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eddiesghxst · 8 months

Text

ALL I WANTED

part one | part two | part three

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x rockstar!reader

summary: your band, Daughters of Vampira, and Corroded Coffin hate each other and are struggling to keep a clean image in the media; so, in an attempt to solve the issue, your managers try to come up with a solution.

contains: enemies to lovers trope, alcohol consumption, smoking, cheating (reader is cheated on by her fiancé), themes of misogyny/sexism, and eddie being a dick <3

word count: 12.9k

| Daughters of Vampira setlist | Corroded Coffin setlist |

-story masterlist- | -main masterlist-

You were a musician. A rockstar. On your way to being one of the greats. Your band, Daughters of Vampira, was a small, feminist rock band out of Hawkins, Indiana. You created this band with your friends, Robin, Nancy, and Max, an outlet the four of you used to sing and write your little hearts out. You hit it big when you all moved to Los Angeles, playing at some lame bar when a producer walked up to you after the show, saying she wanted to see more, handing you a business card.

Then boom.

Everything was up from there. You got signed onto a record deal– played shows, signed autographs, walked carpets, and did interviews. Your wallet was a bottomless pit. En route to being wed, you got engaged to your production assistant turned bassist, and all was well— until about five minutes ago.

You came home from a day at the studio with your band, crafting a new song, playing with guitar riffs, and imagining lyrics. This track was going to be big; a song about your love for your fiance, a tale of how magnetic and beautiful every second was and will be.

You unlocked the door to your shared apartment, kicking off your sneakers, when you noticed a pair of red heels, which is weird because you hate heels. Maybe they were your friend Angie’s shoes; she knows where you hide your spare key and sometimes sneaks in when you’re not home. Furrowing a brow, you cautiously set your bag and keys down, looking around you for any more clues— her bag or her keys, anything. Your socked feet softly pad across your cold, wooden floors as you walk into the apartment's threshold, glancing into the kitchen. Nothing. You turned to the living room, unknowingly holding your breath—still nothing. Suspicion itches in your mind as you take in the space around you. You turn the corner to your bedroom and see the door left ajar.

You almost think nothing of it; you wouldn’t be mad at Angie taking a nap in your room; she’s your childhood best friend, but then you hear it— the two voices. The first voice is your fiance, Scott, and the second is an unknown woman.

They’re laughing. They’re whispering about something you can’t hear either because they’re either speaking too quietly or your sudden rage is filling out the space in your ears; you’re not sure which it is. You quickly glance back towards the door, eyeing the heels for the second time— your heart drops.

It was Angie. Those were her heels; you helped her pick them out, for fucks sake. You storm up to the door and swing it open without a second thought, and your eyes widen at the sight before you. You had so badly wished your mind was playing some sick trick on you, and you were just hearing things. You were wrong.

Your fiance and childhood best friend, Angie, are sprawled out in your white-sheeted bed, heads laid on your pillows tousled, under your roof— and both incredibly naked.

Despite the anger, your eyes quickly fill with tears, salty pools of resentment and betrayal threatening to spill over. Scott sees you in the doorway and scrambles out of bed, hastily grabbing a pair of boxers to pull over his bare hips. You can hear him sputtering out excuses, apologies, and reasons through the fog— so many words that sound like nothing but white noise to you.

He stumbles his way over to you, hands reaching out to grasp you and raising in surrender when you yank away from him. You can hardly think; a cloudy moment where you feel as if the floor has been wiped from below you and you’re free-falling in some shitty excuse of a dream.

“Sweetheart, please just listen–” He didn’t get to finish his sentence; the palm of your hand cracked down against his cheek to stop whatever bullshit excuse was coming. Angie shrieked, jumping out of bed, still with no clothes on, as she hurried to his side, an obvious two-against-one— that’s clarified when she shoots you a pointed look, fire building up in her eyes— and you can’t believe the audacity.

Scott looks back at you, cheek red with the sting of your rage as he points a finger at you, “Don’t you dare fucking touch her,” he scolds as if you were a child, warning you to leave the cookie jar alone. You scoff, your mouth falling agape as you laugh humorlessly. “Me? Touch her?” You point to the naked girl. Your neck heats in fury as you shake your head, “That is rich, Scott.”

You step back, eyeing both of them and ignoring the lump in your throat as you speak, “So, how long has this been going on?” They stare at you like they’re fucking clueless, and it ticks you off to no end, “In my own fucking bed? With my best friend?” Your tears are hot as they begin streaming down your cheeks, and the harsh swipe of your wrist to wipe them away stings, but you refuse to let them see you cry. Your mind is cluttered with questions, but they come out like bullets, firing round after round.

Angie takes to answering you, saying your name to halt your questions, “We– we’re in love, and… and he doesn’t..” She looks to Scott for guidance, her eyes pleading for him to help her. Your fingers shake in anger.

“I want to call the wedding off,” Scott says, looking you in the eyes while he and your best friend link fingers. They look fucking stupid, standing there naked and feigning unity– you almost want to laugh. You scoff again, folding your arms over your chest like that would hide your pain from them, despite the evident ghost of tears still clinging to your skin.

You glance around the room, around at the life you had planned for yourself, for him. Pictures of your engagement day, the closet you two shared, the fucking bed you shared, the life the two of you shared. More tears fall, and you don’t bother brushing them away this time. You nod, defeated. “Yeah, that’s– yeah, we can… we can do that.” You wipe at your tears, fingers shaking with agony as you swallow the words.

Your ex-fiance reaches out for your arm, and you back away, like he’s contagious– like his touch carries the heat of the sun. “Don’t touch me,” you snarled, watery gaze boring into his brown eyes.

“The wedding’s off, so… Take your shit and,” you look at your childhood best friend— your ex-childhood best friend, and your heart aches. This fucking hurts. Your teeth dig into your lower lip as you dismissively wave your hand towards the clothes strewn across the floor, “And take her shit and get the fuck out.” You turn to leave but stop when Scott speaks, “I can’t just do that; I–” He stutters at the stab of your glare, “I need to call a truck so I can carry everything.”

You laugh, tilting your head, “Nah, don’t worry, I can help you with that.”

You pace to your apartment window, swinging it open and ignoring the confused voices behind you when you start picking up various items. Scott’s eyes widen as he watches you storm over to the window, a heap of his things in your arms. He scrambles to you, yelling as you toss his stuff out the window. He’s looking out the window, watching them fall, “Get. The. Fuck. Out.” You shriek after every item you throw: his computer, acoustic guitar, books on Logistics, and How To Save Money Like A Businessman.

You flutter about the room, shaking Angie off when she tries to grab you, ignoring her when she falls to the floor in a heap of naked limbs. You pick up a pricey statue that was Scott’s, ignoring his protests, courteously tossing it out the window to join his items.

You storm out of the room, glancing around for any of Scott’s stuff. Yes, this was your apartment, but you were working on sharing it— sharing it with him. Your fiance. Ex-fiance. You skirt out to the living room, the two lovebirds hot on your tail and begging you to stop. You walk over to the balcony doors, pushing them open and ignoring the sound of the doors cracking against the wall, some picture frames falling to the floor.

Pictures of you and him.

You pick them up and toss them over the balcony, looking around for any other fallen pieces. You thoroughly sweep your apartment— as thoroughly as you can through your tears of rage, gathering jackets, shirts, and shoes and carelessly tossing them over the balcony. You ignore them as they hastily put on their clothes, brushing past them to pace to the door.

Your gaze is hot and heavy on Angie’s heels. Those shiny, blood-red, smooth pumps. They oozed sex appeal and smirked at you, asking, daring, challenging you. Angie scrambles to you, yelling for you to put them down, yelling that they were Jimmy Choos, that they were expensive— like you would care.

You shrug her off as you walk back to the balcony, hanging them over the ledge and turning to gaze at her as she watches with tears brimming. Pathetic. You look into her eyes and drop them— one by one, “Fetch,” you whisper hoarsely.

Angie begins to cry, turning and running to Scott, who points an accusatory finger at you, “You’re a fucking crazy bitch. You couldn’t just end things like a civilized human fucking being?” He exclaims, “You are fucking insane!” He grits out, holding Angie by the waist. “I’ll be back tomorrow, and you better have my shit,” he says scathingly.

When they both have an appropriate amount of clothes on— Angie settling for one of his oversized shirts and panties, him with sweats— Scott hastily searches for his keys. You watch them both, numb and unmoving, and it feels like your body is vibrating in a storm of emotions. Scott finds his keys and wallet, yanking Angie by the hand and hauling her out the door, but not before he shoots you a glare— a look that tells you it’s over. Completely done with no room for redemption— you don’t care either way.

The door slams shut, and silence fills the space. You stand there for what seems like eons, basking in the fizzling heat of your emotions before shuffling towards your bag near the door and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. You search for your lighter, growing irritated when it seems to be missing. You toss your bag to the floor with a curse and walk to the gas stove, turning the knob until a rim of flames arises. You slip the cigarette between your snot-slick lips, ducking your head towards the stove top and watching the cancerous stick catch fire.

You stand upright, inhaling and puffing out the smoke. You grab your flip phone, shuffling towards the balcony for fresh air while you make a call, but to your dismay, a crowd is gathered below your building, watching and taking pictures. At closer glance, you realize these people are none other than paparazzi— the very bane of your existence. They’re already recording; you can hear them chattering about what they suspect is happening, making up stories for the cameras and soon-to-come tabloids.

Then, to make matters worse, Scott and Angie skirt out from the building entrance and start picking some items up, the paparazzi asking various intruding questions. Scott has enough grace and respect for you to deny a comment, opting for catching a taxi with Angie instead. With a roll of your eyes, you walk back into your apartment and busy yourself doing a shitty job clearing the mess you’d made. However, like clockwork, your phone rings.

You know it’s Miss Sinclair; well, Erica, as she always corrects you. Your music manager, a firecracker, that one, but overall a good friend on your side.

