teddy

“What the fuck, Damien?” You scoff, pushing his hand off your shoulder—his cheap way of trying to “console” you. 

“Whaaat, baby? No harsh feelings or nothin’. That’s just rock n’ roll. You know how it is.” He smirks, tightening his grip around his new plaything for the night. 

“You can always join, y’know. The more the merrier.” 

Your body revolts merely on principle alone. You weren’t shy to perform that sort of request before, but now it's different. Or was, anyway. To your knowledge, you and Damien had been “exclusive” for about six months. 

At any award show, you were his arm candy. Drunk? His first call. Post-show stress reliever? You were already anticipating his arrival in his trailer. 

There weren’t any official or established labels, but you sure as shit knew Damien Thatcher wanted you and only you, all to himself. Until now, at least. 

His new plaything stared at you with glazed-over eyes, clearly off of whatever good shit Jeff bought earlier that evening, lips curled into a smug smirk. 

You shook your head and waved them off, scoffing before sashaying away towards the living room. When you arrived, to your surprise, the living room was empty, and the band's usual buffet of substances was left unsupervised on the glass coffee table. 

The Corroded Coffin mansion was rarely this quiet; post-show parties were basically a must during tour season. But here you were, sitting on the couch, a massive array of drugs staring back at you, and not another soul in sight. That was until the front door opened. 

Eddie Munson, the band’s frontman, wandered in from smoking his usual every-twenty-minute cigarette. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed him before. That would’ve been impossible, honestly. Not when he looked like that.

The man had become something of a rockstar sex symbol over the last few years, and for good reason. Long dark curls, tattooed body, and a grin that somehow managed to look both dangerous and inviting at the exact same time. He carried himself with the kind of confidence that only came from knowing exactly who he was.

And unlike Damien, who constantly demanded attention from every person in a room, Eddie never seemed to need it. It just found him anyway.

You'd caught yourself watching him more than once during shows, standing side stage with a drink in your hand as he commanded entire stadiums with nothing but a microphone and a crooked smile. He was attractive in the same way thunderstorms were attractive: beautiful, loud, and probably a terrible idea.

Not that it mattered; you were Damien’s girl. Or at least, you thought you were.

Unbeknownst to you, Eddie had noticed you a long time ago. Long before Damien had started dragging you around on his arm. Long before you became a familiar face backstage. Long before he'd ever learned your name.

Because truthfully? You were impossible not to notice. Every venue, every afterparty, it didn't matter where. Eddie's eyes always found you eventually.

Maybe it was the confidence. The way you carried yourself like you belonged wherever you happened to be standing. Maybe it was your attitude; the sharp tongue, the sarcastic remarks, the fact that you never seemed particularly impressed by fame despite spending most of your time surrounded by it.

Or maybe it was simpler than that. You were just fucking gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that didn't feel manufactured.

Messy lipstick at three in the morning. Smudged eyeliner after a concert. Leather jackets thrown over tiny dresses. Cigarettes shared on balconies overlooking cities you'd forget by next week.

You looked like every rock song he'd ever written and every bad decision he'd ever wanted to make. Not that he'd ever done anything about it; you were Damien's.

And despite what most magazines liked to print about him, Eddie wasn't in the habit of chasing after things that belonged to other people. 

So he'd settled for watching. For knowing exactly which laugh was yours in a crowded room. For pretending he wasn't disappointed whenever Damien draped an arm around your shoulders. For occasionally wondering what a girl like you was doing wasting her time with a guy like him.

Now, as he stepped into the empty living room and spotted you sitting alone on the couch, his brow furrowed slightly. Because for the first time since he'd known you, you looked genuinely and wholeheartedly miserable.

One perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. “Well, that can't be good.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Fuck off.”

Eddie blinked. That wasn't exactly the response he'd been expecting. Over the years, the two of you had developed something of a comfortable acquaintanceship. You'd traded enough sarcastic remarks and drunken conversations over the years that he knew you weren't usually this hostile. Not towards him, anyway. 

Which meant something had happened.

“Jesus.” He snorted, tossing himself into an armchair across from the couch. “Who pissed in your cereal?”

“Why does everyone always use that expression?”

“Because it's funny.”

“It isn't.”

“Okay.”

For a moment, Eddie figured that'd be the end of it. You'd tell him to mind his own business, and he'd steal a beer and leave. Simple.

Instead, your shoulders sagged, ever so slightly. But enough that Eddie immediately noticed.

“Alright.” His voice softened. “What's wrong?”

You stared down at your hands. The anger was already fading, which almost made everything worse. At least being angry felt productive; now you just felt embarrassed.

