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rosewaterandivy · 9 months

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Live from New York…

Summary: a meet cute for everyone’s favorite rockstar!eddie and head SNL writer/weekend update anchor gf

WC: 4204 🫠 (my hand slipped)

Pairing: rockstar!eddie x screenwriter!gf

Warning/Themes: work related stress, smitten Eddie, hectic SNL schedule built around cocaine, meddling actor!steve harrington, encounters in close quarters, Eddie wearing Le Labo Santal 33– which should be a warning all its own, my usual brand of filth™️

A/N: we’ve had our meet cute with actor!steve, now it’s Eddie’s turn!

Series masterlist | playlist | currently spinning:

At Studio 8H, you always hit the ground running on Mondays. Hopefully, you’d lazed away or slept off the hangover from the after-party on Sunday, but sometimes you weren’t so lucky.

Today was one of those days.

A subway ride from hell, you were pretty sure your bodega guy was mad at you (again), and the inevitable spins and mouth sweats which could only mean—

“Hey killer!” Pete greets, towing the week’s host and musical guest behind him.

And because this situation could only get worse, you hold up a solitary finger and duck into a nearby dressing room to puke and rally.

“Fuckin’ Mondays, am I right?”

A rich voice greets you as you make your entrance back into the hallway, someone wearing a panoply of rings shoves a cold water bottle in your hand while you push your sunglasses up the bridge of your nose.

“Y’alright there, boss?”

A nod as you guzzle some water.

“Just peachy, Davidson.” You heave a sigh, grimacing as you make eye contact with the host, Steve Harrington, and one fifth of the musical guest in the form of Eddie Munson. “Sorry for the uh—" you gesture vaguely to the dressing room.

“No worries,” Steve says with a smile, “We’ve all been there.”

Eddie, for his part, snorts a laugh.

“Charmed,” you chirp, readjusting your canvas tote on your shoulder and resuming your walk down the hall.

“Pitch meeting in 5!”

The Monday meeting was always a wash. Pitches that were half-formed or outright veto’d by Lorne or the host, and Pete giving the same pitch for the fourth month running that no one bit at.

Typical.

Steve was affable enough, charming in the way only an actor could be, easy to laugh and joke. Eddie Munson, however, was all long-limbed ease and looked at you in a way that was unnerving.

No matter. You didn’t have the time to contemplate why the frontman of Corroded Coffin irked you, not when the cast members were especially needy for your attention and the writers retreated to the conference room.

“Chloe,” you huff as the small blonde trails after you, mouth going a mile a minute about a new impression she’d perfected.

You stopped short at your office door, causing Chloe to bump into you. With a slow turn, you try to smile in a well-meaning way, sunglasses sliding down your nose again.

“Can this wait until later?” Your hand twists the handle, allowing you to slip inside the room and escape the sad fall of her face. “I promise you’ll have my undivided attention this afternoon, okay?”

That seems to perk her back up. She gives you a smile and salute before trotting off back to her dressing room.

You sigh and slide back against the closed door, eyes slipping shut for the briefest of moments. Not open long enough to clock a mop of brown curls lazing on your couch.

“Exhausting being on top, isn’t it?”

Your eyes open only to land on Eddie Munson, laid out on your couch as if he owns the place.

“How did you get in here?”

You cross to the desk, heaving your tote onto it and peel the glasses from your face. Falling into your chair, you await his reply and open up your laptop.

Rooting around in your tote for your notes, you notice a coffee cup and danish at his side.

“Is that my cherry danish and cold brew?”

“Hmm?” He turns toward the sound of your voice. “Oh, this? An intern dropped it off.”

Eyeing the bite taken out of the danish, you sigh. “And you just assumed it was for you?”

“It’s not?”

“Unless Corroded’s rider has something about cherry danishes on it—“

“I just thought since your little performance this morning, you wouldn’t be in the mood.”

He sits up with a stretch, arms rising above his head, a sliver of skin visible above the band of his boxer-briefs.

Calvin’s, of fucking course.

You repress the need to roll your eyes. “How kind,” you say instead, flipping through your notes and typing a few ideas down.

“I thought so.” Eddie stands up, depositing the danish and coffee on your desk. “I’m more of a bagel and lox guy myself.”

“I’ll alert the media.”

He smiles slow, which is more attractive than you’d bargained for, annoyingly enough. His teeth are perfect against the plush pink of his lips, and he’s close enough, leaning against your desk, that you can smell the faint scent of his cologne— wood, leather, and violet?— cut through with a faint aroma of tobacco.

“I only have your best interests at heart, sugar.”

By Thursday, things started to even out. Some solid pitches turned into sketches, bumpers filmed and canned, and one only one sex dream about Eddie Munson.