You answer, taking a drag from the cigarette as you step onto your terrace again, breathing out a cloud of smoke. “What?” You ask snappily into the phone, glancing down at the crowd of people taking pictures of you. Assholes.

”What? What do you mean, what?” Erica hisses through the speaker. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Tiger?” A nickname she has for you that originated from God knows where. “Yeah, like… what’s up?” You play dumb, smiling sarcastically and waving innocently to the cameras below you.

“Why the hell do I have people blowing my line asking me why you’re tossing shit onto the streets of Los Angeles like it’s a goddamn Goodwill?” She impatiently asks.

You shrug, even though she can’t see you, “Dunno. See you tomorrow at the studio.” You pull the phone away from your ear, hearing her shriek and yell at you, commanding you not to hang up. You slap the flip phone closed, ending the call; her words cut off. You take another drag of the cigarette before flicking the bud off the balcony at the intruders, watching them back away to glare at you, yelling a few curses. You flip them two middle fingers in response before turning to walk back into your apartment, closing the doors behind you.

You’re going to write a song. A kickass song.

“And then I threw all his shit out the fucking window,” you chuckle, retelling the story to your drinking companion, Robin Buckley, the drummer of your band. She smirks and downs another shot of vodka, “Yeah.. you uh,” she grimaces and smacks her lips at the bitter drink, “you created quite the stir earlier today,” She points at you and winks, picking up her forgotten glass of whiskey beside her and holding it out to you, in cheers.

You sigh and smile, and inevitably you clink your whiskey-filled glass against hers as she says, “To shitty men and new beginnings— preferably with women,” she winks again, laughing along with you as you lighten up from her joke. You down the rest of your drink and put your glass down, sucking your teeth before rolling your lips inward as you stare thoughtlessly, the whiskey leaving burning kisses in your throat.

The loud, underground celebrity-only bar drowns out behind you. What were you going to do? You had so much planned with Scott, an entire fucking wedding, a home, maybe even kids. And as if that’s not enough, you wrote an entire song about him. You were almost finished with it, so close to recording it and putting it out, maybe with tour dates to match.

Now it's gone. Dead and buried.

A whole song, written in 4 weeks, about your love, the love of your life, your supposed forever person, and he threw it all away. You knew love wasn’t easy. It never was, especially not after your rise to fame. It was hard to find time for date nights, for sex, for just seeing each other and talking. But you would’ve never imagined this to be how it ended.

You can’t help but feel as though this might have been your fault. Some small, pessimistic, mean part of you nagging that you could’ve prevented this if you had just changed. You tried to make time for Scott, you really did, but you got caught up in the music— the music for him. You worked tirelessly at it. For Scott to hear this song and immediately know it’s about him. You wanted it to be a wedding gift, maybe, to play it at your wedding for everyone to hear your love. You had never been so soft in a song, so open and disgustingly lovesick, and you wasted it all on him. Maybe it was your fault; perhaps it was for the better—

“Hey, you okay?” Robin cuts through your thoughts, “You went a little quiet there,” she smiles softly, playfully nudging her shoulder against yours. “Yeah,” you nod, “I-I’m good. Great.” You nod along with your words, trying fiercely to believe them.

You were not good, nor were you great. You were, to put it nicely, fucking wrecked. You were humiliated. How could anyone be okay after something like this? It was bad enough he cheated in the first place but with your best friend? You lost two of your closest people within the blink of an eye. It hurts more that they got each other while you got nothing but ghosts and memories. Scott was there for everything, your first real concert, the after-parties, the carpets. He was there for all of it. And he won’t be there anymore, and that hurts.

You shrug, laughing nervously and rubbing the bridge of your nose in distress, “I just can’t help but think that— that maybe this–” You motion your hands uselessly. Robin quickly interrupts you before you can finish your thought, “No. Do not go there. Are you insane? This,” she motions lazily over your figure, copying you, “was not your fault.” She shakes her head, sincerity laced within her voice and gaze. “Believe me when I say that— I would tell you if you were a crazy bitch, trust.” She smiles and nudges you again with her shoulder, pulling a laugh from you.

You sigh, rotating your neck to stretch it out, rolling your shoulders, “So, like, what’s up with you?” You ask to lighten the mood, leaning on the bar counter with your elbows. It works because she laughs and nods, looking down at the glasses of whiskey as the bartender wordlessly fills them back up. She traces her finger around the rim of it, still nodding, “I-I’ve been good, you know,” she glances at you and shyly looks away when you begin to smirk, “Just sorta.. Hangin’ out, I guess. Shootin’ the shit,” she shrugs, and you laugh. “Yeah, so when did you guys hook up?” You say over your glass rim innocently, laughing even harder when the girl turns red in the face and sputters over her drink.

“We did not hook up!” She exclaims, wiping the drink from her lips. “Me and Nance,” she shakes her head, “we just… We, like, hung out, you know?” She shrugged. You mockingly raise an eyebrow as she keeps talking, “And like smoked a bit and maybe drank and then like, there was a movie involved, and then she kissed me and—” You interrupt her rambling with a wave of your hand, “Alright, no more details. You totally hooked up,” you laugh, and she blushes harder, laughing and shaking her head, “Definitely did not.” she scoffs.

“You definitely did.” You challenge.

“Did not.” She shoots back.

“Did.”

She groans and shakes you, “If I pay for your tab, will you shut up?” she offers. You pretend to think dramatically for a moment before giving in and nodding, laughing when she slams a one hundred dollar bill on the counter and gets up, picking her leather jacket from behind her chair. “God, you are so annoying,” she complains, shucking her coat over her Daughters of Vampira band t-shirt.

You get up, shrugging your leather jacket on and snickering, “Nah, you love me,” you teasingly say, shoving at her shoulder. She smirks and shakes her head, heading for the exit, “Yeah, you wish,” She pushes the door open and steps outside into the chilly Los Angeles night, immediately shoving her hands into her pockets.

You opt for taking the damaged, smashed pack of cigarettes out of your pocket and pulling a matching lighter out. The lighter has a siren with long, blonde locks and a green, shimmery mermaid tail. You pull out a cigarette and stick it between your lips, igniting the flame and holding it up to the end of the cigarette. You bask in the warmth emanating from the flame, a soft heat kissing your nose. You pull the lighter away and puff, blowing the tobacco back out.

“Man, all I wanted was a peaceful drink, and I got verbally berated instead,” Robin jokes. You laugh, blowing smoke in her face before stopping, looking ahead. You freeze, and not because of the air; the cogs in your brain start moving, fired up with the fuel of alcohol and the lightheaded buzz of nicotine. You still your movements, looking at your friend, “What did you say?” you ask slowly, pulling your gaze from the busy car-filled street.

Her face heats up, eyes widening and hands flying from her pockets to raise in defense, “No, I mean, like— I was kidding. I wasn’t being serious—” you interrupt her by waving your hand hastily that was holding a cigarette, before looking at it and tossing it carelessly to the side. You aimlessly shake your hands at her, “No, what did you just say?” You stare into her eyes, watching as she tries to connect the dots.

She raises her eyebrows in confusion, shrugging before saying slowly, “All I wanted—” You stop her, snapping and pointing, walking away and walking back, obviously pacing. “Yes! Yes— that. It’s perfect.” You stop pacing for a second, standing with your hands on your hips. Robin laughs nervously, fiddling with her zipper jacket, “Uh, what is happening right now? Am I in trouble?” she jokes anxiously, but you ignore her.

You were thinking. Thinking hard.

All I wanted. All you wanted? All I wanted.

You repeat it to her, mumbling the words, gaze still focused on the ground, “All I wanted.” You say, pulling your eyes back up to hers. “Uh.. yeah– All I wanted…was a drink,” she parrots back, nodding dumbly, placating you like a small child doing a math equation.

You smile mischievously, “Robin, you’re a fucking genius!” You all but shriek, earning some glances from the sidewalk. You pay no attention to them, but Robin does, grabbing your shoulder and pushing you into a walk, looking around her to not draw attention to the both of you, but it’s difficult when you’re wildly smiling and humming out a guitar tempo.

“Dude, what are you talking about?” She stresses, “Please tell me what’s happening; I have no idea what is socially acceptable to say right now,” she explains nervously, hand moving to grasp at your elbow, keeping you in motion. “Robin, we have to go to the studio right now,” you beg, looking her in her eyes, your gaze shining in inspiration. “What? No, what? Why?” She steps in front of you and halts your walking, “What is happening?” she pleads, leaning forward and pressing her palms together in a praying motion— silently asking you to please elaborate. You move past her, still walking, still thinking.

Robin jogs to catch up to you, “Tell me what you’re thinking, please,” she begs. You look at her and smirk, “I have an idea for a song,” you conclude. Upon hearing this, Robin smiles like the fucking Cheshire cat.

“Hit me, Tiger.”

Eddie can’t help but laugh when his friend tells him what happened. He pauses for a moment, staring at Scott and waiting for him to say it was just a joke, but he never does, and Eddie nearly dies of laughter, the rest of the band along with him.

“Holy shit,” Eddie gasps between laughter. Gareth snorts, raising his eyebrow in shock as he speaks, “She threw your shit out the window?”

Scott rolls his eyes, flipping the brown-haired boy off, sipping his beer, and leaning back into the red leather couch. Eddie shakes his head as he swivels around in his chair to mess with the studio soundboard, “That’s what you get when you fuck crazy bitches, man,” Eddie laughs, glancing up to watch Jeff mess around with chords in the sound booth. He listens as he speaks, “I mean, sure, she was hot,” He shrugs, reaching over for his box of cigarettes, “Insane tits or whatever, but at what cost?” He snorts.

Scott shrugs, downing the rest of his beer and tossing the bottle into the small trash bin near the soundboard.

