#hookup!reader

He’d never tell you that thinking of you is what keeps him going on the long nights away. That his mind substitutes the visages of nameless groupies for yours. That he replaces the bitterness of the cocaine rubbed into his gums with the taste of you on his tongue.

He’d never tell you that the last ballad he wrote was all about you.  

He’d never admit that there's a pair of your ruined panties balled up in the bottom of his dresser. The ones he tore from you that time you hadn't seen each other in months.

He’d never admit that in the same drawer is the shirt of his that you threw on that time his takeout arrived earlier than expected. When he’d oh so casually asked whether you’d want to join him (in fact, he’d been terrified). It still holds the faintest scent of your perfume, and yeah, perhaps a little post-coital perspiration, from where you’d kept it on as you ate, and he delights in it. He replays on a loop the giggles, gasps and ridiculous stories that erupted from both of you as you’d unexpectedly shared that meal; actions so simple and wholesome and not very rockstar, but for which he yearns for more.

He’d never admit that sometimes at night he retrieves these stolen treasures, inhaling your aroma as he recalls the beautiful noises you make when he caresses your tits, squeezes your hips, slides into you. When he uses that secret move and tilts his pelvis just so, connecting him with the electric core of you. And he'd never admit that sometimes, as he curls up in bed, he just... holds them.

So what if he wants you to stay? Longs for you to spend an entire weekend with him, kissing and fucking and talking, and then fucking some more. Shutting out the world and everyone in it, creating a haven for you two, alone.

So what if you’re easily the most stunning creature he’s ever had in his bed, or anywhere else? That your perfect, tender breasts feel so good in his hands, in his mouth, pressed against his chest. That you have the most gloriously delicious pussy that he’s ever had the privilege of being anywhere near. Or that yours is the most radiant smile he’s ever fucking seen. Or that your sense of humour fills his heart with joy, and generates a warmth within him that he thought he'd forgotten. 

And so what if it’s those innocent, ordinary things that make him smile the most…

It doesn’t matter that you have a life that stretches way beyond him. A job, friends, probably a partner, maybe partners plural, who are perfect in every other way but can't quite satisfy you physically like he can. That you have an entire existence that’s rich and full, one that doesn’t involve him.

It doesn’t matter that you just want an occasional, albeit mind blowing, fuck from a semi-famous rockstar whenever he happens to be in town. That the best and most important thing he has to offer you is his dick...

It doesn’t matter that, for the first time in his life, he wants more. That he wants to be around you, to spend time with you, just… being. He wants to watch silly movies, play stupid games, talk about nothing and everything, and not talk at all.

It doesn’t mean anything when, as you're about to fall apart, he looks into your eyes and sees swirling galaxies, and his own soul reflected back at him.

It doesn’t mean anything that the feeling of you sharing his breaths and his moans as you wrap around his cock and suck him in is, for years, the closest thing he’s felt to anything resembling… home. 

It doesn’t mean anything that with you, straight, sober and devoid of any frills and trappings, he has the most intense and intimate sex he’s ever had. That he’s never come so ferociously with anyone else. That he’s never before looked forward to the aftercare as much as the fucking. Sometimes even more so.

It doesn’t mean anything…

Who cares if the time you leave keeps getting later and later? You’re probably just avoiding going back to your ordinary life, and prolonging the exotic nature of your forays with him, storing the memories of ‘rockstar sex’ away in your mind to mull over when he’s out of town, or to compare against your other lays. You're probably busy with your normal, everyday life. Because there's no way in hell that you’ll be thinking about him.

Who cares if you're becoming dramatically languid about getting dressed, and you keep crawling back over to him for one last peck? Okay, just one more. No really, this is definitely the last one…

Who cares if each time you’re about to leave you pause, glancing over your shoulder, giving him a small smile and what he’s deluded himself into imagining is a fond look? So what if it sometimes, almost, maybe, possibly looks like you might be waiting, perhaps even hoping, for him to say something. And who cares if he doesn't?

