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[munson-blurbs]

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: The Death's Echo concert was supposed to be the performance of a lifetime. But it wasn't only Eddie's life that changed that night. (3k words)

♫ CW: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v, slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, allusions to classism, fluffy confessions

♫ A/N: The penultimate chapter! One more after this (and then maybe an epilogue?).

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter nineteen: fight for your right

The air at The Garden thrummed with excitement. Your own heart beat loudly against the backstage pass that dangled from a lanyard around your neck. 

“This is insane.” Nora’s eyes were wide as she took in the stadium. The show was sold out; hordes of fans wearing matching Death’s Echo t-shirts flashed their tickets as they hurried to their seats. 

Ben was just as awestruck, nearly colliding with another concertgoer carrying a beer in each hand. He swiped at where a few droplets of beer landed on his forearm. 

Eddie had mailed the tickets and backstage passes along with a very explicit note detailing how he wanted to spend his free time in New York. 

Rented a suite…penthouse…California King bed…kiss you all over…worship you like I’ve been dreaming about…

Your whole body heated up at the thought of it. That letter was currently tucked away at the bottom of your underwear drawer, far away from prying eyes. 

One of the ushers, a short woman in a fitted pantsuit and the skinniest stilettos you’d ever seen, led the three of you backstage. 

Led you to Eddie. 

He sat on an amp, fingers idly plucking at the strings of an electric guitar. Staring straight ahead at nothing, his mind somewhere far away from Madison Square Garden, he mouthed the words to a song you didn’t know. 

“Hey.”

Eddie blinked, taking an extra beat to focus on his surroundings. He managed a small smile when he saw you standing there. 

“Heiress. You made it.” He stood up, wiping one hand on his black jeans. His gaze flicked over to your friends, flanking either side of you. “Nora. Boris.”

Ben sighed. “It’s Ben,” he lamented. 

You offered Ben a sympathetic look before placing your hands in Eddie’s. His palms, slick with sweat, held you like a lifeline. 

“You okay, Eds?”

Eddie nodded reflexively, but his deep brown eyes told a different story. 

You gently tugged Eddie to the other side of the green room, leaving Nora and Ben to peruse the bar and talk to the rest of the band. 

A spring in the back of an old chair dug into you when you sat down. “Talk to me.”

“S’nothing,” Eddie mumbled, twisting a silver ring around his middle finger as he sat in the chair across from you. “Just pre-show nerves.” But his inability to look at you gave away his fear.

You weaved your fingers with his. “No more secrets,” you reminded him. “I’m not gonna run away.”

Eddie drove his free hand through his wild curls. They’d been styled to look effortless, but you could smell the hairspray from a mile away. 

“I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

You froze, your breath halting in your lungs. 

Eddie took one look at the way you’d gone still and immediately clocked his mistake. “No, no. Not you, Heiress. I still wanna do this. Us,” he clarified. You felt your body relax with each word. 

“I meant…I don’t wanna do this tour anymore. Not with them,” he glanced over at his bandmates, “and not with these bullshit songs that have no fucking meaning behind them.”

“I thought you wrote your own songs.” He’d kept those papers, the ones you’d accidentally almost turned in for a final assignment. 

Eddie shook his head. “They don’t use ‘em.”

Your heart sank at the notion of his words remaining unheard, just ink on a page without anyone to witness their beauty. 

“We’re out there singing about ‘fuck the establishment’ and ‘fuck the system,’ and then this morning, they started fuckin’ laughing at this homeless guy asking for change.” Eddie shot his bandmates a glare, though it went wholly unnoticed. “And then they go buy shit they don’t need. They don’t even care.”

He took a shaky breath, his eyes holding equal parts disappointment and rage. “I can’t go out there and play along with whatever fake anarchist bullshit they’re gonna spout off tonight.”

“Then don’t.”

Eddie blinked in surprise at your suggestion. 

“That’s your expert therapist advice?” He balked. “Jesus, Heiress. You’ve gotten rusty in these last few weeks.”

You gave him a little shove. “I’m serious. Stop going along with it. Fuck them, fuck the record company…” you wiped where his eyeliner had smudged under his waterline, “and fuck anyone who forces you to conform to their stupid expectations.”