“I mean, the sex was definitely good, but she just— I dunno, man,” he shakes his head and dismissively waves his hand, “She’s too much of a firecracker. Angie is way more docile,” he concludes. He snickers as he thinks it over, “Easier to deal with,” he smirks, reaching down to the floor to pick up another beer. Gareth snickers and Eddie grimaces with a shake of his head; he then smirks as he slides a cigarette between his lips, “Nah, the firecrackers are the fun ones, man.” he speaks around the paper as he lights the cancerous stick, sucking and blowing out the smoke. “So, what now?” Gareth asks, taking a swig of his drink as he looks at Scott.

Scott shrugs, opening the glass bottle of beer and sipping it, “Yeah, y’know… no wedding, I’m with Angie, whatever,” he says, and Eddie chuckles, glancing over his shoulder for a moment, “Yeah, I get it,” he nods, taking another drag off his cigarette, lost in his thoughts. You’re a crazy bitch, but you fuck so good… A lightbulb goes off in his head.

“Wait, guys,” he swivels around in his chair to face Gareth and Scott. The two boys look up at him as Eddie speaks, “We’ve all had crazy girlfriends, right?” His gaze bounces between the boys as he puffs on the cigarette before standing up and pushing the bud of it into Gareth’s bottle, much to his dismay. He ignores Gareth’s complaints, ignoring the boys laughing at him, pacing the room, mind swirling to the sound of Jeff’s guitar.

Through the fog of chords and lyrics, Eddie continues speaking, “All of our ex-girlfriends— and ex-fiances,” he blindly points to Scott as he paces, ignoring when Scott scoffs, “are crazy bitches,” he points out, looking back at the group. “I mean, I can’t remember the last time I had a normal fucking girlfriend,” he snickers. The boys look at Eddie as if they’re concerned, confusion written across their faces that Eddie could care less to ease, “This is fucking inspiration, boys! Let’s write this shit down,” He leans on the soundboard, “Let’s expose this chick,” He snickers.

He walks into the sound booth and grabs his guitar from the stand, pulling the strap over his neck as he nods toward Jeff, “Keep playing that,” he orders. Despite his masked confusion, Jeff continues to play the riff he’d been tweaking. Eddie steps up to the mic in the middle of the sound booth, reaching for the headphones to slip them over his head, leaving one ear uncovered. He gestures to Gareth through the glass, motioning for him to tag along.

Gareth puts his beer down and walks in, glancing at Eddie in confusion, “You gonna tell us what we’re playing or?” He sits behind his drums as Eddie tweaks the strings on his guitar. “Just follow along, man.” Eddie distractedly mumbles. Gareth and Jeff glance at one another— Eddie often has moments like this, and they have yet to get used to it. Gareth shrugs, picking up his deeply mangled drumsticks and tapping a beat to Jeff’s strings.

Eddie mumbles to himself, fingers ghosting chords over the frets as he nods his head to the beat. He picks up with Gareth and Jeff’s sound, shredding along to create a fuller sound, the images of the music he’d composed in his mind coming to life just below his fingertips. Scott watches from outside the sound booth, standing up to lean over the soundboard. He watches, intrigued, as they play together, wordlessly tweaking until they all compliment each other. Scott reaches over with a smirk and hits the record button just in time for Eddie to chime in on the mic, finally spitting out the lyrics they’d all be waiting to hear.

And it’s fucking good.

“Alllriiight!”

It’s raunchy, unhinged, and all things dirty. On top of that, it’s a massive fuck you to Scott’s ex, and Scott can’t keep the grin off his face as he adds the bass to the track, snickering at the words Eddie sings. They work on the song all day, throwing in new verses and tweaks until they feel satisfied for the time being. They sit outside the sound booth and nurse a round of beers as they play the song, listening to what they have so far, grinning and nodding along to the beat, laughing at the absurdity of the lyrics.

“Hey, you’re a crazy bitch, but you fuck so good, I’m on top of it.”

“It’s good… as much as I hate to say it, it’s good.” Scott laughs, rolling his eyes when the boys cheer. Sitting on the swivel chair in front of the soundboard, Eddie reaches out and nudges Scott's foot with his own, “You might get a few slashed tires when she hears this, you know.” He snickers over the rim of his beer bottle.

Scott laughs and shrugs, “Can’t be any worse than what she’s already done.” He jokes. The boys all laugh, watching Jeff as he raises his beer in the gesture of a toast, “To crazy bitches.” The boys all raise their beers in unity, parroting back, “To crazy bitches!” They clink their drinks and laugh, taking sips.

“You’re crazy, but I like the way you fuck me.”

“Think of me when you’re out, when you’re out there,

I’ll beg you nice from my knees.

And when the world treats you way too fairly,

Well, it’s a shame, I’m a dream,”

Your voice filters through the speakers, thick studio headphones skewed on your head as you fiddle with the soundboard knobs and buttons. You sigh and push the headphones to rest around your neck, rubbing your hands tiredly over your face. You take a glance at the clock— 4:34 AM. Goddamn. You had truly been here all night. After your night out with Robin, drinking your feelings away, and your quick epiphany moment, you guys caught a taxi straight here and got to business. That was at 10:46 PM.

Poor Robin, you put the girl through the wringer. Making her drum out new beats, forcing her to pluck out a bass riff to the best of her abilities. The rest of your band was, without a doubt, asleep, and you didn’t want to bother them with your antics. And, of course, you all were close, but it was just different with you and Robin. You guys could be together for hours and never tire of one another. You just clicked.

Maybe it was also the fact that you didn’t want to face whatever awkward encounter was bound to happen between Robin and Nancy, opting to wait until the morning to see them face one another. Robin was fully asleep underneath the sound booth, using both of your jackets as a pillow. Her fingers are wrapped around the beer she’d been drinking; hand cuddled up to her face. You pull out your cigarettes from your pocket, pulling one stick out and sliding it between your lips. You light it up and puff on the cigarette, glancing at Robin beneath the table before reaching down and carefully snagging her beer. You take a quick swig, quietly listening to the song.

“All I wanted was you,

All I wanted was you.”

The guitar that comes in right after is powerful. It’s beautiful; it showcases your anger, your betrayal, your heart that still aches. This was supposed to be a love song for Scott, but after tweaking a few lyrics, it quickly became a song laced with hatred and resentment— a piece of heartbreak and anguish you’re still clearly sorting through. But that’s all that love is, right? Just two people fighting and slashing at each other until one inevitably gives in and waves a white flag?

You down the rest of your stolen beer, still taking drags of the cigarette and blowing it back out. It wasn’t unusual for you to be the only one here at ungodly hours of the night, but it was one of the first times you were here with your friend and bandmate. Knowing she was here for you after such a chaotic, hectic day, supporting you even at unreasonable hours, was nice.

You replay the lyrics repeatedly, playing with the weak bass Robin was barely able to play. You should go home; you know you should, given how late it is and the dryness that begins to seep through your eyes, but you hate the feeling that runs through your bones when you think about what used to be your and Scott’s home. You don’t want to go home. Home is where everything ended. Home is no longer home— not after what happened. Home is where you’ll go to relieve the day over and over again until you get tired enough to pass out.

And then it hits you; lyrics, more heartache hits you. The song was initially titled The Only Exception, but the words changed after playing around for several hours. You stuff the cigarette bud in the beer bottle, letting it fizzle out as you get up from your swivel chair to try and find a notebook— a notepad, napkins, or something, but you only find a pen. Frustrated with your lack of writing materials, you look at your surroundings hungrily before your eyes land on Robin’s bare arm.

You pace back to the soundboard and reach underneath to yank on Robin’s arm, waking her up for a split second. You ignore Robin’s grumbly and slurred “What the fuck?” and proceed with your task as she inevitably falls back asleep. You yank the pen cap off with your teeth and begin jotting down lyrics on Robin’s pale, freckled, tattooed arm.

“I think I’ll pace my apartment a few times,

And fall asleep on the couch.

Wake up early to black-and-white reruns,

That escape from my mouth.”

Scott and your favorite thing to do was watch old 1950s classic films. You guys watched them so much, watched so many of them, over and over again, that you could quote them to one another. Tears begin to well up in your eyes as you write these lyrics down, some falling on Robin’s arm and smudging the ink. You curse and press your palm to the running ink to dry whatever can be salvaged from your sloppy work. You drop her arm to the ground and hear her briefly groan as you pace back into the sound booth, picking up your black guitar from the stand and pulling the strap over your upper body.

You move your headphones around your neck to sit over your ears, waiting for your next move. You start strumming out a guitar riff, basking in the glory of the echoing sounds and its full, tough ring. You push your lips to the microphone and begin mumbling, playing with more lyrics in your head before you sing.

“I could follow you to the beginning,

Just to relive the start.

And maybe then, we’d remember to slow down.

At all of our favorite parts.”

The tears are freefalling now; the dark eyeliner you’d spent the past hours smudging leaves roads of sorrow against your skin. You and Scott were together for seven magical months. Yeah, it was quick— pathetic in a different light, but you’d been mindlessly in love. And fuck, would it have been a mistake if you did end up marrying him. He was a production assistant and a bassist with no new lines of work coming, opting to freeload off his friend’s band, Corroded Coffin, playing with them at shows whenever they needed him.

And it’s working for him so far— until it doesn’t. As much as you hate to admit, Scott is talented. He’s good with his instrument and has a good ear for sound, but despite his talent, he has no real drive— no actual want to succeed and be at the top of the music pyramid with you. As you continue to play with the guitar, you stop for a second to wipe your eyes, thoroughly smudging your makeup now and probably making you look insane.

Scott had good moments, though. When it was good, it was good— spontaneous nights out, making out in alleyways like lovesick teenagers, and every second feeling like a movie until the credits rolled— but when it was bad, it was really fucking bad. Fights, stupid arguments, bickering, breaking expensive items, and threatening to leave each other until he makes it up to you with mediocre sex and breakfast in bed the next day. You loved him, you did, and you believe he loved you too, but you just can’t pinpoint where it all went wrong.

You stop strumming the guitar and huff waterily, setting the guitar back on the stand and ripping your headphones off your head before tossing them to the ground. You sit on a metal, foldable chair beside you and lean forward to push your head into your hands.