Maybe one day he’ll ask you about your life, what you do. What else you enjoy other than the feeling of various parts of him against or inside various parts of you.

Maybe one day he’ll muster enough courage to tell you how he feels. 

Maybe one day he’ll ask you to stay longer. Maybe see if you want to go out, somewhere nice. Maybe even somewhere public. 

Maybe today, as you’re about to leave, he’ll sit up, reach for you, grasp at the cooling air where there’s already an unbearable chasm between you, and bravely whisper,

Wait...

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Thanks so much for reading! There’s going to be more parts, posted over the course of this week, because I can’t leave it like this - let me know if you’d like to see them! My general taglist is opennnn…

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The silence that follows stretches for what feels like eons, and is the most exquisitely painful wait of his life. But when you eventually nod, timidly agreeing, Eddie's fucking ecstatic. 

He fusses and primps and straightens his apartment, even though you've already seen it as it is so many times before. He nervously guides you to sit on his couch as he tidies up his books, music magazines and guitar paraphernalia. 

He orders dinner, insisting you choose whatever you want. And when it arrives he pulls out a chair for you, bowing theatrically and calling you madame, and the two of you use his dining table for its intended purpose for the first time since he moved in. 

You act like twitchy high schoolers on your first date. It's absurd, given how often you've been here and how intimately you know each other's bodies. But eventually, you talk and relax, and giggle and laugh. He asks you questions about yourself, things he's been dying to know, and expresses genuine interested in your answers (whilst also disguising his relieved surprise at many details involving your personal life). 

After dinner you snuggle on his sofa, drink wine and talk more, and you find out more about his childhood, his early career, how he ended up where he is, and he tells you all about touring. And if he minds when you lean into him, resting your head against his chest and occasionally peeking up towards those deep, addictive, molten chocolate eyes just to admire their colours, and yes, maybe to see if they're looking down at you - and most of the time they are - he doesn't show it.

He tells you he’s been feeling like this for a while, but has been too chicken shit to act on it in case he scared you off and lost you forever.

You tell him you’ve never felt any different, from that first time you saw each other across that dimly-lit, fancy bar, him trying to go unseen, and you trying to ditch your roommate's work colleagues. After you'd drifted slowly but surely towards each other, and then casually-not-casually flirted with fire in your eyes and lava in your veins. And then made out in his car as his driver brought you both here; you tell him that since that moment, you haven’t even looked at another person.

You tell each other that you’re clearly oblivious idiots, and playfully chide yourselves about how stupid you've been. You rue how much time you've lost, and the potential missed experiences, but both decide that it's what happens from now on that matters the most.

You admit how much the times you've spent together mean to you. And, that this is absolutely and positively the best ‘first date’ you’ve ever been on.

He admits, as he laughs and cups your face in his hands, that he wishes he’d asked you more about yourself, your life, and whether you'd stay sooner. So, so much sooner.

You both admit, tipsy on wine now, to stealing and keeping each other's clothing, and you’re surprised and delighted to discover you both find it insanely, incandescently hot. And you agree that you might have to fuck about it sooner rather than later...

So what if the foundation of your relationship is sex? Really, really good sex, but sex nonetheless.

So what if nobody understands how the two of you could even meet, let alone be together? That’s nobody’s business but yours.

So what if people assume you’re a gold digger, a zealous groupie, or maybe even an obsessed fan? People can think what they like. You’ll both know it’s not true.

🖤

It means everything to Eddie that you so obviously want this as much as he does. He’s giddy, excited and living his dream. You stay over often now, and possessions of yours are scattered around his apartment, in his living room, nestled in his closet and displayed in his bathroom. He feels like this is what those places were made for. As if there's been unnoticed empty spaces this whole time, and now he knows exactly what they're for.

It means everything to you that he’s making plans to change his schedule by reducing the amount of time he spends on the road, concentrating more on songwriting and going into producing. And, that he's absolutely and definitely making a proper base of this city; making it his home.

It means everything to both of you that something that started out so seemingly casual has blossomed into affection, adoration, support, and yeah, you can both admit it now, love.

