I will never get over the novel version of Daisy Jones & The Six. I think it’s honestly worse how Billy and Daisy don’t even TOUCH in the book. Not even one small kiss. But they want to. They don’t, and they do come close, but it never happens.
The emotional affair is worse. It’s worse because they want each other and Camilla just has to watch. But no, she can’t be mad: they haven’t done anything. They haven’t done anything. They’re addicted to each other, and they represent the struggle of it for the other.
f!bartender!reader x eddie roundtree — eddie roundtree masterlist
djats week 2026 — spring day #003
summary : you’ve met many interesting people during your time at the whisky, but none as interesting as eddie roundtree. when you meet him for the first time, it feels like you’ve known him forever.
warnings : suggestive, my notes for this literally says “sex in da car,” take that how you will, despite my original notes saying sex in da car i did scrap this idea and they don’t have sex in the car, they have sex on his bed, which you tell me if that’s better or worse, also like inebriation and drinking, so like fuzzy consent bc you can’t properly consent while drunk guys, stay safe kids don’t have drunk sex
word count : 2.2k
Some new guys were booked to play the Whisky. A little garage band from Pittsburgh, PA, something called The Six. You’ve never heard of them before but discovering new bands is apart of the job. It’s not an actual part you get paid for, of course, not something in your job description. You get paid for pouring drinks and mixing cocktails, but working somewhere like the Whisky a Go Go means that music is just a part of your life in a way it isn’t for many others.
You spend your nights here, sometimes you’ll get scheduled for the day, but those hours are a bit slower, surrounded by the haze of smoke and thrumming of music that always lingers in the air here. You love it all, even the shitty parts because this is what you signed up for when you decided to move from your small suburban town in San Diego to LA. You wanted the lights and the music and the drugs, you wanted all of it, and you’ll be damned if you ever take it for granted.
You want your nights to be exactly like this one is now, pouring scotch and watching as The Six play on stage. It’s standard. A group of guys in their 20s; a vocalist, a guitarist, a bassist, and a drummer. The most bare bones a band could be and they’re far from stardom, but it’s the fact that they’re not good that makes them so perfect. This is what LA is, what the Strip is. Shitty bands trying to claw their way to stardom, some are more successful than others, but the Whisky is the first big step to being on a billboard on the PCH.
Their music is good at least. It could use a bit more, it sounds a bit hollow, but for a start-up from the east, they’re good. It helps that the members are quite cute, too. The bassist especially, who you can’t seem to take your eyes off of, to the point where you overfill a glass and end up with a small puddle to wipe up. You don’t expect him to notice you in return, there are a lot of pretty girls in the crowd, definitely some better looking than you. Besides, you’re just a bartender, there’s not much you can do for him unless he wants a free drink.
You’re proven wrong, however, when he comes over after the band’s set, leaning against the bar on his forearms and saying in a low voice “You were staring.”
You smile wryly. “Was I?”
“I saw you,” he counters. “When we were playing.”
“How did you know I wasn’t staring at one of the other guys?” you ask.
“Because you turned away when I looked at you.”
You huff. “You’ve got me there, I suppose. What can I get you?”
“A whiskey neat and your number,” he requests.
“Does that line usually work?”
He shrugs. “You tell me, it’s the first time I’ve tried it.”
You don’t respond, just pour him his drink and jot your phone number down on a napkin, handing both over with a smile.
“When do you get off?” he asks, handing over a few bills.
“Who’s asking?” you reply, realizing now you don’t actually know who this guy is.
“Eddie,” he says, outstretching his hand over the bar for you to shake.
“Eddie what?” You take his hand, shaking it and holding on just a bit longer than needed. He notices and a light flush creeps onto his cheeks, though he tries to hide it with no success.
“Eddie Roundtree,” he supplies. “Do I get to know your name?”
You introduce yourself with a small laugh. “I get off at eleven, but I don’t think there are many places you can take me that late.”
“Are you kidding? We’re on the Strip, most places are open until six in the morning.”
“Let me correct myself then,” you say. “I don’t think there are any date-worthy places you can take me that late.”
“I’ll figure it out,” he says with a cocky wink before departing.
You don’t actually expect to see him again. It would be nice, of course, but you’ve had guys hit on you at work all the time. Usually it’s for a free drink, sometimes it’s for sex, which you’re fine with if the guy is cute enough and isn’t super pushy about it. You’ve learned after the first few times to never get your hopes up and never give out free drinks just because some guy tried to flatter you. These guys are nice to smile at and flirt with, but they rarely ever want anything real. You know that now, you’re fine with it, and you expect it.
Needless to say, it was a surprise to see Eddie come back to the bar just as you’re wiping down the counter and tidying stuff up for the next guy who takes over after your shift. He doesn’t order anything, just sits on a barstool and waits for you to finish up.
When you wash your hands and remove your little apron, he finally stands, asking “Ready to go?”
You raise an eyebrow as you come out from behind the bar. “And where exactly are we going? I hope it’s not out for drinks because I think I’m done with those for now.”
“Dinner,” he answers simply.
“Dinner? At this hour?” you ask, arching a brow.
“Just trust me,” he urges as the two of you walk into the parking lot, him hailing a taxi for the both of you.
“The only places open at this hour are 24-hour fast food joints,” you say, climbing into the cab, him following suit behind you. He leans forward, telling the driver the place in hushed tones.
“Where are you taking me that’s such a big secret, huh?” you ask as the car sets off.
“If I tell you it won’t be a secret anymore. Besides, I told you we’re going to dinner,” he says.
You huff but sit back, deciding it’s pointless to try and pry more. The cab eventually pulls up to a somewhat run-down looking house, which causes you to give him an odd look, your brows furrowed. “Are you kidnapping me?”