You’d take what you could get.

It was basically inevitable, that fucker has been annoying you all week— popping into your office uninvited, sending the interns out for inane tasks just to get you alone, and, the real kicker, sending Harrington in as reinforcements.

“He’s not a bad guy,” Steve says, taking another bite of his lunch— subs from the Teamsters, your favorite day of the week.

“Munson?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, having made out your garbled phrase. “Ed just comes on strong, but he’s harmless.”

You roughly swallow and take a sip form your drink. “Whaddya mean?”

Steve pauses, sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Oh, uh,” he shrugs, “He likes you. Was that not obvious?”

You stare at him blankly.

Eddie Munson, attracted to you?

Yeah, when hell freezes over.

“He’s just razzing me,” you say, more to yourself than Steve.

He drops his sub on the wax paper and wipes his mouth with a napkin.

“That’s what you think?!”

“Well—" you sputter, indignantly. “If that’s how he shows his interest…”

Steve laughs, a bright and delightful thing. If only it wasn’t at your expense.

“Oh my god,” he wheezes. “Robin’ll get a kick outta this— holy shit.”

He pulls out his phone and sends off a text. The next thing you know, his assistant is barreling through your office door.

“You’re shitting me,” is what she says, eyes cutting from him to you. Communicating in some secret language of eye contact and gestures that was wholly beyond you.

That lunch was the last semblance of peace you’d had for the week before Eddie Munson began wooing you with increased vigor.

By Saturday, you’d had just about enough of his nonsense. More flowers than you knew what to do with, mini fridge in your office stocked with all your favorites, the writers actually doing their jobs for once— which was honestly just creepy, but you’d allow it.

“What did he do?”

It was the final read-through before the dress rehearsal later that evening. The writer’s room was packed, and no one had tried to kill anyone else yet.

Truly bizarre.

“What did who do?”

“Cut the shit,” You grouse back. “Munson, what did he do, threaten you idiots? Promise backstage passes— what?”

A hang-dog new hire sighed. “Said he’d have our guts for garters if we fucked up your week.”

“Yeah,” someone else chorused. “Said we’d wish all those Satanic rumors were true once he was done with us.”

And, as a result, no one had tried to steal your Emmy this week, you occasionally went home at a decent-ish hour, and no one had unnecessarily barricaded themselves in their dressing room.

Huh.

Maybe Harrington had a point.

Eddie Munson attracted to you? It’s more likely than you think!

The thought eluded you through the dress rehearsal and show itself, but reared its ugly head at the after-party.

A successful show, a compliment from Lorne, and several drinks had you feeling warm and buzzy. Harrington had wrangled you up on a table when “Teenage Dirtbag” came on, assured you it would be fine dancing on tabletops in high-heeled boots.

All was well and good until someone spilled a drink on said table and nearly sent you toppling to the floor.

Strong arms gripped your waist, settling you against a broad shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

“The fuck was that?!” crowed up at Steve, the music far too loud for you to make out his response, before you’re carried from the dance floor to the coat check room and placed back on your feet.

Right side up, Eddie looks flushed and concerned, checking your face and body for any signs of injury.

“You okay?”

Voice softer than you’re used to, not the gruff exterior or persona he plays into for the public. And, it’s nice. You’re just buzzed enough not to be horrified at the realization.

You laugh and press a finger into his heaving chest, “You like me, dontcha?”

Eddie laughs, dodging your gaze as his chin tucks into his chest. “Honestly?” He says after a beat, “You scare the shit outta me.”

“What,” you pout, “Little old me?”

Your finger idly traces nonsensical shapes against the black cotton of his shirt. He takes a breath, watching the trajectory of your hand.

“Not in a bad way,” he allows, eyes finally dragging back to you. All warm umber and hints of whisky. His hand touches yours, bringing an end to your wandering fingers.

Eddie swallows audibly and cocks his head to the side. “You’re just so…”

“Intense?”

There’s that slow smile again. He takes a step closer to you, hesitant as if he’s expecting you to push him away.

You don’t.

A shake of his head that frees a few strands from the low bun he’d dawned at curtain call. You brush your fingers against the soft curls and scruff of his jaw.

Eddie takes in a sharp breath, eyes closing minutely as his forehead rests against yours.

“You,” he breathes, voice low, “Are going to ruin me.”

Not a threat, but a promise.

A smile tugs at your lips. “Awfully presumptuous of you, Munson.”

“Call it a hunch, sweetheart.”

You close the distance between you with your lips. They slot into his with ease, your hand tangling itself into the curls at the nape of his neck.

He groans, something low from the cage in his chest and steps between your legs as your eyes fall shut. Your back hits the wall, his hand cradling your head, thumb rubbing idly along your scalp.