Embarrassed that you'd somehow convinced yourself Damien actually cared. Embarrassed that everyone would probably know by tomorrow morning. Embarrassed that after six months of acting like his girlfriend, you'd apparently never been one at all.

“Damien cheated on me.”

Eddie stared. Then he looked away, dragging his tongue across the inside of his cheek.

Because that was not the reaction he was supposed to have, not even a little bit. The correct response was sympathy or outrage.

The correct response was literally anything besides the sudden rush of excitement currently threatening to make him grin like an asshole.

So he swallowed it. “What'd he do?”

You laughed bitterly.

“What'd he do?” you repeated. “Oh, nothing crazy. Just invited me into a room to watch him fuck crack-head Amy.”

Eddie's jaw tightened. “Seriously?”

“Mhm.”

“What'd he say?”

“His exact words were, ‘that's just rock n' roll, baby.’”

For the first time all evening, Eddie looked genuinely horrified. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, he did not.”

“I swear to God.”

Eddie rubbed a hand over his face. “That's the most embarrassing thing I've ever heard.”

Despite yourself, a small smile tugged at your lips. “Right?”

“Like, forget cheating for a second.” He pointed at you. “That line alone should get him arrested.”

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. And Eddie felt his chest do something stupid, because there it was. That laugh, the one he'd spent years overhearing from across crowded green rooms. The one he'd always found himself listening for without meaning to.

You shook your head. “I feel like an idiot.”

Eddie shook his head in response, plopping down next to you on the couch. 

“Nah, you’re not an idiot. ‘That’s just rock n roll, baby.’” He put on an exaggerated macho voice. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

You laughed again. “I don't know.”

“No, seriously.” Eddie leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I've been in rock n' roll for years. I practically invented being an asshole. And even I have no clue what that's supposed to mean.”

“Maybe it's in the handbook.”

“The handbook?”

“The Official Rock Star Handbook.”

Eddie snapped his fingers. “Right. Chapter seven: How to Cheat on Women and Make it Sound Deep.”

“Chapter eight: Cocaine.”

“Chapter nine: Buy leather pants two sizes too small.”

You snorted. “Chapter ten: Develop a God complex.”

“Chapter eleven: Die at twenty-seven.”

The joke landed with a little less humor than the others. Then Eddie sighed dramatically and reached toward the coffee table.

“Well.”

You watched as he sorted through the various substances scattered across the glass.

“Well, what?”

“Well, we have two options here.”

“Which are?”

Eddie held up a finger.

“Option one: you continue sitting here feeling sorry for yourself over a man who voluntarily chose to say the words ‘that's just rock n' roll, baby’ out loud.”

You groaned.

“See? Already sounds terrible.”

“Exactly.”

He held up a second finger. “Option two.”

Your eyes followed him as he picked up a small baggie from the table. “You do a little cocaine and get your mind off it.”

You stared at him. “That's your professional recommendation?”

“Absolutely.”

“You're a terrible therapist.”

“Good thing I'm a musician.”

A reluctant smile crept onto your face. “Jesus Christ.”

“Listen.” Eddie shrugged. “I'm not saying it'll solve your problems.”

“No?”

“Not even a little.”

“Great.”

“But it might make you stop thinking about Damien for twenty minutes.”

You considered it, mostly because there wasn't much else to do. 

“Or.” He tossed the baggie back onto the table. “We could sit here and talk shit about him.”

That earned another laugh. “That's a little immature.”

“It's extremely immature.”

“And you're offering it as an alternative?”

“I think it's actually healthier than the cocaine.”

“That's a low bar.”

“Still.”

You sat back, then shook your head, reaching across the table to the small baggie. “May I?”

Eddie leaned back, draping both arms across the back of the couch. “Please. Shit talking will be way more fun coked-out anyway.”

His eyes drifted over your face for a brief second before looking away again.

Because now that you were laughing and leaning over the table, he was finding it increasingly difficult to remember why he'd ever convinced himself you were off limits.

Especially considering Damien Thatcher had apparently just fumbled the hottest woman he'd ever seen.

The night went like so for hours: Eddie’s long fingers working with practiced ease, cutting two neat lines on the glass table with a hotel key card.

The faint chemical tang already hung in the air, mixing with the ever-present haze of cigarette smoke and spilled whiskey that clung to every surface of the mansion. 

He passed you a rolled-up bill without a word, his dark eyes catching yours for a second longer than necessary.

You leaned in. One sharp inhale, and the world sharpened at the edges, warmth blooming fast behind your ribs.

Eddie did his own line right after, then chased it with a generous pull from the bottle of Jack he’d grabbed from the side table. He offered it to you next, and you took it, the burn sliding down your throat like liquid fire.