You really blew the fuck up on him. Did you overreact? Did you honestly act like a crazy bitch? Fuck, maybe you should apologize.

You can hear Robin in the back of your head, nagging and begging you to stop thinking self-destructive thoughts like this, telling you you’re insane for even thinking of apologizing, but you just can’t help it. You venture down the deep, dark, but welcoming rabbit hole of psycho-analyzing every romantic relationship you’ve ever had. None of your relationships have lasted— the ones in high school, obviously, but you’ve been out of that shit hole for years now, yet you’re still playing the never-ending game of kiss and tell.

Life in Hawkins was a weird, dull one. All the boys you brought home never shared the same interests as you and certainly did not like that you had a mind of your own. They didn’t like the clothes you wore, or the makeup you did, or the music you listened to. They thought you and the rest of the band were stupid and wasting your lives trying to be something big with the weird sound you carried. Nothing about you or the people you hung out with fit the cookie-cutter shape of Hawkins, and you learned that the hard way.

You were more of a dirty secret for boys in your school. Nobody wanted to express their love or attraction to you openly, but they sure as hell did so behind closed doors. Your first boyfriend, Brady, was a star on the wrestling team; he didn’t mind showing you off much because nobody had the guts to talk shit about him— too scared to get sucker punched. Brady lasted a few months before you eventually cut ties with each other.

There were a few others after Brady, all meeting the same dead end you’re so familiar with. Although there was one guy— Eddie Munson— people believed you would be perfect for each other. You liked the same music, dressed relatively the same, and had shitty high school bands nobody wanted to listen to. Logistically, it was a perfect match; the only problem was Eddie Munson is an asshole.

Scum of the earth, piece of shit, grade-A asshole.

Scott was friends with him, and on occasion, you would sometimes cross paths at parties or hangouts with mutual friends; and every single run-in you’ve had with the man left you with a splitting migraine and an itching impulse to smash his head through a window. He’s awful; he doesn’t respect you or any woman for that matter, he acts like he’s a living god, and he and his shitty band won (stole) that fucking music contest in Hawkins back in ‘87, and you’ll never forget it. That’s how you met him, and your guys’ race to the top hasn’t let up since.

And now that you think of it, it’s not surprising that Eddie and Scott get along so well— they’re both sexist assholes.

You’re milling in your thoughts for what seems like hours, tears dried and itching against your skin. You’re not sure how long you sit in the sound booth, but before you know it, Robin’s hoarse voice is cracking through the speakers of the sound booth, “As much as I think you’re a musical genius and love the way you work in mysterious ways, it’s extremely late, and we both need to catch some sleep before tomorrow.”

Your face twists in confusion, “Tomorrow? What’s special about tomorrow?” You ask, your voice cracking. Robin shifts on her feet, brows furrowing at your confusion, “We’re meeting with the record label. Remember we’re playing them our new album?”

Fuck. You completely forgot about that, and all of those songs, except for maybe three, are based around your stupid ex-fiance that just dumped you for your best friend. You sigh, dropping your head in your hands and running your palms over your face. You let out a long groan into your hands, not even hearing Robin opening the door to the sound booth and walking up to you. Her chilled fingers wrap around your wrists to pull your hands away from your face. Her blue eyes are tired and full of love and warmth as she squats before you to gaze at you, “Talk to me.”

Tears brim your eyes at her soft voice, and you wince— you really wish you could stop fucking crying. You rub at your teary eyes and shake your head, “It’s just—” you sigh and blearily blink down at Robin, “they’re all about him, Rob.” You frown.

Robin patiently waits for you to find the words, comfortingly squeezing your tear-dampened fingers. “Every song on the album is about him and I… I really don’t wanna spend an entire tour singing about him.” You softly speak, avoiding her gaze.

The brown-haired girl shuffles closer to you, ducking into your gaze and shrugging, “That’s okay,” she shakes her head, “We can scrap it. I mean, the label might be a little pissed, but just… play them what we did tonight, and I guarantee you they’ll extend our time.”

You furrow your brows and shake your head, “What? No. Robin, the song’s not finished—” “We don’t get another chance with this, Tiger. We either play them what we did tonight or give them the album.”

And you know Robin is right; she does not want to give you an ultimatum, but it’s the inevitable truth. You can either play the song and hope it’s the best thing the label has ever heard, or you suck it up and play them the album full of bittersweet words that leave a sticky residue clogging your throat.

You look at Robin, her patient and tired gaze locked on your face. You chew on the inside of your cheek, thinking it over for a moment— and it could work. The new song you’d just recorded is insane— nothing you’ve ever done before and, without a doubt, has a groundbreaking sound. It could work.

Max and Nancy are going to kill you tomorrow.

You nod your head, “Okay,” you breathe. Robin’s lips slowly stretch into a smile, “I’m gonna play it for them.” You nod. Robin shoots up to her feet with a cheer.

“Perfect! Now wipe those tears, and let's get the fuck out of here.”

You and Robin look like hell. You’re sporting heavy undereye bags with dark circles, while Robin opted to cover her evident lack of sleep with a pair of dark shades. Nancy and Max look concerned when they see you both sitting in the lobby of your label’s building. Nancy, of course, chastised you for your lateness while Max just snickered in the corner. Max suddenly makes a face as she speaks, “Why do you guys look like you’ve been hit by a bus?”

Robin tiredly groans, shifting in her seat with a yawn, “Stayed at the studio late.” She mumbles. Nancy’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Why? I thought we had everything ready for today.” She points out, obviously concerned. Nothing would ever get done if you didn’t have Nancy in the band. Now that you look at her, she has a manila folder in her hands, most likely stuffed with questions, comments, concerns, budgets, and more. She was more like Erica’s assistant than your bass player. But fuck, could her skilled fingers pluck out a riff.

You suck in a breath through your teeth, glancing over at Robin, who seems to be now passed out behind her glasses, offering you no help. You scoff. Of course. You mentally punch Robin in the face. You fidget with the rings on your fingers as you begin to explain. “So, basically,” you start, “I came home yesterday and found Scott and Angie fucking in my bed, so I threw their shit out the window and then called Robin,” you barely pay attention to Nancy and Max’s widening eyes as you spew out the events of yesterday. You knew they already knew, probably from Erica or the fucking tabloids. Hell, the whole fucking world knew, but they acted like this was their first time hearing about it.

You ramble on about the events, telling them about you finding inspiration and dragging Robin to the studio, drunk, only to decide to scrap the album you’d all been working on for the past few months.

That last bit of information didn’t go so well, however.

“You what?”

You wince at Max’s sneering tone, glancing at Nancy to try and get a read on her expressionless face. “Please tell me you’re joking,” Max says, voice teetering on the precipice of panic. You wish Robin would wake the fuck up. “I… I know I’m really taking a leap of faith here, but I need you guys to trust me on this,” you plead, gaze hopefully bouncing between the two women, “Please.”

Max folds her arms across her chest, tongue rolling against the inside of her cheek before she shakes her head, “I swear if this fucks us over, you’ll never hear the end of it from me.” She breaks, and you’re just thankful she agrees to follow your and Robin’s plan. She turns around and walks over to plop into the seat on the other side of the lobby, glancing at you before speaking, “Sorry about Scott, by the way…” she mumbles. “Maybe it’s a good thing; I never liked all those love songs anyways…” She smiles apologetically, and you huff out a chuckle.

Nancy nudges her foot against your leather boot, “You were out of his league anyway. He was dumber than a rock.” She adds to Max’s apology. You snicker and thank them for their condolences. Nancy sits on the chair next to Max and sighs heavily, “Did you tell Erica about the change?” she asks, already flipping through her folder. You pretended you didn’t hear the question, which was not a good idea.

The two girls begin to panic at your eerie silence. Nancy’s face falls, and Robin fucking snores, “You did tell Erica, right?” She presses. Your silence says enough.

Max groans, leaning forward to sink her head into the palm of her hands, “We’re so fucked.”

And when the time comes, you’re not exactly sure what the label is thinking. All the board members wear the same unwavering expression as they listen to All I Wanted. You glance at Nancy and Max, who are both visibly shaken with nerves; Max’s leg bouncing at an ungodly rate beneath the table, and Nancy’s poor fingers picked to shreds. Robin, who’s now awake, is busying herself with doodling random sketches on the napkin in front of her, and you’re— well, you’re hardly breathing.

Erica looks thoroughly pissed; you don’t doubt she’d thought about strangling you the second you announced you were scraping the album. You could tell she was itching to make some phone calls as her stone-hard gaze stayed on you throughout the whole listening session. You pretended you didn’t notice her.

When the demo ends, a thick silence settles over the room, and you lean forward, pressing pause on the track to prevent the CD from repeating. You awkwardly scratch the side of your neck, “I-It’s not done; I’m still working on it, but um—” You glance at the table of faces and gulp. You haven’t been this nervous in longer than you can remember. “I know it can be something. Something big.”

James, the CEO of the record label, clears his throat and leans forward, pressing his elbows onto the thick wooden table. A burning cigarette hangs between his fingers as he points to the middle of the table where the CD player sits, “This is about Scott, yes?”

All eyes are on you, and you have no choice but to nod yes. James takes a drag of his cigarette, eyebrows furrowing as he silently thinks. You glance at your friends, a wave of nerves washing through your body at the anticipation. “What happened yesterday can never happen again. You almost ruined your image. Almost.” He finally speaks, his stern gaze locked in on you. You almost want to shrink in your seat, feeling like a child being scolded in the principal's office as he continues to speak. “You're a good talent, but if you don't know how to act like a grown woman, you won’t have a place here.”

You scoff and open your mouth, a smart response on the tip of your tongue, until Robin harshly kicks the heel of her leather boot into your ankle. You hiss in pain, sucking on your teeth to poorly conceal it. You relent and nod your head, “I understand.”

James nods and flicks the ashes of his cigarette into the ashtray beside him, leaning back in his chair with a heavy sigh, “Now,” his lips split into a smug grin, a grin that tells you that you won, “Get this track finished by the end of the week. I want it on air by Monday morning.”