Eddie’s face lit up at that. “You’re perfect.” Cradling his face in your palms, he stared at you with complete reverence. 

If you could have bottled the comfort of his thumbs gently dragging against your cheeks, you would’ve been the happiest woman in the world. For a few untainted seconds, you let his warm touch lull you into a sense of ease. 

“No matter what happens tonight,” you said, your voice soft yet steady, “I’m here, and I’m yours.”

Eddie brought his lips to yours in a searing kiss, stealing the breath from your lungs. It was as though you were the only two people in the room, lost in each other’s taste, until a wolf-whistle pierced the air. 

“Fuck’s sake,” Eddie grumbled. His glare locked on Ben, who guiltily lowered his index finger and thumb from his mouth. 

Eddie scrambled to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides. “What the hell is your problem, man?”

Ben put his hands up in surrender. “I was joking, man,” he stammered, glancing at you and Nora for help.

“Well, it’s not funny,” Eddie snapped. “Just admit that you’re jealous.”

“Eddie—” you started. 

“Whatever issue you’ve got with me is one-sided, Eddie.” Ben cut in, rolling his eyes as he spoke. “I’m not trying to steal your girlfriend.”

Your eyes darted between the two men as they volleyed retorts back and forth. 

“And I’m supposed to believe you…why?”

“Because I’m more likely to flirt with your drummer,” Ben flung back. 

Eddie’s brows furrowed. “But Todd’s a…oh.” His cheeks reddened in realization. He looked at the drummer, who was applying more gel to his mohawk. “Honestly, you probably shouldn’t. He’s a total douchebag.”

“That’s my type,” Ben said wryly. 

A disembodied voice crackled over the PA system, reminding Death’s Echo that they had thirty minutes to showtime. Onstage, the opening act was warming up the crowd. 

“I gotta go warm up.” Eddie pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek. Your skin tingled at his barest touch. 

As much as you hated to let him go, you knew you couldn’t keep him here. He had to be a rockstar alongside Todd the Douchebag Drummer and Fiona, the latter of whom was eyeing Eddie like he was a cut of filet mignon.  

Not that you could blame her. Still, an unfamiliar possessiveness filled your lungs and made each breath laborious. 

“I hate her,” Nora hissed in your ear. “I hope she shits herself tonight.”

You bit the inside of your cheek in a feeble attempt to stifle your laughter. It wasn’t quick enough, because Eddie caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. 

“Tonight is for you,” he mouthed, his lips moving exaggeratedly to ensure you could read them. 

“I can’t wait,” you mouthed back. 

You weren’t sure what Eddie had meant when he told you that tonight was for you. You’d assumed he would give a kickass performance; a small, romantic part of you considered that he’d debut some sort of love song. 

But four songs in, when Eddie slung his guitar over his shoulder and stepped up to the mic, you knew that this was something bigger. 

“This is usually the time when I ask everyone to yell out what they wish they could destroy.” The audience cheered, but Eddie waved his hands to cut them off. 

“I’m gonna do something different tonight.” A buzz of confusion filled the arena. Even the other members of the band—Todd, Fiona, and the bassist whose name you couldn’t remember—exchanged nervous glances. 

Eddie squinted through the stage lights until he saw you standing in the wings. He gave you a quick nod, a silent I’ve got this, his fingers gripping the microphone even tighter. 

“It’s my turn.” His grin turned wicked as the crowd egged him on. “And I want to destroy the contract I signed to tour with this stupid fucking band.”

There was a collective gasp, one that included you and your friends. 

“And these posers might say they’re ‘against the system.’ That they’re 'anti-establishment.” Eddie hooked air quotes around the words and pitched his tone into something obnoxiously nasal. “But they are the fucking system. 

“See Todd?” He pointed to the scrawny drummer, who promptly ducked behind his drumset. “He says that poor people should ‘just get jobs.’ And Howie?” So that was the bassist’s name. “He likes to throw his trash on the ground because ‘the janitors will clean it up anyway.’”