Eddie smells divine, and you’re not sure whether it’s the drinks or your own hormones that are to blame. But he tastes even better, the burn of whisky a comfort as his tongue sweeps across your bottom lip.

You open beneath him like a night-blooming flower, lips, and legs parting with ease. A wet click when you part, allowing you to take a shaky breath in. He moves along your jaw, soft lips sponging kisses there before lighting upon your neck.

“Fucking hell,” you groan, head rolling back against the wall behind you, earning a low laugh from him.

Everything feels amazing, your skin is buzzing at his attention, hands desperate to grab hold and never let go.

As his hips cant into your own, you can feel the hot, hard line of him. Your eyes flying open at the sensation and the thought that you may very well die getting dicked down by Eddie Munson in a coatroom.

But oh, what a way to go.

He’s on you again, lips and tongue eager for entry, before you can say anything stupid. Your mouth opens with a stuttered breath as Eddie slowly grinds against you.

He’s saying something, praises falling from his lips but you can’t possibly reply. Too wound up from arousal to be any sort of conversationalist. The pressure against your clothed heat is just right, and you’d like nothing more to get his pants off and ride Eddie to kingdom come.

That is until Steve Harrington barrels through the door.

“Oh shit,” he says, stifling a laugh. “My bad.”

He’s in and out in two seconds, but the mood is broken.

Eddie’s head rests against your shoulder while he catches his breath. You can feel the heat of his flush against your neck.

“So,” he begins, voice a low rasp. “I guess—"

“Your hotel is closer.”

He perks up at that, head rising from your shoulder with a quirked brow.

“Essex House, right?”

Eddie nods, picking up what you’re putting down. He scrambles for his phone, texting something before grabbing you by the hand and leading you out of the club and into the brisk New York night.

Falling back against the plush comforter, you drag Eddie down with you. Teeth clicking against each other in the effort. He huffs a laugh into your mouth, pushing you back against the pillows on the bed.

“You’re a pretty good kisser,” you say, propping up on your elbows.

“I may have heard that once or twice,” he says, tugging his shirt up and his head before tossing it elsewhere.

You make quick work of his jeans, while he occupies himself with mapping the geography of your body with his lips. He nips at your hip, earning a squeak of surprise from you as his arms cage you in.

His hair, now loose from the torment of your hands, tickles as it drags along your exposed skin. Eddie popping open the buttons of your blouse torturously slow.

Your lips claim his once more as his finger skims against the soft curve of your breast. You shudder at the sensation, unable to focus on anything except him.

Half-lidded eyes gaze down at you, a smirk tugging at his lips. With a roll of your eyes, you wiggle out of your shirt and pop the button of your trousers.

He’s quick to follow, fingers pulling at the fly and tugging the offending fabric from your legs.

The second the damp lace of your thong makes an appearance, Eddie groans loudly— head falling against your hip.

“Oh, my god.”

Too pent up to feel bashful, you tangle your fingers in his hair and give it a tug. Another groan, lower and deeper than the last.

“So pretty,” he breathes against your heat causing you to shiver.

His fingers hook into the fabric and pull them down the plush of your thighs, lips skating across the sensitive skin as he goes. Eddie is back on you before you can sit up to take off your bra; tugging you up to settle on his lap while reaching around to expertly unhook the lacy garment.

Distracting you with a kiss, it takes you a minute to realize that Eddie has apparently been struck stupid at the sight of you bare before him. His eyes rove over what feels like every inch of your body, as if he could never get enough.

“Hey,” you prompt with a roll of your hips. It’s delicious and delightful, sending sparks straight to your core. A soft sigh before you continue, “How do you want me?”

That seems to wake him back up. Eddie shakes himself alive and says with a bite to your lips, “As many times as I can have you, sweetheart.”

He lays you gently back down and grabs a condom from the bedside table. Before you can offer your assistance, however, he’s back between your legs with a singular focus: making you come. Hard and frequent.

By the time you reach your peak for the second time, he’s three knuckles deep and two fingers in. Your babbling incoherently while he smirks up at you, occasional coos of “Doin so well f’me” and “You can take another, right sugar?”

You nod, impatient for your next orgasm. Who would’ve thought that Eddie Munson could turn you into a needy brat without even seeing his dick?

Certainly not you.

“Eddie,” a broken pathetic whine from you. He’s worked in a third finger, impossibly, and you’re about to explode.

Pulling his lips from you clit, he glances up, lips and chin wet with your slick. “Yeah?”

The lighting in the room is low and warm, only enhancing his features, eyes blown dark with lust and lips ruddied and swollen from licking and kissing.