“This is where I live,” he says, getting out of the car and jogging over to get your door for you.
“So you’re kidnapping me,” you state, taking his hand to step out of the cab.
“I’m not—!” Eddie’s complaints cease when he realizes you’re laughing.
“Taking a girl home on the first date, how bold of you,” you tease.
“Everyone else is getting shitfaced at the Whisky until two in the morning, this is probably the only time I’ll be able to take you back here,” he says.
You make a noise that somewhat communicates “Yeah, fair enough,” as the two of you walk up to the door, Eddie unlocking it and gesturing for you to step in first.
“M’lady.” He gives a grand flourish of his arm, causing you to snort. You glance around the house as you step in; it’s clearly very old but it still looks something like a home. A few knickknacks strewn about, photos of him and the band hung up on the wall, gauzy curtains covering the dirty windows to filter in natural light.
“Nice place,” you remark as you follow him into the kitchen.
“It’s really all thanks to Camila,” he says, then adds more when you give him an odd look. “Billy’s girlfriend. Billy’s our… singer.”
“The guy who kept mouth-fucking the mic today?” you ask, raising a brow as he starts rummaging around the fridge.
“That’s the one,” he snorts.
“You all live together?”
“It’s all we can afford for now.”
“So…” you say, “what are we doing here?”
“I’m making you dinner,” he says, holding up a jar of tomato sauce.
“You’re making me dinner?” you restate.
“It’s nothing fancy. We don’t have much, but we have enough for spaghetti. And I can pour out some wine for us, we can have a proper dinner,” he says. “And trust me, my grandmother taught me how to cook so I can make jar sauce taste like a five-course meal.”
“I trust you,” you say, an amused look playing on your face. “Do you want any help though?”
“Only if you want to help,” he assures. “I can either be your personal chef or this could be like a cooking date.”
You smile, moving to the sink to wash your hands. “What do you need me to do, chef?”
Eddie puts a record on as you work, something you don’t recognize but sets a nice tone for your evening together. He unearths some candles from a storage closet, lighting them after dimming the lights while claiming “They’ll set the mood.”
“What’s the mood?” you ask, grating a block of parmesan.
“Romantic.”
“Really? Romantic?”
“What’s so wrong with romantic?” he asks, pouring two glasses of wine.
“I’m a stranger, how can that be romantic?”
“You’re a very beautiful stranger,” he counters.
“Still!” you say, “you don’t know me!”
“Sure, we’ve only just met,” he cedes, “but that doesn’t change the fact that I feel this… connection to you.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” you say.
“Then tell me. Tell me about yourself.”
“You first,” you counter.
“Well, I’m an only child, raised by my grandma since both of my parents work, but they’re still around which is nice,” he says. “That’s why I can cook.” He gestures vaguely to the spaghetti you’ve been making together. “Grandma taught me to be a gentleman and how to make a meal without burning down the kitchen.”
“Well then god bless Grandma Roundtree,” you say with a snort as he plates up the pasta.
“I’m also in a band,” he says, though you know this already. “Used to be rhythm guitar but Billy demoted me to bass after one of our old members left to be a dentist or something.”
“If it’s any consolation, I think bass is much hotter than guitar,” you say.
Eddie’s face reddens, and he’s grateful for the dim candlelight hiding his blush. “Come on, your turn now,” he urges, setting the plates on the dining table and pulling your chair out for you.
You huff, taking your seat with a “Thank you” before stabbing at a meatball with your fork. “I’m not all that interesting.”
“Tell me anyway,” he says.
So you do. You tell her about your family, why you moved to LA, why you decided to get a job as a bartender, what your actual dreams are other than pouring drinks for junkies at the Whisky. Despite having only just met him, it’s easy to talk to Eddie. The words spill from your mouth without a second thought, you’re not scared to tell him anything. You eat the food, which is amazing despite it being frozen meatballs and jar sauce, go through maybe a bottle and a half of wine together, and end up in his bedroom.
Door shut, blinds closed, you’re pressed against the door as Eddie’s tongue explores your mouth, your hand fumbling for the lock. One of his hands is tangled in your hair, the other on your waist, having creeped under your shirt. His palm is rough and warm against your skin, his grip tight, but not harsh enough to bruise. You finally manage to click the lock shut, a small noise escaping you when he nips at your bottom lip.
You let out a slightly embarrassing squeal when he lifts you by your thighs to carry you to the bed, tossing you down gently as the mattress bounces slightly. Eddie’s on top of you in an instant after shucking off his clothing, carefully helping you with yours too after asking “Are you still okay with this?”
When he gets a nod and a quiet “Yes,” in response, his deft fingers undo the button and zip on your jeans, tugging them down.
He asks before everything. Asks before he takes off your bra, before he touches you, even if it’s just to hold your waist again. Every time he tries something new, he checks in to make sure you’re still okay. It’s beautiful, it’s everything you could’ve asked for.
Afterwards, Eddie cleans you up with a gentle hand and damp cloth before helping you into some of his clothes and crawling back into bed with you. His arms wrap around you as if he can’t bear to be far from you for longer than a few minutes, his lips press gentle kisses to your temple and forehead.
“Was that good?” he asks.
“You ask too many questions,” you murmur, a teasing lilt in your voice.
“Don’t be difficult,” he admonishes jokingly.
“It was,” you say. “It was great. Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. “Will you stay?”
“I don’t want to do the walk of shame past your bandmates in the morning,” you say.
“They won’t judge,” he promises. “They’re not allowed to, they’re much worse.”
You laugh, burying your face into the crook of his neck. “Fine. I’ll stay.”
“Good,” he says. “I don’t think I ever want you to go.”
a/n: bruh idfk how to write for men let me write for women again