Monday morning, Eddie is hauling ass down I-405, without a doubt breaking many traffic laws he could care less about, given he’s late to his studio session with the band. When is he not late? He’s got a cigarette hanging from his lips and the smell of last night's alcohol on his clothes. As he meticulously swerves and weaves in and out of LA traffic, he jams his finger to turn his radio on, flipping through static, noise, ads, shitty pop music, and landing on a seemingly decent Rock station.

He takes his cigarette out of his mouth and puffs the rest before tossing it out of the open window. His hair tousles from the wind, and he bats the curly strands away whenever they fly into his view. His ringed fingers grip the steering wheel, swerving out of the way of a truck before honking and throwing up a middle finger. What he misses during that exchange is the introduction of the song.

“Next up is a new hit single named All I Wanted by Daughters of Vampira! Daughters of Vampira will be going on tour soon; stay tuned for details!”

Then, the music starts when he finally starts to slow down after narrowly missing the truck.

“Think of me when you’re out, when you’re out there,

I’ll beg you nice from my knees.

And when the world treats you way too fairly,

Well, it’s a shame, I’m a dream.”

Your voice filters through his car stereo, unbeknownst to Eddie, and he glances down at his music console. He slowly turns the volume dial up, intrigued by the sound and wanting to know where it’s leading. When the ferocious guitar shred comes in, his face twists in approval, turning the volume even louder as he bobs his head to the tune. Whoever’s band this was, is fucking good. It’s not every day you hear a good Rock song sung by a woman, he thinks.

“All I wanted was you, oh,

All I wanted was you, oh!”

Eddie’s not sure why it takes him so long to realize the voice playing through his speakers is none other than the lead singer of that stupid fucking feminazi band Daughters of Vampira. He nearly chokes when he realizes it’s your voice, turning the volume up to max and listening to the words.

It’s… sad. The lyrics are like the gut-wrenching heartbreak you see in movies, aching and drenched with the grief of a love that was supposed to be great. And your voice is so fucking raw, so angry, and filled with pain that it brings Eddie to a stand-still, the skin on his arms raising in tiny bumps at the sheer emotion. Eddie almost forgets he’s in his car until he hears the car behind him honking, the man behind the wheel yelling at him to go now that the traffic light has turned green. He doesn’t move an inch, afraid he’ll miss a beat of this slice of heartache.

The song ends, and Eddie turns off his radio, choosing to spend the rest of his ride in silence as the gnawing feeling of guilt settles in his gut. By the sound of it, Scott really did a fucking number on you— tore your heart out, chewed it up, spit it out, and stepped on it like a spider on a sidewalk— and Eddie knows what that feels like; he’s had his heart broken before so he knows what it feels like to be so angry at the love you had for a person. It’s a shitty feeling.

So, Eddie’s not sure why he decides to be an asshole and tell the boys about your new song, but he does. The second he enters the studio, he tells Gareth to turn on the radio.

“...Why?” Gareth questions with a tone of suspicion. Eddie brushes his question off and walks to lean over the desk, turning the radio on and beginning to switch through the stations. “Uh, Eddie… we’ve got some work to do, man, we don’t have time for—” “Shh, just give me a second,” Eddie snaps.

“It’s gotta be playing somewhere.” Eddie mumbles, eyebrows furrowed, ringed finger going overtime on the dial, abruptly stopping when he finally hears it. “This is it! This is it; just listen.” Eddie turns the volume up and stands up to his full height, hands on his hips, and chews on his lip as they silently listen to the song.

Jeff is the first to speak through the sound of drums and intense chords, “Why are we listening to this?” Eddie waves him off, telling him just to wait— just wait until the verse.

“I think I’ll pace my apartment a few times,

And fall asleep on the couch.

Wake up early to black-and-white reruns,

That escape from my mouth.”

Scott’s eyes widen, striding over to Eddie’s side and gazing at the boombox in shock, “No fuckin’ way.” He breathes. Eddie looks at Scott as he reaches over to increase the volume. Gareth twirls his drumstick between his knuckles and deeply sighs as he leans back in his chair and kicks his feet up onto the soundboard, “Dude, no offense, but why are we listening to this shit?” He asks. Scott turns to the boys and points back to the radio, “That’s my fucking bitch ex singing about me.”

Jeff and Gareth’s eyes widen, both boys leaning forward in their seats to listen to the lyrics. Scott curses and reaches over to shut the radio off, letting a thick silence fall over the room. Jeff is the first to break and nervously laugh, and Eddie grins, Gareth falling into a fit of laughter behind Jeff’s. “Why the fuck are you guys laughing?” Scott sneers.

Eddie chuckles, reaching out to rest his hands on Scott’s shoulders and turn him to face each other, “You don’t get it, man,” Eddie begins. Scott’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, and Eddie smiles mischievously, “This is the perfect time to drop Crazy Bitch.”

You nearly blow a gasket when you first hear Corroded Coffin’s new song. Nancy did quite a good job of bringing you down to somewhat of a levelheaded state and getting you to understand that killing Scott or slashing his tires wouldn’t be the wisest of decisions to make. You still aren’t convinced.

You try your best to ignore the song, switching the radio to a different station whenever it plays, but it seems like that fucking track follows you wherever you go. A week after the song's release, you’re walking down the street with Robin, browsing the stores that catch your eye and chatting about whatever comes to mind.

You hardly notice the crowd gathered outside the store you are in until Robin points it out, nudging your side and nodding towards the window, “Looks like we’ve got company today.” she mumbles. You curse, shelving the shirt you’d been looking at as you grumble to Robin, “Seriously, how the fuck did they find us?”

You suppose the rest of your day out won’t last much longer, so you and Robin decide to make your way home, stepping out into the crowd and shoving through a sea of flashing bulbs.

Over time, you’ve mustered up the strength to ignore the questions paparazzi throw at you; questions about who you’re dating, your sexuality, your political beliefs— questions of generally no substance or anything to do with your music. You’ve become numb to the reality of your life being plastered on tabloids and riddled with lies; it doesn’t really hurt you anymore.

However, you’re still a human being, and you have moments where you crack, and today seems to be one of those moments when a man yells out, “You were seen dumping your ex-fiance Scott's items into the street! So is the song true? Did you and Eddie Munson have an affair? Is that why you and Scott broke up?”

Robin tenses, glancing at you and silently pleading for you to just keep walking. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

You glare but smile at the man, flashing your white, shark-like teeth, “If you wanna know so bad, why don’t you ask Scott and Angie yourself?” You sneer.

A few of the men snicker, one whistling and commenting about you being feisty, but you ignore it and continue as you and Robin finally reach your car, “And for the record, I wouldn’t touch that asshole with a ten-inch pole. His dick is small.” You grin sarcastically, opening your car door and getting in without another word. You hear the crowd erupt in more questions outside your car, some scribbling stuff down on their notepads and some laughing.

You groan in annoyance, buckling yourself in and starting the car as Robin settles in the passenger seat. You don’t miss the chance to flip the mob of men off when you drive off, leaving them behind with screeching tires. It’s silent until Robin chuckles, and you glance at her, “What’s so funny?”

Robin shrugs and shakes her head, “Nothing,” she says, “Just that Erica’s gonna murder you.” You roll your eyes and slide a pair of shades on. “When is she not wanting to murder me?”

The media erupted after your comment about womanizer and rockstar Eddie Munson. Many fans came to your aid, voicing the truth of the breakup and defending you and your band. In contrast, many other fans— Corroded Coffin’s cult of assholes— came to Eddie’s defense, stating that he was only doing charity work to get your name in the papers. That you were fucking your way to the top of the music industry and much, much more deeply misogynistic statements.

You didn’t care for any of it. You, your friends, your family, and your band knew what actually happened. The best part is that Scott knew the truth, and he was a shit fucking liar. He couldn’t cover up what happened if his life depended on it. It made you think of how he could lie about the affair for as long as he did. You don’t dwell on that thought for too long, growing tired of digging deeper into the pit of despair Scott had so happily tossed you into.

At the end of the day, your image is in shambles, and if your image is fucked, then so is the bands. Daughters of Vampira wasn’t booking anything; shows, meet-and-greets, autograph signings— nothing. Even though All I Wanted was an enormous hit and ended up in the charts, people couldn’t get over the fact that you, the lead singer, tend to be explosive. You would’ve felt bad about this if Eddie’s image hadn’t suffered the same fate.

Eddie and his band immediately stopped booking shows after their song Crazy Bitch. Of course, it was a big success, but only because the drama fueled it. Young women stopped throwing themselves at the band and instead opted for screaming, “Woman haters!” and “Sexist pigs!” at them whenever they were out. It had been fucking rough, and it only got worse after Eddie commented to the paparazzi while he was out on a coffee run in the streets of Los Angeles.

“How the fuck do they always find me?” Eddie grumbles to himself, putting on a fake smile for the group.

Eddie was rocking a pair of shades, thinking of ways to quickly escape the mob, when a young boy approached him from the crowd. He had a Corroded Coffin shirt on with a photograph of Eddie clenched to his chest as he kindly asked for an autograph.

“Sure, kid,” Eddie crouches down to the boy’s height and gently takes the photograph and Sharpie, "who am I signing it for?” He smiles softly at the boy, “For Thomas, sir!” The boy politely says, his eyes shining in excitement. “Thomas, sick name, man.” Eddie compliments, yanking the cap off with his teeth. He signs his name with a Let’s fuckin’ ROCK! in the corner, putting the lid back and handing the photo back to the boy.

He smiles when the boy squeals in excitement and offers him a fist bump before standing up to his full height. “Thank you, Mr. Munson!” Eddie snickers and nods, “‘Course, but hey, don’t call me Munson; call me Ed,” He smirks, and the kid laughs. “Mr. Muns– Ed, I have a question for you,” the kid shyly asks.