“Fuck,” you muttered, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. The coke hit quick; euphoric, electric, loosening the knot of humiliation that had been sitting heavy in your chest.

Eddie grinned that crooked, dangerous smile and slid closer on the couch. Not a safe distance next to you, but right beside you. His thigh pressed against yours, the heat of him bleeding through his jeans. 

“Better?” he asked, voice low. 

You nodded, leaning into the feeling. “Yeah. A lot better.”

He didn’t pull away. If anything, he shifted so his arm draped along the back of the couch was behind your shoulders, fingers brushing the bare skin of your arm where your dress left it exposed.

“You know,” Eddie murmured, tilting his head so his curls fell forward, brushing your shoulder, “Damien’s a fucking idiot. Always has been. But tonight? Christ, he really outdid himself.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, unashamed. The kind of look that made your pulse jump.

You laughed softly. “You’re not exactly subtle right now, Munson.”

“Subtle’s never been my brand, sweetheart.” His fingers traced a lazy circle on your shoulder, then drifted higher, thumb grazing the side of your neck.

“Been watching you waste six months on that clown. Figured it was time someone reminded you what you’re worth.”

The words hit like another line. You turned toward him, knees knocking together, and he didn’t hesitate. Eddie’s free hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your lower lip before he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative. It was hungry; months, maybe years, of restrained want pouring out in the press of his mouth. 

His lips were warm, tasting like whiskey and sin, and when you parted for him, he groaned softly into the kiss, tongue sliding against yours with filthy confidence. The hand on your neck tightened, tilting your head exactly how he wanted as he deepened it.

You kissed him back just as hard, fingers threading into those wild curls, tugging until he made that low, wrecked sound again.

Eddie pulled back just enough to speak against your lips, voice gravel-rough. “Fuck, you taste good.” 

His other hand slid down your side, then slipped under the hem of your dress. Calloused fingertips traced up your thigh, achingly slow, until they reached the lace edge of your panties. He teased there for a moment, watching your face like he was memorizing every reaction.

“Eddie…” you breathed, hips shifting toward his touch.

“Yeah?” He smirked, eyes dark. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You didn’t, obviously.

Instead, you pulled him back into another messy kiss, and he took that as permission. His fingers pushed the lace aside and slid through your slick folds, groaning at how wet you already were. “Shit, baby. This all for me?”

Two fingers circled your clit with practiced pressure before dipping lower, pressing inside you; slow at first, then deeper, curling just right. The stretch and the steady rhythm had you gasping into his mouth, thighs parting wider on the couch. 

“Goddamn,” he muttered against your jaw, nipping at the skin there while his thumb kept working your clit. “You’re so fucking tight. Been thinking about this… about how you’d feel around me.”

Your head fell back against the couch, hips rocking to meet his hand, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet living room. Eddie watched you the whole time, lips parted, curls wild, looking every bit the “rockstar sex symbol” the magazines called him. But this close, it was just Eddie; chaotic, intense, and completely focused on pulling you apart.

He kissed you again, swallowing your moan as his fingers sped up, curling against that perfect spot inside you until your thighs started to tremble.

Then, just as the edge started building, he slowed and withdrew his hand. You whined at the loss, but Eddie only grinned and brought his glistening fingers to his mouth. He licked them clean while holding your gaze. “Such a sweet thing you are.”

You moaned in response, taking his hand out of his mouth and placing his digits in your own. The sound that left his throat made your thighs tremble. You bobbed your head and sucked his fingers until the taste of your sex was gone. He grinned at the sight. 

“C’mon, gorgeous,” he said, voice wrecked. He stood and offered you his hand, pulling you up against his chest. “My room’s upstairs. I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

His arm wrapped around your waist as he guided you toward the staircase. The door to Eddie’s room barely clicked shut before he had you pinned against it. His mouth crashed back onto yours, all teeth and tongue and zero patience now that you were alone in his domain. 

One hand fisted in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back and expose your throat so he could bite down the column of it, sucking hard enough to leave marks you’d feel tomorrow. The other hand shoved your dress up around your waist, as if to offend him.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he growled against your skin. “Been waiting fucking months to get my hands on you like this.”

You laughed breathlessly and shoved at his leather jacket until it hit the floor. “Then stop talking and do something about it, Munson.”

Eddie pulled back just far enough to grin at you; eyes blown black, curls messy. 

“Oh, I’m gonna do a lot of somethin’, sweetheart. Gonna fuck you so good you forget that asshole ever existed.”

He dropped to his knees right there in front of the door.

