one. As good as it felt, you needed him, and you couldnt wait much longer.

“Jakey please.” The desperation in your voice was pathetic, and under any other circumstance you’d be embarrassed. Tonight you didnt care though, you wanted him, and you wanted him badly.

“Tell me what you want baby, what do you want me to do?”

You could listen to him call you ‘baby’ forever. You whined as he continued to leave open mouthed kisses down your body, stopping at the waistband of your shorts.

“I- fuck Jake, just touch me, please.” You choked on your words. You were about to cry and he was starting to feel bad for you.

He pulled your shorts down to your ankles along with your underwear and groaned at the sight of your soaked pussy.

“Fuck y/n, you’re dripping.” He was in awe at the sight of you. Fully naked and soaked, sprawled out over his bed, eagerly waiting for him.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good baby. Gonna make you cum so hard you’ll forget your own name. You want that pretty girl?”

He began rubbing small circles over your clit and you cried out, finally getting some sort of friction.

“Answer me y/n. Is that what you want?” His motions started to slow and you began to panic, gripping his wrist to keep him there.

“Yes, Yes! Fuck yes Jake I want that, just please dont stop.”

He hummed, satisfied with your answer. He began running his middle and ring finger through your folds, collecting some of your wetness before sliding them into your entrance.

He pumped them in and out of you, gradually picking up the pace with every thrust as he placed gentle kisses over your swollen clit. You moaned softly trying your hardest not to wake your friends, who were completely unaware of what was going on.

He began sucking and licking at your clit while he quickly pumped his fingers in and out of you. It became harder and harder to control your moans as he quickened his pace. It didnt take long for a familiar knot to form in the pit of your stomach.

“Jake i-“

“I know baby, I know. Be a good girl and stay quiet for me yeah?” He cut you off before you could finish, and started pumping his fingers into you even faster than before. You had to cover your mouth with your hand to silence the ungodly sounds that were escaping you.

Your legs began to shake and you threw your head back as the long awaited orgasm washed over you. You expected him to slow down, or stop, but he didnt. He maintained his same pace and lapped at your clit more aggressively than he was before.

You started to squirm under him, and couldn’t hold back the loud moan that escaped you as he sent you immediately into your second orgasm.

He lifted his face up to look at you, his chin glisening in your release. He had a cocky smirk plastered across his face as he licked his lips.

“Sorry baby couldn’t help myself. You just taste so sweet, taste yourself.”

He removed his fingers from your throbbing pussy and placed them into your mouth. You swirled your tongue around his fingers, humming as the taste of your release hit your tastebuds.

He let out a shaky breath and chuckled. “Naughty girl, enjoying the taste of her own release.” He pulled his fingers from your mouth and put them into his own, sucking the mixture of your release and your saliva off of his fingers.

He kissed you roughly, his erection rubbing against the side of your thigh. You reached down and began to palm him through his sweats, causing him to moan into the kiss.

He was painfully hard and you wanted nothing more than to feel him inside you. You tugged at the waistband of his pants, signaling you wanted them off. He slid them down to his ankles, cock springing free and resting against his lower stomach. It was thick, tip swollen and leaking pre-cum.

He pumped himself a few times, then aligned himself with your entrance, running himself through your folds a few times.

“Are you sure you want this?”

You thought it was cute that he constantly asked for consent, even after he’d already been in you. You nodded, but it wasn’t enough.

“Words baby girl.”

‘Fuck, could he get any hotter?’ You thought to yourself.

“Yes Jakey, please”

That was all he needed to hear, and he began pushing himself into you. It stung a little, and you winced. He haulted immediately and searched your eyes for any indication that you wanted to stop, but there was none.

Once he was all the way in, he slowly thrusted in and out of you, allowing you to adjust to him before picking up the pace. You moaned silently, never taking your eyes off of him. Strands of hair were stuck to his forehead and he was flushed a bright red.

He pounded into you suddenly and roughly, causing you to let out a high pitched yelp. His hand immediately flew to cover your mouth, eyes wide and body stiff.

“I thought I told you to be quiet.” He was pissed, you were in for it now. He removed his hand from your mouth and wrapped it tightly around your throat. He started pounding into you rough and fast, using his free hand to rub vicious circles around your clit.

The sensation was too much, and if it werent for his hand wrapped around your throat youd’ve woken everyone in the house. You started to cry from overstimulation and you were becoming lightheaded due to the restriction of air.

“Aw is it too much for you? Shouldve thought of that before you tried to get us caught you little slut.”

His change in demeanor was unexpected to you. You’d never seen Jake so mean before, and you certainly didnt expect to like it as much as you did.

Your third orgasm came crashing into you like a wave from the north sea. Your vision went blurry and your brain forgot how to function, you’ve never came so hard in your life. You squeezed around him hard and his rhythm began to faulter, signaling his own approach.

“Fuck y/n, i’m close. Where do you want it?”

He was panting heavily, face scrunched and fully concentrated.

“Inside.” Was all you managed to get out, still coming down from your high.

Within seconds he was filling you up with his warm release, collapsing on top of you. You both were panting heavily, sweaty and high on sex. You ran your hands through his messy hair as he caressed your side.

It hit you then, you just fucked your best friends brother. Your childhood crush that you could’ve sworn you had no chance with, was laying on top of you with his cock still burried inbetween your legs.

Wet kisses on your collarbone pulled you out of your thoughts and you looked down at him. He was already staring up at you with a smirk on his face.

“What’re you thinking about?” He looked into your eyes, genuinely curious.

“You.” You brushed a strand of hair away from his face and he kissed your hand.

“What about me?”

The look in his eyes gave you the sense that he knew, but you decided to humor him anyways.

“Just that i’ve spent a good portion of my life convincing myself I’d never have a chance with you, but here you are.”

“Here I am, and i’m not going anywhere.” He smiled and kissed you, a silent reciprocation of feelings.

✥✥✥✥

The ray of sun shining across your face pulled you out of your sleep. You were still in Jake’s arms, and you looked up to see the peaceful boy still asleep. You’d gone another round after your confession, though it was much gentler the second time. To say you were sore was an understatement as you slipped out of his bed and gathered your clothes off of the floor.

You struggled but managed to get your clothes on and snuck out of his room. Tiptoeing your way down the stairs, you quietly opened the door to Ronnie’s bedroom.

You slipped into the covers of the bed you were supposed to stay the night in and let out a relieved sigh, no one knew a thing.

You heard the sound of shuffling coming from Ronnie’s bed and you shut your eyes, pretending to be asleep. The movement continued for only a moment and then it stopped. Pure silence took over the room.

“Whore.”

✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥✥

A/N: Hey guys! This was my first fanfic ever, so i’m sorry if it sucks. I actually had so much fun writing this even though it’s my first smut so it’s probably bad. I love feedback so feel free to tell me anything I can change or do in the future :)) xoxo

#jake gvf #jake kiszka #jake smut #greta van fic #greta van fleet #greta van smut #smut #jtk smut #jake kiszka smut

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