Eddie’s heart implodes at the cuteness of this little shithead and chuckles as he responds, “Shoot, kid, I’m all ears,” Eddie ignores the flashes from the cameras, taking photos of this pure and innocent moment. He ignores the coos from the women, from the kid’s parents, all of it, just zoned in on this small child meeting his hero. Him.

“Ed, is it true that you hate girls?”

And just like that, the moment is over.

Eddie turns red in the face and forces a harsh but nervous laugh. The crowd closes in upon hearing the exchange and begins asking a multitude of questions. The parents snag their son away and start expressing profuse apologies that Eddie waves off. “Nah, nah, the kid’s fine. But uh, to answer your question, no, that isn’t true, Tommy boy,” he says, looking at the child standing beside his mother’s legs. He takes out a pack of smokes and opens it, sliding a cigarette between his lips as he adds, “I am a really big fan of girls,” he flashes a dazzling smile around the stick and does finger guns at the small kid before he turns and begins to walk away.

He’s forgotten all about his coffee, and now all he wants is to get the fuck outta there.

He lights the cigarette up and ignores the crowd of paparazzi following him, cameras still in motion. He rolls his eyes, body buzzing in annoyance from the kid's question and the crowd. He continues walking the street as more questions and fans approach him. As Eddie signs a woman’s photograph, a cigarette hanging from his lips, an interviewer comments with a camera already zoned in and recording Eddie’s face. No doubt this will be on MTV tonight. No doubt he won’t hear the end of it from Dustin and Steve.

“Eddie, did you hear what the frontwoman of Daughters of Vampira has said about you? Can we get a response?” He shoves the mic into Eddie’s face.

Eddie’s lips break into a grin, but he doesn’t look up from the autograph he’s signing. “Yeah… yeah, I heard, and y’know what? She can come find out herself if it’s small or not,” He looks up and smirks right at the camera, “Have a nice day.” He smiles tightly at the interviewer and hastily flags down a taxi, hopping in and yelling at the driver to step on it. He watches as the crowd grows smaller and smaller with distance, his heart thundering in his chest. He takes deep breaths to slow his pulse down, to stop thinking of you.

It never seems to slow as his mind can’t move on from you or that damn song.

Both the managers of Corroded Coffin and Daughters of Vampira are pushed to the limit with you and Eddie. Dustin Henderson and Steve Harrington are co-managers of Corroded Coffin, mainly because Steve has the money and Dustin has the brains to man the operation. All Steve really does is cut the checks and warn the team when to cut back on the extracurriculars.

Erica, Steve, and Dustin are all from Hawkins and are quite familiar with each other due to living in a small town where everyone knows everybody. They, along with all members of Corroded Coffin and Daughters of Vampira, all sort of grew up with one another in the 80s and have always been on this whimsical journey together. As the years went by, you all drifted, more so because of the competition, but aside from the band, the managers stayed relatively civil with one another. Erica, Steve, and Dustin stayed in touch because sometimes they couldn’t handle the two bands, which is why Erica summoned the two boys to a bar in downtown LA.

Erica Sinclair is seemingly always tested by you and has no idea where to go or what her next move should be. She has times when she feels like a single mother dealing with an angsty teen, and when those moments teeter on disastrous, she makes calls— the call.

“I mean, I have just had it up to here,” Erica moves her hand up in the air to emphasize her annoyance, “with these girls, I mean, my god!” She shakes her head as she sips her red wine, the two boys nodding from across from her. “Trust me,” Steve scoffs, “we get it.”

Dustin nods, taking a sip of his Shirley Temple and smacking his lips before adding, “We’re in the same boat too— with Eddie,” Dustin starts, drinking his Shirley Temple out of a bendy straw.

“Yeah, he’s always been a pain in the ass, ever since high school,” Steve continues, sharing a look with Dustin, who tiredly nods, “But it has never been this bad. Normally we can get a hold on him running his mouth, but it’s just been…” Steve falters and trails off, struggling to grasp the words to explain Eddie’s childlike behavior. Erica nods, “I know what you mean,” She makes a face and holds her wine glass out to cheer with them. Dustin clinks his Shirley Temple, and Steve clinks his beer, them all taking a sip.

“Both band’s images are terrible. It won’t be long till we’re losing more money,” Steve grumbles, taking another swig of his beer. “I think we should just lock them all in a room together till they get along,” Erica jokes, earning a chortle from Steve and a cackle from Dustin. They all sigh in unison, a comfortable silence falling over them.

Suddenly, Dustin sits up straight, aggressively snapping his fingers before pointing to Erica.

Steve jumps and makes a face at Dustin, grumbling about how annoying Dustin’s theatrics are. Erica rolls her eyes, already used to the boy’s antics. “Well? Are you gonna tell us about your nerdy little lightbulb moment or keep making a scene?” She sneers over her wine glass rim, taking a sip. Dustin looks back from Steve’s annoyed face to Erica’s tired one, basking in the dramatics.

“Why don’t we do just that?” He finally says.

Steve and Erica share a look. Typically, Dustin has these moments, and Steve and Erica have to entertain them, but Erica thinks Henderson might be onto something. Steve scoffs and leans back in his chair, “I doubt they’d last a week locked in a house before one kills the other.” Steve mumbles, clearly missing Dustin’s case in point.

Erica, however, knows just where Dustin’s mind has gone— to the motherland of brilliant-fucking-idea. Erica puts her glass down and leans her elbows on the table, resting her chin on the backs of her folded hands. “When you say just that, you mean…?” She looks at the boy quizzically, praying he means what she thinks he means. Steve puts his hand on the back of Dustin’s chair and leans forward, “I’m not really picking up on this guys,” He uses his other hand to lazily gesture. Dustin ignores Steve and nods slowly, “Oh hell yeah, I mean that.” He says, smirking mischievously. Erica and Dustin share a grin, a playful gleam in their eyes. Steve groans on the side in annoyance.

“Let’s book a fuckin’ tour bus, boys,” Erica concludes, and Dustin erupts in cheers, the two of them clinking their drinks. Steve finally understands, and his eyes widen, “Oh! Holy shit, that’s fucking genius.”

Erica laughs and finishes off the last of her wine. “Tiger is gonna kill me.” She smirks and shakes her head, sighing. Dustin and Steve share a look and chuckle a little bit, “Her reaction won’t be as bad as Munson’s. He’s gonna fuckin’ lose it.” Dustin says, slurping on his straw.

A few weeks pass before Erica, Steve, and Dustin manage to rally both bands in a conference room. The tension in the room is almost unbearable. For the most part, the band members seem more interested in knowing why they’ve been summoned together— the real tension is at the end of the table, where you and Eddie sit across from each other. Eddie wears a snickering grin to go along with his darkened shades, and you— well, if looks could kill, everybody in this room would be six feet under and crossing into the afterlife.

You’re pissed. Annoyed that you’re being forced to breathe the same air as that fuckface Eddie Munson, and Eddie could not be more pleased with himself. Eddie gazes at each of the girls across from him; Max, who’s glaring at your managers and bouncing her knee in evident impatience, Nancy, who couldn’t look more uninterested if she tried; and Robin, who seems more intrigued with the wood paneling of the wall to look at anything else. He makes the mistake of looking at you, earning him a nicely silver-wrapped middle finger which he winks at.

“If you two are done acting like children down there, we’d like to get this meeting started,” Erica announces from her seat at the head of the table. All eyes turn to her, and she sarcastically smiles, opening her mouth to begin speaking until you cut her off, “Whatever fucking bullshit you three have planned, I won’t be a part of it. Not with this asshole.” You gesture to the curly-haired boy across from you.

Gareth and Jeff snicker, and you glare at them, ignoring Robin’s elbow jabbing into your side. “It’s funny that you think you have a choice, Tiger,” Erica says, tilting her head with a grin. You begin to bounce your leg impatiently, jaw clenching as the ticking time bomb in your mind begins to speed up.

Dustin clears his throat and stands up, gathering everyone's attention as he clasps his hands. “Let’s cut straight to the chase,” he begins, “Your music careers are fucked.”

Jeff breathily laughs to the side, and Erica glares at him, quickly diminishing his obvious amusement. “Somehow, the seven of you have managed to obliterate your band's image in less than a month,” Dustin points out, picking up a stack of magazines before him and walking calmly about the room. He tosses a magazine out into the middle of the table, “Misogynists,” another magazine, “Anti-feminist,” another magazine, “Chauvinists,” another magazine— the final one, “Woman-haters.”

You all look at the magazines silently until you mumble, “Sounds about right,” causing Eddie to scoff and roll his eyes beneath his shades. “What? You’re mad the media is finally realizing how full of shit you all are?” You prod with a tilt of your head. “At least nobody’s saying I should be sent to a fucking ward.”

Your eyes narrow, and you begin to form a response, but Erica rises from her seat loudly, startling the room as her loud voice booms through the space, “The media is tearing both of you to shreds,” she leans forward to press her palms against the cool wooden table, heated gaze darting between you and Eddie.

“Both of your bands aren’t booking gigs, and you're losing money faster than you earn it,” she points out, watching as you all cower from the truth. She waves a manicured finger between both sides of the table, “This stupid little fucking back and forth you’ve created either ends here or on the road.”

Robin’s face twists in confusion, a raspy voice speaking up for the first time, “On the road?”

Steve turns to her and grins, “Yes. On the road. Together.”

Gareth leans forward in his chair, confused as he speaks, “What, like a retreat type deal?” He questions. Dustin slaps a paper down in front of him, “No. Tour. Nine months, ninety-two shows.”

Gareth doesn’t get much time to take in the information on the paper before Eddie snatches it out of his hands, shades pushed up into his hair as he leans in to gape at it. A list of tour dates, an ongoing and never-ending fucking list.

“You’re not serious.” He says. Steve chuckles at the end of the table, nodding his head, “As serious as a heart attack.”