Your panties were ripped down your legs and tossed somewhere behind him before you could blink. Then his mouth was on you. Hot, wet, filthy. No teasing. No slow build. Eddie licked a broad stripe up your cunt like he was starving, then sealed his lips around your clit and sucked hard enough to make your knees buckle.

“Jesus—Fuck—Eddie—”

He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you wider, and groaned like you tasted better than anything he’d ever put in his body. 

Two fingers pushed inside you again, curling viciously while his tongue worked your clit in tight, relentless circles. The wet sounds were obscene. He didn’t care. He moaned into you every time your hips jerked against his face, like getting you off was the only thing that mattered.

“Fuck, listen to you,” he rasped between licks, voice wrecked. “Already dripping down my wrist. Damien’s never made you this wet, now did he?”

You couldn’t even answer. Your head thunked back against the door as he added a third finger, stretching you open, fucking you on his hand while he sucked and licked like he wanted to ruin you for anyone else. The pressure built fast, way too fast, to where your thighs were shaking around his head.

He pulled off right as you started to tip over the edge.

You whined, high and frustrated, and he just laughed, dark and delighted, wiping his shiny mouth with the back of his hand as he stood.

“Not yet, angel,” he said, voice low. “Wanna feel you come on my cock first.”

He manhandled you toward the bed, so much so that you barely got a glimpse of the room (guitars on stands, posters peeling off the walls) before he spun you around and bent you over the edge of the mattress.

The sound of his belt and zipper was loud in the room. Then the thick, hot weight of his cock slapped against your ass. Eddie dragged the head through your folds, coating himself in your slick, teasing your entrance.

“Gonna fuck you so deep you feel me for days,” he promised, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. The other fisted in your hair again, pulling your head back so he could lean over and speak right against your ear. 

“Gonna fill this pretty pussy up. Make sure you remember whose cum is leaking out of you tomorrow when that loser tries to talk to you again.”

He pushed in.

One long, relentless thrust that stretched you wide and punched the air from your lungs. Eddie didn’t give you time to adjust; he bottomed out with a groan that sounded like it was ripped from his chest, then started fucking you like he meant to break the bed.

The pace was brutal. Skin slapping skin. His hips snapping forward hard enough to jolt you up the mattress with every thrust. The hand in your hair kept your back arched, the other sliding around to rub tight circles over your clit.

“Fuck—fuck, you feel better than I imagined,” he panted, voice strained. “So tight. So fuckin’ wet. Taking me so good, baby. That’s it—squeeze me just like that.”

You moaned loudly, pushing back to meet every thrust. Every drag of his cock against your walls felt electric.

Eddie leaned down, chest pressed to your back, and bit at your shoulder. 

“Tell me,” he demanded, hips never slowing. “Tell me his dick never felt like this.”

“Never—fuck, Eddie—never felt like this—”

“That’s right.” He sounded smug and feral at the same time. “Weak-ass little dick couldn’t make you scream like this. Couldn’t make you this fuckin’ messy.” His fingers on your clit sped up. “You’re mine now. Say it.”

The pace was so brutal you could only speak gibberish, which Eddie did not take a liking to. So, naturally, he sped up more than you thought humanly possible and growled into your ear, “Fucking. Say. It.”

You were close again, the edge rushing up fast. “Yours—Eddie, I’m yours—”

He growled, low and satisfied, and pulled out just long enough to flip you onto your back. 

Your legs were shoved up and over his shoulders as he slammed back in, folding you nearly in half. The new angle had him hitting so deep it bordered on too much.

Eddie’s hand wrapped around your throat—perfectly tight enough to cut off air and just enough pressure to make your head spin in the best way. His thumb stroked your pulse while he fucked you harder, eyes locked on yours.

“Look at me when you come,” he ordered. “Wanna watch you fall apart on my cock.”

You did. The orgasm crashed over you so hard your vision whited out for a second. You clenched around him, crying out his name, and Eddie fucked you straight through it, pace turning erratic.

“Fuck—gonna come—gonna fill you up—” His rhythm stuttered. He buried himself and came with a broken groan, pulsing hot and deep inside you. His hips kept rolling in short, shallow thrusts like he was trying to push it even deeper, claiming every inch.

He stayed there for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard. Then he kissed you, slower this time, but no less possessive, while he was still buried inside you.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark and satisfied.

“Tapped out already?” he murmured, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. “Damn. And I’m not even close to done with you yet.” His cock twitched inside you, already starting to harden again.

The night was young, and Eddie Munson had no intention of letting you leave his bed until the sun came up and every trace of Damien Thatcher had been fucked out of your system.

mmmmm this one was......🫣

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