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Can someone PLEASE recommend where I can get clothes like this?
this is so real, I'm not even kidding
gonna be spending a lot of time in trains in the upcoming days and i'd love to kill the time by writing so my inbox is open and desperate to be filled
my account rules
♫"We unraveled a long time ago, We lost and we couldn't let it go, I wish it was easy but it isn't so, So baby, We could make a good thing bad."♫
Daisy Jones & The Six → Track 10 - Rock 'n' Roll Suicide
( ☆ ) . * late nights ˎˊ-
f!reader x friends with benefits!warren rojas — warren rojas masterlist
djats week 2025 — day #001
summary : you’ve known warren for years, and the two of you have been fucking for a few months now. you’ve been slowly developing feelings for him, but haven’t said anything, scared that it would ruin your friendship. luckily for you, he feels the same way.
warnings : very suggestive content but no actual smut, this is the closest to smut i think i’ve ever written though, drug use (weed), reader and warren are both bad at feelings sigh, overall pretty cute and they get so freaky off screen
word count : 1.3k
Daisy & Warren: staying friends after the band broke up
Pack your shit up and get out of here!
PSYCHO KILLER
djats + billy dunne x fem!reader (SCREAM AU) content warnings: violence, character death, blood, angst summary: scream x daisy jones and the six. wc: 1.9k
masterlist. | part two.
Los Angeles. 1976
The session was dragging.
You were two hours past when Karen said she was “absolutely leaving,” one hour past Daisy storming out for the second time that week, and about ten minutes away from throwing your own mic stand at the wall just to hear something that wasn’t Billy Dunne’s voice.
“Again,” Billy said flatly, motioning through the glass from the control booth. “Bridge into chorus. It’s not tight.”
You pressed your lips together and adjusted your headphones. Across the room, Eddie groaned and muttered something under his breath as he slouched against his bass.
“What was that?” Billy’s voice crackled through the talkback.
“I said maybe it’s not the bridge that’s the problem,” Eddie replied, not bothering to look up.
Billy leaned forward, pressing the button harder like it would make him louder. “You wanna take that again, or do you just want to sit there sulking like a little kid?”
“Fuck off,” Eddie snapped. “Maybe if you didn’t rewrite the whole goddamn song on the spot every time-”
“I hear what works. That’s the difference.”
You didn’t even flinch anymore when they started. Karen had already pulled her headphones off and was lighting a cigarette in the corner, and Warren had taken to spinning a drumstick like a bartender bored of his own drinks.
“Guys,” you said quietly, trying to cut through it. “Can we just get through one more take? Please?”
Eddie’s jaw clenched. He shot you a look—more disappointed than angry—and plugged back in.
Billy gave a single nod, like it was a favor, then hit the record button.
The track started again. Guitars low and moody. The tension made it sharper, rawer. It would’ve been good—if it hadn’t felt like everything was one frayed wire from snapping.
You knew something was wrong before it happened.
Not with the song. With the air. The vibe. The way Eddie wouldn’t look at anyone after that take. The way Billy wouldn’t apologize.
When you finally packed up around midnight, the room was so heavy it felt like no one could breathe properly.
Karen left first. Warren followed, muttering something about beer and pizza. Daisy had disappeared hours ago—no one even asked where she went.
You started coiling your mic cable, silently.
Billy hovered in the doorway of the booth, arms crossed.
“You riding with me?” he asked, voice quieter now.
You nodded, but your eyes flicked to Eddie, still crouched on the floor, fiddling with his pedalboard like it might give him an excuse to stay behind.
“Give me a second,” you said.
Billy nodded. “I’ll warm up the car.”
He left with the door closing behind him, leaving you in the dim studio light with Eddie.
You knelt beside him.
“Hey,” you said gently. “You alright?”
Eddie didn’t look at you right away. Just kept twisting a knob on the pedal like it mattered. “Peachy.”
You let out a soft sigh. “You know he doesn’t mean it like that.”
Eddie laughed under his breath. “Yeah, he does.”
You paused. “I’m sorry.”
He finally looked at you. “Not your fault.”
You gave him a faint smile. “Still. I hate seeing you like this.”
Eddie shrugged. “It’s just a shitty night. I’ll hang back, cool off.”
You hesitated. “Don’t stay too late, alright?”
“I won’t,” he said, forcing a smirk. “I’ll haunt the place if I do.”
You rolled your eyes. “Asshole.”
He gave you a lazy salute and went back to tinkering. You stood and grabbed your bag, looking at him one last time.
“Night, Eds. See you at home.”
“Night,” he called back, eyes never leaving the pedal.
You didn’t know it then, but that was the last time you’d hear his voice.
The studio always felt a little haunted at night.
Eddie was used to being the last one out—he liked it that way. No Daisy stomping around barefoot, no Warren turning everything into a joke, no Billy snapping about tempo. Just him and the low buzz of the amps, the quiet hum of a room that only truly breathed when the band was gone.
He sat cross-legged on the floor of the live room, fidgeting with a pedal that kept cutting out. The thing had been acting up all week, and he was half-convinced someone—probably Warren—had spilled beer on it.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, leaning closer. “If you broke this, I swear-”
The amp behind him popped with static, then cut out completely.
Eddie froze. The silence that followed didn’t feel normal. It felt... wrong.
“Karen?” he called, standing slowly. “If you’re screwing with me again, I’m not in the mood, alright?”
No answer.
He glanced toward the glass panel of the vocal booth. For a split second, he thought he saw a figure standing there. Tall. Still. A mask.
He blinked. Gone.
Eddie shook his head and laughed nervously. Maybe he was more tired than he thought.