It means everything…

One day, Eddie wants to tell the world about the two of you. Show you off properly in the circle he moves in, if that’s something you’d ever want.

One day, he hopes he’ll have the courage to fulfill another long-time dream of his. One that resides in a tiny, square box that’s pushed even further towards the back of that drawer, behind the ruined underwear and shared shirts.

One day, he hopes you’ll say yes.

Maybe today, you will…

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Thanks so much for reading! I really hope this part made up for the first two 🤭 PLEASE reblog if you liked this, it means writers keep writing and work gets seen

A/N2: This format popped into my head after I wrote this steddie microfic and I ran with it - I’d love to know if you think it worked

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You’d never tell him that you keep his tour schedule on your fridge, torn from a magazine, and you count down the days until he’s in town again.

You’d never tell him that you wait by your phone in your tiny apartment on those red-ringed dates, declining friends’ invites to hang out or go clubbing, just in case tonight is the night where he decides to call.

You’d never tell him that you organise your laundry around that damned schedule, saving up your favourite outfits, planning which ones you might wear when you see him this time.

You’d never admit that you’ve stolen his shirts, stuffing them to the bottom of your bag when his back is turned. Or that you clutch them to your face and chest when he's away and you’re alone, the toy at the apex of your thighs the one that most closely resembles his length and girth. Or that you sleep with one beneath your pillow, just to feel like you're close to him. 

You’d never admit that there isn’t anyone else for you. That there hasn’t been since the first time you hooked up. That you doubt there ever will be, even if… whateverthisis never goes any further. 

You’d never admit that you fantasise about just that, about what this could be. The rockstar and the hookup, like it’s a romantic tale as old as time where he whisks you away from your life of drudgery into a sparkling world of music and parties and fucking you ‘til the moon catches fire and becomes the sun. That you yearn to sleep with him in the literal sense, to wake up with him, for his face to be the first thing you see when you open your eyes. That you desperately want to run your fingers through his messy curls and hear his gravelly morning voice telling you good morning and asking you if you want coffee. That you long to have languid, slow, morning sex, indulgently shower together, and then wander the streets of the city arm in arm looking for unusual places to have breakfast, or quaint antique stores where you rummage for trinkets.

So what if nobody’s ever, ever fucked you like he has? So feral and wild, yet somehow also so soft and attentive. That you trust him more than you have anyone. That when he makes you peak your soul leaves your body, every single time. That when he looks at you, you see the universe in his eyes.

So what if your underwear keeps going missing? He’s probably keeping it as a trophy with hundreds of other pairs. Or, he throws it out. On the very bad days you wonder exactly what the serviced part of serviced apartments actually means, because maybe his maid throws it out. She probably looks really amazing in her stupid maid’s uniform as she stupidly bends over all the time and is just there and is always available, and she probably services him far better than you ever could… And so what if just thinking about him with anyone else makes your stomach twist to the point you can’t even eat?

It doesn’t mean anything that you never again saw that shirt of his that you once grabbed to cover yourself. He probably burned it.

It doesn’t mean anything that he slowly swiped sauce from your lip with his thumb.

It doesn’t mean anything that he seems to want you to leave later and later, and keeps finding any excuse to distract you and keep you with him. He probably just enjoys feeling like he's in control.

It doesn’t mean anything…

Who cares if this is a lost cause? That you want him more than he could ever want you. That you’ll always be more available to him than he will be to you.

Who cares if, despite you dropping so many hints and opportunities he’d have to be a special kind of idiot not to have noticed by now, he never says anything before you leave.

Who cares if, every time you do, it rips another tiny piece of your heart from your chest.

Maybe one day you’ll have the courage to tell him how you feel.

Maybe one day will be the day he finally says something. But what would you even say if he did? And what if what he says isn't what you want to hear?

Maybe today will instead be the day that you protect your own heart, and you'll not answer that fucking call…

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Thanks so much for reading! 

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A/N2: I’M SORRY. There is a final part coming, if you’d like to get a notif just ask to be on my general taglist 🙂🖤