Eddie made a sweeping gesture towards his ex-girlfriend and back-up guitarist. “But it’s the incomparable Fiona Weis who refuses to drive anywhere unless it's in a limo.”

From all the way in the wings, you could see Fiona’s body tense, her jaw steeling in place as Eddie exposed her. Nora and Ben both shook with laughter, but you were too engrossed in the scene to do anything but gawp.

The crowd was going wild, booing and flipping off the three offending band members. Eddie, however, wasn’t done.

“But I’m not innocent, either.” Eddie sighed directly into the microphone. “Because I just played along. Acted like they weren’t giant fucking assholes. I thought that maybe I could pretend hard enough to fit in. I guess…I guess that makes me a poser, too, huh?” He laughed dejectedly.

“So let me be clear: My name is Eddie Munson. I grew up in a trailer park in Hawkins, Indiana. My mom died and my dad walked out, and my uncle raised me. We lived paycheck to paycheck, but he gave me the best life he could.

“I probably got fifteen seconds before security drags me off this stage, but before I go, I just want to say this.” Eddie looked directly into the audience as he spoke. “If people ever glared at you when you used food stamps to pay for groceries, or if the mailman ever rolled his eyes when he delivered your welfare check, I fucking see you. And if you make fun of people because they wear hand-me-down clothes or eat ketchup sandwiches, you’re just a cog in this capitalist machine, and you can eat shi–fuck!”

Two beefy security guards hoisted Eddie up and carried him offstage. The microphone feedback shrieked as it hit the ground, but it was barely audible over the audience roaring their approval.

EDDIE! EDDIE! EDDIE!

The chanting still rang in your ears as Eddie tugged you down 34th Street. Your feet nearly flew off the sidewalk until he stopped you in front of an ornate building.

“What are we–”

“I told you.” Eddie nudged his nose against yours, kissing you right in the midst of all of the foot traffic. “I got us a penthouse suite for the night.”

Your eyebrows pinched together. How was he going to afford a penthouse suite? He’d just publicly quit his job, which meant the record company wouldn’t be footing the bill. 

The concierge stood behind a teak desk that probably cost more than your parents paid for the entire motel. His face was drawn, lines around his lips that signified a heavy smoker. Sure enough, the scent of tobacco overwhelmed you as you approached.

“Reservation for Munson.” Eddie slapped a platinum credit card down on the countertop with enough force to make the other man flinch. 

The concierge cleared his throat, taking note of Eddie’s smeared eyeliner, ripped jeans, and t-shirt with the sleeves methodically torn off. “Yes, Mr. Munson. Of course.” Even as he swiped the card, he never stopped looking at Eddie. 

Instinctively, you wrapped your hand around Eddie’s exposed bicep. In your own syrupy customer service voice, you asked the concierge. “Is there a problem with my boyfriend’s card, sir?”

He shook his head. “Not at all, miss.” He handed the credit card back to Eddie, along with a set of room keys. “Elevator is down the hall and to your left.”

The second the elevator door slid shut, your lips were on Eddie’s. 

“You,” you said, already toying with his belt buckle, “were such a badass tonight.”

Eddie laughed against your mouth, the hum reverberating through your body. “All thanks to you.” His thumb brushed the underside of your jaw. “Every time I think about you, I just wanna…be better, y’know? Be a man you deserve.”

You shook your head. “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” you said, the soft reassurance speaking volumes.

Eddie’s pants were already unbuttoned, your dress zipper already tugged halfway down your back, when the elevator dinged and bumped to a stop. It was a race to the suite, Eddie swearing under his breath as he fumbled with the key.

The moment the lock clicked, his hands were all over you again.

“Thought you said we’d take it slow this time,” you teased.

“Well, that was before we were racing against the clock.” When you looked at him in confusion, he explained, “record company’s gonna realize they never confiscated my card sooner or later.”

“Worse comes to worst,” you paused to nibble at his lower lip, “we go back to the motel and continue there.”

Eddie scoffed and unzipped your dress the rest of the way. “Last time we did that, Phyllis made bed-squeaking noises when she saw me.”

“We should probably fix those bedsprings,” you acquiesced.