Then the door creaked open behind him.
He turned—just in time to see something move fast.
There was no scream. Just the sound of the bass hitting the floor.
The phone rang just after seven.
You were curled up on Billy’s couch, wrapped in a too-thin blanket, flipping through a dog-eared copy of On the Road. The sunrise through the window painted the room in gold and dust. Somewhere behind you, the record player crackled softly with a Joni Mitchell album.
Billy walked in from the kitchen, two mugs of coffee in hand. His t-shirt was wrinkled, hair still damp, eyes tired.
You looked up at him.
“Eddie didn’t come home last night,” you said quietly.
Billy frowned, setting the mugs down on the coffee table. “You sure?”
“Warren said he never showed.” You shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “I don’t know. Something feels...off.”
Billy sat beside you, one arm draped across the back of the couch. He didn’t say anything right away.
“Maybe he went out and met someone,” he offered. “Stayed out too late. You know Eddie.”
You shook your head. “No, I don’t think so. He would’ve called. Or left a message. He’s...careless sometimes, but not like that.”
The phone rang again. Loud. Sharp. Like a warning.
You and Billy both stared at it for a beat too long before he picked it up.
“Hello?”
You could hear Graham’s voice on the other end—frantic, half-breathless. Your stomach twisted.
“What?” Billy said, voice going flat. “...When? Jesus. No, we’re coming. Don’t- don’t touch anything.”
He hung up and looked at you.
“What is it?” you whispered.
“They found Eddie,” he said. “At the studio.”
Your heart stopped. “What do you mean found him?”
Billy didn’t answer. He just stood, grabbed his keys from the counter, and nodded toward the door.
“I’ll drive.”
You didn’t realize your hands were shaking until he took one of them in his.
The drive to the studio was nearly silent.
The city was still half-asleep, streets barely filling with the early morning buzz of people starting their day. You watched the world blur past through the window, the wind slipping in through the crack in Billy’s driver-side door like a whisper.
Billy didn’t say a word. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers twitching like he was playing a chord he couldn’t quite get right.
You finally broke the silence.
“Graham didn’t say what happened.”
Billy shook his head, jaw clenched. “He didn’t know. Just said we had to get there. Fast.”
You swallowed hard. The pit in your stomach had grown cold and solid, like a stone dropped in too deep.
When you pulled up, the lot was already half-full.
Two patrol cars sat crooked in the gravel outside the studio’s front entrance. One of the back doors was propped open, yellow tape fluttering lazily in the breeze. A group of cops and techs milled around, some smoking, some scribbling in notebooks. You spotted Graham pacing by the loading dock, a cigarette shaking between his fingers.
Billy was out of the car before you could unbuckle your seatbelt.
“Graham!” he called.
Graham turned, his face pale beneath the morning light.
“They won’t let me in,” he said as you both approached. “They- they said it was bad. I tried to see him but-”
He looked at you. His mouth opened like he wanted to say more, but nothing came out. Just a slight shake of his head.
Karen arrived minutes later, barefoot in boots and an oversized shirt that wasn’t hers. She looked like she hadn’t slept. Her eyes met yours, and for once, she didn’t say anything sharp. She just came to stand beside you.
Warren followed, dressed like he’d slept in the clothes from the night before.
“Okay, what the hell is going on?” he asked, looking around. “Someone tell me this isn’t a prank. Because Eddie loves that kind of sick-”
“He’s dead, Warren,” Graham said softly.
Warren blinked. “What?”
You felt your knees weaken, but Billy stepped closer, grounding you without saying a word.
A detective approached then—tall, gray suit, sunglasses like he thought he was in a movie. He asked for everyone’s names, made a comment about how “you musicians always have people coming and going,” then paused when he reached you.
“You were close to the victim?”
You nodded slowly. “We’re all close. He was our bassist.”
There was a pause. You could hear something buzzing. Flies, maybe. Or maybe it was just your ears ringing.
“We found him in the live room,” the detective said. “Blunt trauma to the head. A broken mic stand nearby. Looks like it was quick.” A pause. “We think it happened sometime after midnight.”
You could still smell smoke on Eddie’s jacket. He’d left rehearsal late, grumbling about how no one took his basslines seriously. That was the last time you saw him.
Karen crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “Do you know who did it?”
“We’re working on it.”
Billy took a step forward. “Was the door locked when you got here?”
The detective looked at him. “No. Which means he probably knew them.”
A heavy silence settled over the group.
You looked at Billy. His brow furrowed, eyes locked on the studio entrance like if he stared long enough, Eddie might walk out, laughing. Making some crass joke about how dramatic everyone was being.
But he wouldn’t. He never would again.
You weren’t supposed to go inside.
The cops told you it was an active scene. That you’d contaminate evidence. But later, when everyone else had gone home to process it in their own broken ways, you found the side door still unlocked.
Billy followed you in.
The room was dim, lit only by the late afternoon sun slipping through the stained glass window above the console. You didn’t mean to look, but you did—right to the corner where the red stain still marked the floorboards.
Your chest tightened.
Billy didn’t say anything, but you could feel the weight in the air between you.
“He was just here,” you whispered. “Tuning. Complaining about the reverb. He was just here.”
Billy exhaled slowly, resting a hand on the back of a chair. “I know.”
There was a long silence.
“I have this feeling,” you said. “Like someone’s still here. Like they’re watching.”
Billy turned to you, eyes dark. “It's probably just paranoia,” he said. “Try not to worry too much, they'll find out who did this.”
You nodded.
But deep down, something told you, this was only the beginning.