You’re next to snatch the paper away for a gander, ignoring the rest of the room as everyone erupts in a fit of protest. You stand with your back to the table as you gaze through each date, your neck heating up with anger as your fingers crease the paper. You turn around, face twisted in rage, wrinkling the paper in your shaking fist as you storm up to where Erica stands, waiting for you to say your piece with an unwavering impression.

You hold the crinkled paper up as you stand before her, “You’ve lost your fucking mind if you think I’m doing shows with these pieces of shits.” You sneer, tossing the paper onto the table. Erica raises an eyebrow, looking at you as if you’ve gone off the deep end. The room enters a thick silence at your outburst, all eyes on the standoff between you and Erica. “Call the tour off, or I’m out.”

“What?” Robin leans forward to gaze at you, eyes widened in shock at your words, “You’re not leaving the band, Y/N, you— you can’t.”

You ignore Robin and step closer to Erica, eyes burning into her gaze as you speak, and Erica has never seen you this angry in all her years of knowing you. “Call it off.”

Erica will let you believe you have the upper hand for your peace of mind, but when it comes down to reality, you both know you don’t stand a chance against her force of nature. Erica is calm and uncannily patient as she speaks to you, “You’re at a dead-end street, Tiger,” she starts, “You either make a way, or you go back to Hawkins with your tail between your legs like everyone expected.”

Erica sits back in her chair, not even bothering to look at you as she busies herself with the paperwork before her when she adds, “You make the call.”

You glare down at her, throat closing in anger and betrayal. You don’t say another word as you storm out, leaving the room with a booming echo of the heavy glass door slamming shut. Erica sighs, settling back in her chair and gazing at the rest of the band members, who are all silently fuming in anger. “Now, does anyone else have something to say or something of substance to add, or are we done here?” Eddie rises from his seat with clear annoyance, “This is bullshit,” the force of his movement sends his chair back to the wall as he walks out of the room, just as angrily as you had previously done.

The remaining band members sit in silence, avoiding each other's gaze, and Steve breathily laughs, “Well, Dustin, you were wrong,” he teases, smirking when Dustin and Erica turn to him. “Eddie took that pretty well.”

The band members glance at the managers, and Dustin sighs as he leans back in his chair, twisting his mouth in thought and tapping his pen against the table.

“This is gonna be more work than I thought.”

————

a/n: AHHH, YOU'VE MADE IT TO THE END!!! WE HOPE YOU LIKED THIS AND LOVE THEM SO FAR; more to come sooonnnn <3

————

teeny taglist: @tommyvelvet @oeuryale

#WOOOOO #ENJOYYY #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson au #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie x rockstar!reader #drabble #eddie x you #eddie x y/n #eddie munson blurb #eddie x fem!reader #stranger things au

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bisexual-horror-fan · 7 months

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Mickey in the full Ghostface outfit cucking your boyfriend after the boyfriend trash talks the Ghostface killer<mickey> In class

Okay, so this request is amazing. I mean I have been fixating on Mickey a ton lately, and I LOVE cuck stuff being a certified cuck myself, so this is just amazing! I am so happy I finally did it, hope it was worth the wait! Let’s get into the nastiness, alright?

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Rating. Explicit. Length 3.6K. Mickey Altieri/Ghostface X AFAB! Reader. They/Them Pronouns. Warnings: Stalking. Trash Talking. Breaking And Entering. Reader (AKA You) Are A Slut. Praise. Cuckolding. Restraints. Knife Play. Threats To Your Boyfriend’s Life. Fingering. Glove Kink. Blow Job. Gagging. Rough Oral Sex. Throat Fucking. Praise. Vaginal Sex. Squirting. Come Eating. Sloppy Seconds. Clean Up Crew Boyfriend. Use Of Words Like Cunt And Pretty Used To Describe The Reader.

—

“I Can Do It Better.”

—

His head is hurting, and he has no idea why, the dull throbbing ache makes him want to rub his temples to try and ease it, however, when he tries to move his hands to do this, he finds something curious, he can’t.

He is slow to wake up on the best of days, but the lack of being able to move helps him come to his senses sooner, he tries to move his hands again, raise his arms, but something is holding him too well. His brows furrow and what woke him up registers, the sounds filling the space he is occupying at the moment is clearly what had to have stirred him back to wakefulness.

The moving of a mattress, rustling of sheets, the sound of wetness and moaning, your brand of moaning, breathy and beautiful and unmistakable. His eyes blink open, the lights are low and thankfully don’t worsen his headache, what he sees when it comes into focus makes his jaw drop, the sounds are thanks to you, but you are not alone.

He wishes you were, waking up to his partner masturbating in his bed would be a total dream, but what is playing out before him is more of a nightmare. He realizes now with the ability to see again and much more awake that he isn’t in bed, he is sitting up in a chair and tied to it, ankles to chair legs, wrists behind his back, and you on bed with a figure in all black and a ghostly white mask. At first, he was worried that you were being assaulted, it became clear very, very quickly that you were a willing participant. The shifting was you writhing in pleasure, not struggling to get away, why weren’t you trying to get him off of you?

Your legs were spread wide, the figure, whoever it was under the costume, was making you feel very good if the sounds you made were anything to go off of. The leather glove clad hand between your thighs, two fingers sliding in and out of your drenched cunt, the low light catches the wetness, the creamy white looks shiny against the dark material. Your lips are parted, chest rising and falling, and you were squirming on the sheets, one arm around this guy, Ghostface, your boyfriend remembers, your hand gripping his shoulder, fingers twisted in black, betraying how fucking incredible you were feeling. He knew that action well, when you felt too good that you needed something to grip for dear life, to ground yourself to the moment, like the feelings were too great and threatened to sweep you away without an anchor.

The killer that has been terrorizing the campus was fingering his partner's cunt, your cunt, right in front of him. He can’t stay quiet any longer, he speaks up, it doesn’t have as much bite as he’d like, a bit too quiet as he says, “What the fuck?”

The white mask raises up from where he had been clearly focused on your exposed chest, your shirt had been pulled down under them, the hand that wasn’t working between your legs was palming one of your tits. Your boyfriend watched every move as the fingers grasping pinched lightly before expertly rolling the hardened and sensitive peak, making you arch ever closer to the mysterious invader in his room and bed.

The previous task was abandoned, the hand rummages in the sheets and swiftly finds what he is looking for, a strange small device is brought up, a button clicks, a light flicks on and a cool modulated voice floats out into the open ear, “Finally, he’s awake.”

You rock your hips into the hand with a moan, uncaring that your boyfriend had come to, much more concerned with keeping the good feelings coming. “I’ve been working hard to keep em entertained before you woke up, they didn’t make it easy though, you’ve got quite a firecracker here, real pent-up and ready to explode.”

A harsh inhale as your walls clench around his fingers as they rock just right into you, “Isn’t that right?”

The question gets only a dumb nod in response from you before he says, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Poor thing-” The mask turns back to face your bound boyfriend and in an accusing tone as he says, “-you must not be treating em like you should be, but don’t worry, I’m here, I can fuck them right, show you how it’s done.”

Your boyfriend was apparently made speechless, but soon managed to find his voice again, “You can’t do this! How the fuck can you do this?”

What could he be referring to? The breaking and entering? The knocking your less than stellar partner out and tying him up? The way it was all too easy to seduce you? Or did he mean the greater motive at hand?

It started two weeks ago. In class, you were with your boyfriend, seated next to him, his arm casually slung over your shoulder, the Ghostface killer is brought up in a discussion and your meathead significant other proceeded to go on a verbal tirade about how Ghostface “-wasn’t shit-” and about how he could “-totally kick his fucking ass.”

He went on and on about how Ghostface was an apparent pussy who was weak and cowardly and a million other things. You didn’t pay it much mind, just kinda laughed along, Mickey however did not take it so well, he was sitting right there, under both your noses and the pair of you totally unaware that the person you were shit talking and calling pathetic was listening to every awful word.

Mickey made a decision that afternoon, he didn’t show how upset he was outwardly, but he made the call that he was going to ruin your relationship, he was going to show you that your boyfriend was the real pathetic one, make him realize and be confronted with the fact that he wasn’t shit.

The plan didn’t take long to draft, finding out your schedules easy enough, the lock to the apartment was shit, a total joke, he broke in a night you were meant to sleep over and the rest was obvious just was previously described. Boyfriend knocked out, tied up, and you won over, probably a tad too easily.

You liked your boyfriend well enough, it was a fine college aged relationship, but you’d be lying if you said that you were perfectly happy with him, he tries and enthusiasm can make up for a lot but lately? That had been lacking, his interest has been waning, seems like your pleasure had been taking more and more of a backseat, so sue you for being swept up in being actively wanted and desired, and currently fingered so well you think in another two minutes you’d be squirting all over these sheets if he kept it up.

Fingers were removed, and you groaned at the loss, he tsk’s, “Don’t worry honey, you won’t be empty for long.”

Mickey thinks that your shit heel partner isn’t worth dignifying with a response honestly, “How could he do this?” Be more cliché and boring. It is obvious, but he supposes that he can tell him why. “I heard you were talking badly about me, doesn’t matter how I know that really, but I figured I should show up and defend myself. Show you that I am not someone to be fucked with or spoken about like that.”

He is starting to move, pulling his robe up his hips, “What better way to do that than this?”

He nods down, and you take the hint, you shift onto your knees, and you reach for his belt, you start to open it with nimble excited fingers. Mickey was going to fuck you away from your boyfriend and make him watch the entire time.

“What are you doing?” He asked you, and man, that question was going to keep coming up today, wasn’t it? He sounded like a broken record.

“You don’t have to answer that.” Mickey told you and your boyfriend spit, “Yes they fucking do!”

You’d gotten him out of his pants in record time and had your mouth around him in short order, pretty soft lips brush before you sink him inside with a quiet moan. You weren’t paying your boyfriend any mind, content to let the man you were blowing deal with him.

“Come on, let them do their thing, it’s obvious they know just what they want because you haven’t been giving it to em.”

The tone was shocked and indignant in response, “Haven’t been-What the fuck do you know anyway?!”