Another whine as you make grabby hands at him, “Wanna come on your cock.”

He chuckles lowly, sponging a kiss at your hip. “That so?”

You nod dumbly and wet your lips.

He rubs along your g-spot and your eyes roll back into your skull.

“Hmm,” he hums, “Why don’t you come on my fingers again and then you can make a mess on my cock?”

Not the answer you wanted to hear, but you’re too far gone to care. A petulant pout on your lips, but before you can make your retort, Eddie does that magical thing with his fingers again making you keen as you come.

Your vision whites out briefly, walls shuddering at his ministrations wetly.

“There’s a good girl,” he says, voice silky and low. “Knew you could do it.”

Damp fingers grasp your chin before prodding at your lips. You open your mouth to suck at them, tongue grazing against the cool silver of his rings as he watches.

Faintly, you hear the tearing of the condom wrapper as he extricated his hand from your mouth. Calvin’s long gone now, Eddie fists his cock to roll the condom down his shaft. And you can’t seem to pick your jaw up from the floor.

He looks almost nervous, brows furrowed and biting his lip. You can see why— he’s got the biggest and prettiest dick you’d ever seen. Cockhead flushed a rosy pink as he strokes himself, and you're not the best at spatial awareness but there are definitely several inches of him to reckon with.

“Hey,” you say with a swallow, mouth having filled with saliva at the sight of him. A jerk of your head, “C’mere, honey.”

With a smile, he returns to you. Kisses laved to your chest, neck, and finally lips while he situates himself against your petaled heat. Bumping against your abused clit, you sink back into the pillows with a moan.

Hands loosely cradling his collar and legs wound high against his back, you pull Eddie down for a slow kiss as your rock up against his shaft. He licks messily into your mouth as one of your hands snakes down to guide him inside.

He shudders at the sensation and the visual of your hand on his dick, small and dainty in comparison. “Fuckin’ hell.”

You hum contentedly. “You ain’t seen nothin' yet,” and drive the message home with a buck of your hips. His cockhead slips in, stretching you slightly but not unpleasantly.

He pauses, not wanting to hurt you or go too quickly just for it to happen again— too big, can’t fit. Surprisingly, you shimmy working him further into your cunt, inch by inch, until he’s buried to the hilt.

Eddie thinks he’s going to die like this— bottoming out in the girl of his dreams, all before he can blow his load or get you off like he wants to.

The stretch is good— hitting depths you didn’t realize were possible until now. Making your own efforts with the aid of your fingers and toys appear pathetic. You could vibrate out if you skin at the sensation— keyed up and pulled taught before he’s even had the chance to move yet.

You clench at the thought, causing Eddie to pant and moan against your neck. His left hand taps at your right leg.

“Can you raise that up, just a little?”

You acquiesce, and he thrusts experimentally. The angle changes everything, causing your blood to thrum and punching the breath from your lungs. Right leg wrapped around his waist while the other rests lazily against his hips.

Eddie kisses you quick, tongue eager as he works you open. You can hear the smack of his skin against yours, both damp with the exertion, accompanied by a sound and sensation wholly unfamiliar to you.

There’s a wet squelch when he bottoms out every other thrust or so, and the coil in your gut gets pulled tighter and tighter. Heat and pressure are building in your cunt and radiating outwards.

You jolt upwards, breasts brushing against his chest, nipples hardening in the cool air. “Eddie I’m—" your voice catches in your throat, a tear falling from your eyes and cascading down your cheek.

Before he can see your unintended emotional display, you bury your face into the curve of his neck with a gasp. His hips stutter as you draw closer, neck growing damp with your tears.

“Shit. Did I—"

You quiet his concerns with a shake of your head, “No baby, I’m good. Keep going.” And with a languid roll of your hips, you seal the deal.

Eddie’s thrusts slow, the angle forcing his pelvis to tilt and drag exquisitely against your clit. Your head drops back against the pillows. He licks his lips and watches your mouth fall open with interest. He loves the way your eyes can’t seem to focus, the way your tongue lies heavy in your mouth, the way you try to hide from your pleasure, but he knows you’re excited.

Your next orgasm crashes upon you like a tidal wave, walls fluttering like the wings of a frantic hummingbird. You nearly scream from the pleasure of it all, mingled with a pinch of pain as a gushing soak drenches the both of you.

Your body jerks forward, pinned by Eddie’s hips and the cage of his arms holding you close. You can feel him moving inside you in long strokes before he stills to let you ride it out.

“That’s never happened before,” you slur out.

“Yeah?” He smirks, resuming his thrusts, pace nearly brutal now— diving into you so fast and hard that your eyes well up with tears. It doesn’t feel like you’ll reach the peak again, feels like you’ve been on the cusp since the coat room.