“We should probably have sex far away from Phyllis.”

Fair enough, you thought, but you didn’t have time to verbalize it before he was pressing you to the wall.

“Oh, Heiress.” Eddie hissed, grinding his hips against you. “Fuck, I–I want you. I need you. Y’know how many nights I laid awake in that tour bus, hard as a fuckin’ rock, just thinking about this?”

Slipping your hand into his boxers, you gently stroked his growing length. “I thought about you, too,” you confessed. “Thought about you kissing me–”

“Where?” Eddie cut in. “Where did you think about me kissing you? Here?” He pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead. “Or here?” To your neck. “Or…here?” He pulled down your dress until it pooled on the carpet in a heap and kissed your bare breasts.

Your fingers might have left indents in the cream-colored wallpaper. A moan floated out of your throat as Eddie kissed down, down, down…

“Eddie!” You gasped, barely cognizant of him draping your leg over your shoulder. He kissed your clit, pulling back with a triumphant grin when you whined.

“Huh. Looks like it was there.” He smirked and kissed between your legs once again. His tongue brushed against you, torturously slow. 

This was his way of rushing things? At this rate, you’d be a puddle on the floor before you even got him naked.

Eddie mumbled something incoherent, practically making out with your pussy. He was on his knees for you, worshipping you like you were a deity standing before him. Like he wasn’t the actual rockstar who had just flipped off the music industry in front of a gigantic audience.

Your leg began shaking, desire taking a stronghold as you remembered his biceps flexing when he gripped the mic stand. For the first time in weeks, you came not just at the idea of him, but at the feel of him, too. 

“Mmm. There…y’go.” He groaned at your fingers tangling in his curls. “Gonna rip my hair out, honey.”

“S-Sorry.”

“Didn’t say I hated it.” His lips, shiny with your arousal, turned up in a smile. Or maybe he’d been smiling the whole time. Given his position, it was hard to tell. “Bed?”

You nodded, unable to form words. In record time you were on your back, Eddie completely stripped of his clothes. Only a guitar pick necklace dangled from a chain around his neck. 

He hovered over you, leaking cock in hand, but he didn’t move any further.

“You okay, Eds?” The sudden urge to cover yourself in the duvet rushed over you.

“Yeah. Yeah, I just…” Eddie let go of himself and kissed you, his lips soft and tender. “I didn’t wanna say this now–like, with my dick out, but I…I love you, Heiress. And I don’t wanna waste another second with you not knowing.”

You propped yourself on your elbows and kissed him again, laughing when you felt his erection pressing into your thigh. No, this was definitely not the ideal place for a love confession: A hotel room that you could be evicted from at any moment while your boyfriend was hard and about to enter you. 

To you, there was no better time.

“I love you, too, Eddie.” Your chest rose and fell with each heaving breath you took. “I love you so much that it’s kind of ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous, huh?” He lowered himself, pushing into you with the utmost care. His eyes didn’t leave yours, watching to ensure that he brought only pleasure and comfort. “You wanna know something ridiculous?”

He didn’t wait for your answer before continuing. “All I could think about besides this,” he gestured to your body and the way he was seated inside you, “was that shelter idea. Using H-Harrington’s money to…to…”

“Later.” Your fingertips dug into the flesh of his ass, drawing him deeper and silently urging him to thrust. “Talk later, okay? Right now…let’s just focus on this.”

“This.” Eddie found a rhythm that made you both sing, a tempo that kept you in sync. “I…I can do this.”

Your bodies danced in unison, chests so close that you couldn’t tell his heartbeat from your own. I love yous punctuated each wanton moan, each gasp for air, each sweat-slicked movement.

He loved you. Eddie Munson loved you. No caveats, no asterisks, no ‘buts.’

Just you, Eddie, tonight, and the promise of an open future.