“Enough.” He hums out, Mickey was sideways on the bed as were you, he wanted your audience to have a clear view as you start to take more of him between your lips, slipping him deeper into the warm and wet heat of you. Mickey was getting off on this immensely, you are sinking him further and further into your mouth, sucking with a quiet moan, eyes falling closed as you focus on pleasing him.

“I do know that people that are happy with their relationships aren’t typically this excited to blow a complete stranger.”

His head tips back slightly, he moans into changer, deep, throaty and honestly, not even exaggerated, the situation is hot, and you are skilled, it already feels fucking good. You are insanely eager, like you couldn’t wait to choke yourself on him and didn’t care in the slightest that your boyfriend was watching and verbally fighting the man who broke in to do this, since he physically couldn’t.

Little did Mickey know that he was right on the money with how he was taunting your boyfriend, you were actively getting off on this too. You are kind of a freak and your boyfriend has not been using that, and by extension, you, like he should. He hadn’t been appreciating you, so you were going to show him what he had been missing, the fun things you could have been doing, the wild, carefree enthusiasm that you employ when your needs are adequately tended to.

You had no idea who is under the mask, and honestly you could not care less. All you gave a fuck about is getting yours, about feeling good and with the praise, dirty talk, groping and fingering, the masked stranger made you feel more pleasure than your piss poor excuse of a boyfriend had in months.

Your partner was frankly annoying you right now. He was still freaking out, some annoying commentary running in the background that you were hoping the sounds of your mouth would drown out, but it wasn’t. Mickey seems to be feeling the same way, his hand comes down, the one that wasn’t holding the changer unsheathes the knife from the holster on his ankle, he holds it up and tells him, “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll use this, okay? Don’t think I’ll gag you, cuz I won’t, I’d much rather silence you permanently.”

The shuts him up. Reluctantly. The knife is embedded into the mattress, right within reach, for him to grab it in case your boyfriend opens his mouth again.

Your hands come to his hips, and you grip, you tug him nearer until you make yourself gag on him. You were playing it up slightly, but not much, you bob your head up and down, staring up into the cold black lifeless eyes of that mask that had tipped back down to take in the view. A gloved hand come to stroke over your hair, and he stokes, praised you, “Fuck sake, you act like you actually LIKE gagging on it.”

You smile slightly and maintaining that eye contact you move more harshly, gag yourself again and again and every choked, nasty sound that only proved to him that was the case, that yes you did like it. All the sounds you released from your effort was matched with a moan from him, “Oh how good are you?”

Mickey looked over to your bound boyfriend and said, “Tell me, fuck, do they act like they need your dick more than air orrrr is that just for me?”

You laugh, it sounds wet and broken around him, and you pull him out, hand taking over in place of your mouth you tease him, saying, “You are such an asshole.”

“Well, judging by your boyfriend, seems like you got a type.” He taunts back, and you think that he isn’t exactly wrong, is he? Before you could keep playing along, might try to teasingly ask what he thinks your type really is, his hand wraps around your hair, and he tugs firmly, the pressure at your roots makes your lips part once again and with a push of his hips he is poised at your lips, “Now enough talking, back to work, yeah?”

He slides in once more and your mouth opens wider, letting him in, enjoying the way he is taking control, revelling in the honesty of him pursuing just what he wants. At this moment, just what he wants is to fuck your throat until he’s had his fill. You want him to do it too, you let him, hands remain on his hips, and he sets the pace this time. It isn’t gentle, but you wouldn’t call it rough either, he isn’t going fast, he is taking his time. Firm and purposeful rolls of his hips, making you take it, but you are more than willing.

You steal a glance at your boyfriend, he was gritting his teeth, he wanted to respond, wanted to say something, but his eyes were on that knife. He was sure if he spoke up that it would be the last thing he ever did, the masked bastard wouldn’t be afraid to use it.

“Christ, seriously, how did you ever get someone like them to go with someone like you?” He rocks his hips forward again, and you take it like a dream. It doesn’t go on for much longer than that, you are looking up at him with those big pleading eyes, and he knows what you need, “Awe honey, you look so worked up. Here, let me help.”

He graciously pulls out, and you gasp for air, the rest of your clothing is stripped off quickly, trembling and zealous fingers rush to free yourself of constraining fabric and expose yourself completely to him.

A low whistle as he takes in the sights, and he drops the changer, you still can’t tell who it is, he is doing something to his voice, it’s breathy, deep, you can’t pin it down. You are more concerned with what he says, rather than the voice that is saying it, “You should show this body off a lot more.”

How very flattering, the hand makes contact, over your hip and side, pausing to cup one of your breasts and squeeze, you lean closer and seriously neither of you can keep on waiting. He makes a motion with his hand, pointer finger is turned skyward, and he twirls it, signalling clearly that he wants you to turn around and you do easily. Hands on your hips just like yours were on his earlier, but it’s still different, his hands are stronger than yours, encased in cool and smooth leather. The sensation of his hands on you is good, the feeling of his bare dick sliding through your soaked folds is better by a mile, head bumping over your clit in such a way that makes your body bow, fingers curl in fabric and a moan breaks out.

Another pass before he is pulling back, and you reach one hand back between your legs, to help line him up, but his hand slides up the length of your body. He rips your jaw, and he says firmly, “Look up at me.”

You do so, head tilts back with his assistance, eyes questioning, “I wanna watch your face as I slip inside this sweet cunt for the first time.”

Brows furrow, and you nod once, teeth catching on your bottom lip, this is doing everything for you. You are soaking wet, bared and about to get fucked by who knows who he really is, unable to see his face or anything identifying about him, and he wants it, to stare into your eyes, know you intimately while he is functionally anonymous.

He slides home easily, completely raw, slots into you better than he should, and the moan starts spilling from you before getting choked off, and it’s like he picks it up, finishes the vocalization. Time isn’t wasted as he starts fucking into you, God that feels incredible.

“Been dreaming about this.” He breathes, and you are compelled to agree, not dreaming about him, but about getting fucked like this again. You should maybe think more seriously about this, the idea of him dreaming about this, the implication he has been watching, wanting, stalking, you aren’t capable of such higher thought at the moment. You are moving back in earnest, body moving with his, enjoying the easy rise and build of the pleasure, but he, again, has other plans in mind.

His other hand that was still on your hip slips up, over your lower back, creeping up your spine and coming to rest between your shoulder blades, and he pushes you down, so cheek meets sheets, jaw is released, and now you are face down ass up. “Sorry about this, you’re doing fine sweetheart, but I just have to-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, instead the pace picks up and you gasp. His hips slamming into yours as he takes you, quick, thrusts deep, grinding into that spot that has you crying out, “Fuck yes!”

“Man, you hear that shit?” He still, somehow, fucks you harder, over the wet sounds and the slap of skin he repeats what you said, louder and joyful, pleasure cracking it around the edges, “Fuck. Yes!” You moan louder, eyes squeezing shut, and he laughs, “God, they got quite a set of lungs.”

To be fair, you think you haven’t actually sounded like this for him, haven’t moaned and cried out, haven’t wanted to scream from pure pleasure. “Look at him.”

The command makes you move on instinct, respond without thought, your head turns, you catch your boyfriends gaze. He looks like he has been crying, he also looks painfully hard, how embarrassing for him, but you aren’t concerned with any of that, you are still moaning dumbly, thoughtless, from the assault of Mickey grinding that sweet spot inside.

“Recognize that? The dumb, drooling, pretty little expression on their face?” Another brutal move of him into you that makes you sob, and he says, “God, wait. I guess you wouldn’t.”

He was so mean, fuck it was making you clench around him, he feels it, clearly, a groan leaves him, “Angel, has he ever made you cum on his surely pathetic excuse for a dick?”

The response is easy, a long and low moan of, “No-oh-ohhh-”, sure he’d gotten you off a few times in other ways but never through straight fucking, you didn’t think you could without some mechanical help or some fingers helping you along, but you think this session, this situation, all of it stacking up, might change that.

He tsk’s like he is disappointed, “Oooh, that won’t do, let’s fix that.”

He is going to, he has to sense it, has to know, you are sure he can feel your plush and soaked walls gripping him, fluttering, on the fucking edge of oblivion and total bliss, a squirming incoherent desperate mess of need.

It starts low, base of your spine and tight breathlessness in your lungs, weak legs and fingers clawing at sheets and the leash breaks. The pleasure spikes and crests and there you are, floating on air, cumming like it is the last thing you will ever do with an ample gush. “Woah! Now that I didn’t know-”

He fucks you through it, wrings every ounce of ecstasy out of your poor exhausted body, still speaking, but you are barely registering it, it sounds like he is close too, strained, speaking through gritted teeth, “-like a fucking fountain.”

You ask for it without realizing it, totally, “Inside.”

“What was that?” You’d said it loud enough for him to hear, but he wants you to repeat yourself and so you do, “Inside!”

“Like I was ever gonna do it anywhere else.”

He holds deep, cums completely buried in you to the hilt, drains himself into you and the warm, the throb of him makes you sigh in satisfaction, body still twitching from the aftershocks of your own bliss.

You are still not all there, drunk on the feeling, he pulls out and keeps your hips up, keeping the mess inside, but when you do start to stir is when he moves you.

Onto your back, legs bent at the knees, and you feel it, a tongue run up you, and it makes your body tense, the sudden overstimulating shock it sends through you makes your body raise. You prop on your elbows, and you see a sight that is as terrifying as it is arousing. Your boyfriend, his face between your thighs, Ghostface behind him, a hand in his hair the knife at his throat, making him eat his cum out of your well fucked cunt.

The man behind the mask speaks again, the amused tone has returned as he forces your boyfriends face into your pussy harder, driving his tongue deeper, “Make sure you get all of it.”

Apparently tonight is long from over.

#Ghostface x reader #Mickey Altier x reader #slasher x reader #BHF asks #BHF writing #This was so fun to do #I love a good nasty cuck fic man fuck #MWAH #Enjoyyy

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