Your brain is fried and completely blissed out— fucked stupid by a rockstar you'd known for a week. You can only gasp in clipped short breaths as the air is continuously punched from your lungs.

Eddie bites his lip, eyes fixed on the way his cock spreads your cunt. The way your pussy is glistening and cherry red from his ministrations.

“Wish you could see yourself,” he groans out. “Such a good girl, takin’ all of me.”

Eddie could be talking gibberish and you would still nod along, falling apart as you stutter and plead, begging for him. I want it. I want it. Iwantitiwantitineedit. I need you.

A few more strokes and Eddie comes hard, thick ropes of come released into the condom, shuddering against the clenching of your walls— tight and wet and hot. Your name falls from his lips in a broken moan causing you to break open, crying out pitifully and throwing your head back against the pillows.

And, god damn, he’s just so pretty. All pink lips and pupils blown wide, chest heaving with desperate breaths before he collapses on top of you.

You feel positively ruined for other men. It’s unbelievable, the way he’s seared his touch into your body and brain. And yeah, if you had a soul or whatever, probably that too.

It may not be the most orgasms you’d ever had, but it’s damn near close and certainly the most intense yet. Your body trembles against Eddie’s torso, while he sucks on your neck, murmuring praises into your ear. Calls you sweetheart, baby, good fucking girl. Keeps himself inside, nestled comfortably deep.

You’re likely to faint if he doesn’t stop— intense whispers, slow movements, and rubbing sweetly against your walls. Eddie drags another orgasm out of you, miraculously so, almost letting you forget how torn open he’s made you feel. Your toes curl and go limp again for what feels like the umpteenth time, plaint against him as you catch your breath.

He lands a soft, barely-there kiss against the lobe of your ear and wipes the sweat from your neck and brow away.

“You okay?” He asks in a whisper, sending chills down your spine. “You got a little—"

“Overstimulated, yeah,” you answer with a laugh. Your arms drape around his collar lazily. “I’m good,” you say with a smile, “Never better.”

“Yeah?” Eddie’s smile is a bright bashful thing. He ducks his head, like he can’t believe you’re real, and bites his lip.

“Gonna be pretty useless for the next couple of hours though.”

He glances back up at you. “Really?”

“Totally.” Your fingers card into his hair, working against his scalp. “This guy fucked me stupid and now I can’t feel my legs so.”

He laughs, the vibrations reverberating against your ribs before rolling off of you to discard the condom. His hand finds yours again in the near-dark, cool metal against the damp of your palm.

You lay beneath the fluffy duvet, facing Eddie. Your legs were entwined with his and he has a big, stupid grin on his face. You were sure your smile matched his own.

A phone trills into the still of the room, Eddie groans in frustration and grapples with finding it on the nightstand. He answers it with a huff of annoyance as Steve Harrington's voice cascades through the speaker.

“So…” he sings, the street noise of the city serving as background, “You guys fuckin’ or what?”

#modern!rockstar!eddie #rockstar!eddie x reader #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson smut #stranger things fan fiction #rockstar!eddie x you #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie smut #modern!au #Spotify

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maxverstappensflatbrim · 1 year

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Show Me Yours | Matty Healy [9]

chapter nine, act two: anobrain

March 13th 2012

The very few artists that she has met, Little Night Terrors, Little Comets, Catfish and the Bottlemen. They’ve all told her about how awful tour life is. The moving around, the no solid warm bed to stay in.

Spoke about the empty feeling they had created for themselves that they filled with things they shouldn’t have.

But not Tommie, she’s loving it. The running around with the stage hands, learning the best way to set up amps, going to new places, seeing new things.

Tommie has never felt like she had a home, her entire childhood was spent moving between her mother’s house, father’s house and her grandparent’s house. Every other day a new place to try and settle into.

This constant moving around is nothing new to her, and some selfish part of her loves the fact she can handle it better than the others.

She likes how they make passing comments about her handling the touring better. Because it means she’s good at it, she’s better than them all at something.

The past few weeks they’ve been travelling the UK doing different shows.

It’s not the driving around, the travelling, or the moving that she can't handle.

It's the people, the performing in front of strangers, the being on stage that she can’t handle.

But so far so good, nothings gone completely wrong yet, as of today they’re flying out to America, Texas, for a festival.

It's her first time in America, all of their first times besides George who’d spent a couple years in his childhood there.

She sits with her headphones on, head down, focusing on the steady bounce of Matty’s foot beside her, his knee jerking into hers.

If she didn’t have her headphones on it would probably drive her nuts.

Not a single word has been spoken between the pair since the car ride. Not one word.