--

[carolmunson]

orange colored sky (older!modern!eddie)

older!modern!eddie - setlist inspired by the fact that i fall in love with someone new every time i got to trader joe's and @loveshotzz new older!steve series. manip by my fave @eddiemunsons-missingnipple tw: nothing really, very much a meet cute at a grocery store. eddie is in his early 40s, reader is late-late 20s/early 30s. lemme know if you guys want this to be a whole thing.

the automatic doors rush cool air into your face, a sweet reprieve from the sticky heat of this summer. a much muggier july than you remember having as a kid. but then again, you don't remember that much about being a kid these days. trader joe's is a little busier than usual, which makes sense with the holiday weekend coming up -- but you hate when it's busy. there's already too many sounds -- some summer 90s playlist and the squeaks of the carts, people in their hawaiian shirts milling around with boxes and box cutters. you just want some snap peas for god sakes. 

you grab a basket and adjust your canvas bags on your shoulder, tossing your headphones in them for later. you feel 'running errands ugly' but everyone seeing you in the bike shorts you threw on this morning doesn't think that view is ugly at all. your music drowned it out on the train ride over here. you're already sort of annoyed. people just don't know how to do anything anymore -- why are we just standing in front of produce. get what you need and go! you think hastily. but you wait for people to stop gawking at the produce and make their selection before you grab the romaine, snap peas, and shredded brussel sprouts you need. when you turn you almost walk entirely into someone's cart, eyes flitting up briefly and muttering a 'sorry, s'cuse me'.

can everyone just get off my fucking ass? you huff to yourself internally. you maneurver over to fruits, a few stands in a row -- citrus, apples, berries. all separated by category in large cargo looking boxes. you snag a big box of cherries, the three pound one, knowing you'll go through the small ones too fast. you frown over the lack of watermelon, continuing along while someone turns the corner into your aisle. you look up for a moment, just to scan your surroundings, to see who it is.

 you've never seen him before, but you've never seen anyone here before. it's not like there's regulars at the grocery store in a city like this. his hands hang over the handle to his cart by the wrists, knuckles tattooed in shapes you can't make out. you follow the leather banded watch up to a full sleeve of ink, only obscured by the start of a cuffed t-shirt sleeve, a crisp white that blinds against the black of the elvira pin up tattoo on his tricep. horror icons blending into each other seamlessly. you can see more black and color peeking out from the collar of his shirt --vintage judas priest, mint condition, tucked comfortably under a well perserved denim vest covered in patches of bands you've never heard of. you're surprised by the black chino shorts on his bottom half, not expecting someone who was clearly still stuck in their grunge phase to wear those over cut off jeans. the busted up reebok's on his feet make up for it though -- pairing nicely with the tattoos on his calves and thighs, not quite sleeves, but enough to make a statement. 

you grab a box of strawberries and pop them into your basket, surveying the mangos on the top shelf at your eye level while he maneuvers behind you. you think he's cute but you don't take too much stock in it -- it's so like you to have a 'train boyfriend' or 'trader joe's boyfriend' for a brief moment in time. someone cute that you spot outside and never speak to. it's one of those days.

he has brown eyes and thick lashes, hair dark wrapped in a bun on the top of his head with streaks of silver poking through, bangs in his face. some curls stick to the heated skin by his neck and jaw. not that you're looking. the scruff on his face is littered with salt and pepper -- maybe that part of him aging more than the rest. he grabs a heap of bananas to his nearly empty cart. he also has a big box of cherries in there. he wears a cologne with spice and suede in the notes, it's familiar, a little smoky. maybe an old boyfriend used to wear it. you shrug it off, grabbing a mango or two and popping it in a produce bag before hocking it in. more veggies for a greek salad. an onion. some pre-packaged turkey slices. 