It’s actually been easy, George takes charge when it comes to sound checks most of the time, so any issues in the gigs she goes to him.

Any issues with her guitar she goes to Adam, any issues with Matty she goes to Ross.

When they’re at their apartment he’s spending most of his time with Gemma, dotting on her every movement, almost as if he’s ridden with guilt. (He is.)

Tired with the little motion she can see in her peripherals she places her hand on his knee, eyes not straying from her notebook where she’s jotting down all different kinds of things.

Matty’s whole body tenses at the touch, lump stuck in his throat as he turns his body a little to face her.

He watches her work, lip slightly chewed, glasses slipping down her nose, hairs in her face and nose crinkled in concentration.

It feels like hours- no, years- later that she removes her hand, flicking her page but never returning it to his knee.

The spot that is now cold, he yearns for her hand to be back there, to warm him up, comfort him.

Instead he stands quickly as their boarding group is called, grabbing his backpack and swinging it over one shoulder, passport and boarding pass in hand as he rushes to be first on.

The others rush after him, Ross lingering to wait for Tommie, knowing she hates crowds and prefers to hang back.

He’s laughing to himself as she slowly approaches and she raises a brow, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Ross.”

“Nothing.”

“Ross.” She says again, a little more sternly.

He looks away, still smirking as he shrugs, “It’s funny how a simple touch from you can turn him into a blushing teenager.”

“He is a blushing teenager.”

Ross nods in agreement then ducks down a little, “Only around you.”

She elbows him in the ribs and he catches it, “What’s happened?”

“Hmm?” She turns away adjusting her zip up on her shoulders.

“You two, I mean, you’ve been off the past couple months but the past two have been torture for everyone.” He tilts his head, “What’s happened?”

She chews her lip, eyes going down the few people in the queue before them, Matty’s right at the front, not even looking back as he sprints down the hallway to the plane, George hot on his heels with Adam and Jamie not too far behind them.

She debates on telling him, or keeping it a secret, letting it eat her alive even longer.

But she knows Ross, she trusts Ross, more than anyone in the world. Despite his habit of saying things he probably shouldn’t he is the one she’ll go to if she wants a secret to be kept. He’s good at keeping his friend’s secrets.

“He kissed me.”

Ross nods, “I know, he let it slip a few months ago when he was drunk, told me not to tell Adam. On the roof? Is that what it is? The issues with Gemma?”

She shakes her head, “No, Ross, he kissed me on the way to Newcastle, in the car, when our song was on the radio. He kissed me.”

Ross is silent and she lets out a stuttering breath as she turns to look at him, “I know. I’m awful, we’re awful. God, what about Gemma? I feel awful, poor girl, I’d hate-”

“Hey, hey,” He grabs her arm to stop her rambling, “It was his decision not yours. Matty’s the one responsible.”

“The reason we argued,” She goes on, “Reason that we stopped talking, stopped being us. I told him I didn’t want to be a second choice, to him, to anyone. Told him not to use me for when his girlfriend’s not around and he feels lonely.”

Ross nods in understanding, he opens his mouth ready to chime in with his own comment but she carries on, “Worst part is, I-I miss him, Ross. Miss our late night chats, our weed talks, miss being us.”

“Matty he,” Ross sighs looking up to think of the right words, “Hasn’t been himself the past couple months with this album coming out. And Gemma coming back, I mean, they broke up a while ago, on bad terms, didn’t expect her back really. He’s been doing a lot of stuff to keep his mind off things, more weed than usual, he’s uh, not sleeping anymore.”

He turns to look at her, “Which doesn’t excuse the fact he did it, he still has to take responsibility, it’s just…”

He sighs and she nods, handing her boarding pass to the attendant, “I know, Ross.”

They don’t discuss further, don’t mention what it is that they both know. She does, as they’re nearing the door of the plane, turn to him once more, “I’m not gonna stop looking out for him.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆

March 15th 2013

“Nervous?”

She breathes in deeply trying her hardest not to let her eyes glance over to him and the stupid tank top he’s wearing.

She nods, gaze settled on a group of guys completely uninterested in the act currently in front of them. Some small town stuck-up band from a state she’s never even heard of.

She doesn’t blame the crowd for barely interacting with them, but she hopes they don’t think the same of them.

Matty squeezes her shoulder, tugging her back into his chest, the top he’s wearing curls awkwardly, scratching at the back of her upper arm. When he notices the discomfort in her posture- the way she leans away from that one part of him, he moves one hand to flatten the vest out.

“We’ll be fine. We’ll be great.”

“Hope so.” She mutters to herself.

She clears her throat, sipping the water Adam had gotten her, “What’s the setlist again?”

“The City, Chocolate, Settle Down, Sex and You.”

She turns to him quickly, “You?”

“Mhmm.”

She looks away, pursing her lips. He smiles to himself, acting as if he didn’t know You was one her favourites.

The band comes off, she can’t remember their names, but as they pass by she catches eyes of the drummer who tilts his head with a smile, pausing beside her, “Good luck out there, tough crowd.”

She shrugs, “Or bad band.”

God, why did she say that?

She breathes in, lifting her shoulders and hiding the way her eyes widen by keeping them forward.

His brows raise, but there’s a playful smirk on his face, “You think you and your ‘mates’ can do better?”

“Guess we’ll have to perform and find out.”

“Alright,” He turns to her, ignoring the slap on the backside from his lead singer, and the glare from Matty behind her, “You get that group of frat boys at the back to interact, I’ll buy you a drink.”

“She’s eighteen.” Matty says, slinging his arm over her shoulder, “And we’ve got a gig to put on, so swing your ‘ook.”

She elbows him in the side and turns back to him, “Deal.”

He nods, “I’ll be watching.”

“I’ll be performing.”

She smiles to herself, turning around to see the rest of the guys watching, her cheeks heat up and she lets her shoulders sag a little, “What?”

“No.” The four speak at the same time.

She rolls her eyes, “Not fair, if he had tits and half the sexual energy he just did, you’d be all over it.”

“Get on stage.”

She grabs her guitar, the green fender, and is following Matty up as he introduces them and the first song.

The performance goes well, she stands in her usual spot, between Ross and Matty, playing her riffs and parts as she sings quietly into the mic so as not to overpower Matty’s vocals.

She makes eye contact with the drummer from the American band a few times. And when the frat boys are the one cheering the loudest she lifts the bottle in her hand towards him.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆

He talks a lot, she realises, three sips into her drink.

And he has one of those really annoying and obnoxious American accents that makes her want to rip her ears off.

But he’s nice.

He says things that make her laugh, and he shares a few interests.

He gives her attention, tells her things she’s never heard a guy say to her before.

Compliments her music taste, her voice, her clothes, her hair and her guitar skills.

She learns his name is Caleb, he’s been in the band ‘Dirty Delights’ (a name she laughs at so hard she’s choking on her drink) for almost nineteen years. He’s older than her, more mature than guys her age, but neither seem to mind. He’s from Georgia, has an older brother, Brent, a younger sister, Alice, and his family is a strict Christian family.

He even goes into the deeper details, telling her of the messy divorce which led to him moving into a caravan with his father and his brother, his sister living in their childhood home with her mother.

About how he hated his mother for years until his dad died when he was nineteen and he had to move in with her. Tells her the four of them are closer than ever now.

He asks her how long she’s been in her band, asks about their album, commenting on how ‘lucky’ they are to have gotten it so early into their career.

She doesn’t comment on the fact that the guys were in a band years before she joined, trying and failing to get the EPs and the album.

She also doesn’t tell him about her family, like he so desperately wants her to.

She sticks to the basics, ‘Adam, the other guitarist is my cousin, basically my brother, I’ve lived with him for a while’ and ‘I grew up with my grandparents until they moved abroad.’

He doesn’t press for more, which is what she likes about him.

At the end of the night, the glasses (one turned into five) have been drained, and she’s messaged George, currently the only sober one, to come meet her.

“I hope you guys go on to do greater things.” He says, as he waits outside with her for George to arrive. His hands tucked into the pockets of his skinny jeans.

She smiles in thanks, “Hope you guys finally get that album.”

He nods a little, “We’re getting there.”

She needs to, looking across the street, “Uh, my friends and I, we’re going to a party before we go back to the place we’re staying at. You interested?”

He purses his lip, and tilts his head, “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I can’t. I really enjoyed tonight, you’re a great girl, but I’ve got another gig, we’re leaving at seven A.M, if I’m late again, Bryan,” (the lead singer), “Will kick my ass.”

She nods, “I get it, we’re late all the time, I completely rinse the guys every time, I hate lateness.”

He nods knowingly, “Is that why you’ve been extra anxious for the past three minutes?”

She chuckles, head falling to look at her shoes, hair covering her blushing cheeks, and nods, “George was supposed to be here at nine sharp.”

George’s ears must bleed, because he appears around the corner out of breath as if he had been running.

“So- Sorry, Tom. Didn’t mean to be late, got lost. Americans are- har- hard to understand.”

She smiles, turning to look at Caleb, “Nice meeting you, and thanks.”

He nods, passing another slight nod to George, “See you ‘round, mate.”

George sighs as they both watch him leave the opposite way they’re going, “You get his number?”