you turn into the first frozen food section, weaving through more people who just stand there and you grit your teeth. you snag some frozen broccoli, the coolness bringing you a moment of calm so that you don't lose your mind inside the store. more like traitor joe's. you grab a few more things, a veggie medley for a tofu scramble, some scallion pancakes that you’ll use as meal replacement because no matter how many times you think you’ll food prep you never do. you see him at the end of the aisle, rifling through bags of frozen shrimp to find one he likes. you notice he has a ring on but it’s on his pointer finger, two more rings on the hand that holds his cart by his hip – a silver chain dangles from what you assume is his wallet in his back pocket. his keys jingle from a carabiner by his front belt loop. slut, you think to yourself. you grab a bag of small frozen salmon filets, not paying much mind to your grocery store boyfriend of the week when you turn the corner to the next frozen food aisle. he’s there not soon after you, grabbing frozen fruit medleys and a few bars of chocolate on the non-frozen shelving above. you aren’t sure if he sees you, but you see him. you can smell the suede and spice of his cologne as his moves past you to the other end. bread is on the back wall of the store, you want to get sourdough but you know you’ll just eat it plain and not make sandwiches so you opt for the tuscan loaf instead. you snag a bag of mini bagels, forgoing the small baguettes this time. you can’t afford the good burrata this week for any special girl dinner you come up with, so it’s best to not have it around if you can’t pair it with anything pretty. further down the back wall you get to snacks and don’t ignore the bag of yogurt covered pretzels – a basket must. seaweed snacks for salmon rice bowls. plantain chips. Your basket feels a little heavy but at least this errand is almost over. you turn down the pasta, beans, and rice aisle and there he is turning down the other end. you both catch each other this time, because this time feels like it’s not a coincidence. you both break eye contact as quickly as you make it, both of you looking down and smiling to yourselves. you feel the heat on your cheeks but you don’t see his blush, both of you too preoccupied with whatever you have to pick up to pay attention to the other. you smell the suede and smoke even after you lose him to the next couple of aisles. 

pre-packaged tortellini, lox, shredded cheese. chicken thighs. a six pack of some pretty sounding beer you’ve never tried. your basket overflows but it’s fine. the errand is over, at least here, before you need to run into target which for some reason is far less overstimulating. he’s a few people ahead of you on the opposite line, still leaning over the edge of his cart with his hands hanging, one thumbing a text to someone before he stands up fully to push the cart ahead. he looks over his shoulder and your eyes briefly meet for a moment – heat on your cheeks – before he moves ahead to turn down the long row of cashiers to pay. you don’t see him when it’s your turn and by the time you’re done paying you’ve already forgotten about him, lost in a flirty conversation with the guy ringing you up. target only has half of what you need and that’s fine because nothing else will fit in the big canvas bags you brought with you for your groceries and it’s at least an eight minute walk back to the train. you groan when you get back out into the heat, the boiler room of the subway cooking you as you make it down to the platform. a pleasant sigh passes your lips when you see it’s at least only a four minute wait until your train makes it to you – only a few more minutes of suffering before you’re on your way back to your air conditioned studio apartment. you look across the platform where some old lady’s push cart rattles as it makes it down the stairs on the other side. her little body walking ahead, a voice saying ‘i got it, ma’am don’t worry,’ echos down into the chamber of the subway.

there he is. a canvas bag on each arm filled to the brim and the push cart lifted in front of him. while you can’t see from this distance, you have a feeling you’d like how his arms looked at full capacity like this. the cart’s metallic jingle continues when he places it on the concrete ground, pushing it over to the woman who now sits pleasantly on the bench. you watch their conversation while they say quiet ‘thank yous’ and ‘your welcomes’ to each other and he checks his phone while he finds a spot to stand, waiting for his train on the opposite side.

you check your phone just the same and look up again as he puts his phone in the pocket of his vest. his attention catches on you from across the way.

he gives you a small wave and smiles. he has a nice smile, infectious.

“hi.”

you wave back with two fingers, a small salute, “hey.”

“i’m eddie,” he starts as the red glow of the light on your train starts to pull in. 

the chug, chug, chug starting to drown him out. he raises his voice with a boyish grin, you hear him just before the train obscures him from view – whooshing past you as it pulls into the station. “i normally go to trader’s on wednesdays!”

you get on the train when the doors open, seeing him still on the platform, searching for you in the windows. you put your hand up again in an awkward wave and he grins when he finds you. ‘stand clear of the closing doors, please!’ he puts a hand back up with two fingers, mouthing out a message. ‘wednesdays around two.’

you give him the okay symbol with your fingers and nod at him, chuckling at the ridiculousness of the situation, he chuckles too. his smile is pretty, lips are full. his two fingers point to his eyes and then at you – ‘see you then’. 

the train pulls away before you get a chance to reply. 

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