She shakes her head with a shrug and he shoves her shoulder as they start walking, “What? With all that sexual tension? You at least did it in the bathroom, right?”

She purses her lips and silently continues on, “What? Not even a quick shag? And you’re letting him go?”

“I’m not one for a ‘quick shag’, G,” She mutters, quietly adding onto the end, “Especially when I’ve never had one.”

He pretends he doesn’t hear that, but he does. And he changes the subject, discussing Ross' new ‘cocktail’ which was just Vodka, Redbull, Orange Gin, Fanta and a squeeze of an orange slice.

She pulls a face, and then cringes when he tells her about Adam and Matty’s attempt at the Dirty Dancing lift.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆

March 16th 2013

Tommie groans, head pounding as she’s grabbed by someone and brought back into a chest.

There’s muffled shouting and she tries to open her eyes but the brightness of the room is too much.

“Holy fuck-”

“Matty!”

“This guys a fuck-”

“Get up! Get up, now, assholes!”

Tommie’s suddenly wide awake, being dragged up by Matty’s hand on her wrist, she blinks a little as she looks up at him, he’s got her turned so her chest is to his naked one.

It’s then she realises she’s naked too, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. George is shedding his t-shirt from last night, pulling it over her head so she can turn around to see what’s going on.

One of the sound technicians who’s been travelling with them is still in the bed, along with one of their tour manager's assistants.

“What the fuck?”

“Get out!”

She looks to the stranger's voice, seeing a man with a shotgun, it’s then that her eyes widen, “Roddy?”

“It’s okay.”

“What the actual- Matty?”

“Alright,” Matty says, hands out as if trying to calm a wild animal, “We’re going, okay? Gonna get our shit and go, alright?”

“Hey, what’s all that shout- Holy fuck, Adam!”

Adam groans, shoving Ross in the shoulder, “What Ro- oh my-”

Matty’s hands return to Tommie’s shoulders carefully, clutching onto the soft fabric of the t-shirt as a shirtless George slowly climbs over the bed around him, “Alright, look, mate-”

“Don’t mate me, we stated plain and simple when y’all got here that this is a religious household, no taboo-”

“What's a taboo?”

His eyes flicker to Tommie and Matty pulls her further back leaning a little closer to warn her to shut up.

He looks over at the others gathered in the door and nods his head for them to go, “Matt-” Ross is the one who tries to step forward but he shakes his head nodding again.

“Go gather everyone up, tell ‘em to get their shit, we’re going.”

Adam’s eyes haven’t left his little cousin, she quickly nods at him as she looks around the room trying to see if any of her stuff is in here.

She doesn’t even know how she ended up in here.

They all back away from the doorframe slowly quickly gathering the rest of the team to start off outside towards the cars they’d brought with them.

Matty looks around and tries to slowly edge them towards the door, Tommie clutching onto his arm as they move, “We’ll go-”

“You disrespect our house, our religion, my mother-”

“We meant no disrespect to anyone, promise-”

“He’s circumcised!” Tommie suddenly yells and he tilts his head.

“Shut up.”

“What in the Lord’s name is that supposed to mean?”

Tommie shrugs, “Religious people do that, right?”

“Jewish people, Baby.” Matty mutters, “Wrong religion.”

“Jesus was Jewish.” She mumbles back.

“Okay,” Matty keeps moving them slowly, turning his body so Tommie is behind him, “We’re gonna go.”

“Y'all are staying until the cops arrive, my momma called them.”

“For what?” Matty mutters another warning of her name, “What did we do? What are they gonna charge us with?”

“Tommie-”

“Vandalism, underage drinking, prostitution, br-”

“I’m not a prostitute!” She yells in offence.

“On three?” Matty asks.

She nods, moving her hand to grip onto his, ignoring the Texans religious and honourable rambling, “One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

They both let go of each other to run around him, Tommie kicking him in the back of the leg as she goes, “Chicken leg!”

Matty cackles, grabbing her as they run down the stairs and out into the large fields surrounding the house.

Most cars are half way down the gravel driveway already with Adam, Ross, George and Rick waiting with one of the larger mini vans.

Matty laughs as he grabs her, pushing her in before Adam is grabbing his arm and pulling him in after them, Ross quickly driving off.

He lies on top of her on the floor at the feet of George and Adam, staring up at the ceiling before the entire car erupts in laughter.

“Holy shit.”

“Oh my God.”

“Welcome to America, ya’ll.”

taglist

@thereisaplaceintheheart

@indierockgirrl

@sofaritsalrightt

@julezs-bl0g

(Been having trouble with the tag list so sorry if it’s not working)

#matty healy x reader #matty healy x oc #matty healy imagine #the 1975 x oc #the 1975 x reader #show me yours matty healy

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