Dressing Room Sex - Blog Posts

The dressing room.

❥ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 616

❥ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Female!Reader

❥ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: MDNI! 18+ content! Pure smut. Semi-public sex. Rough sex.

❥ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: Little drabble while I work on a longer thing :P Not my best work but I HAD TO GET THIS THOUGHT OUT

Hair products, face paint, lipstick, and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels are swept off of the dressing room vanity in front of you. The mirror is dirty with God knows what; the light bulbs surrounding the glass glaring at you and illuminating your sweat-slick face in the reflection. Your hands are planted on the desk, the soft flesh right beneath your belly button pressed to the hard edge of it. You can’t even recall whether or not Eddie closed the door properly, but that's the furthest thing from your mind at the moment. 

His grasp on your hips is almost bruising, thrusting into you from behind with vigour you wouldn’t expect from someone who'd just finished the exhausting task of performing on a stage for such a large crowd. A string of crude profanities is being grunted from behind you, and you can’t help but to watch the man uttering it in the mirror in front of you—his hair still effectively teased into a dark, curly mess on his head, his lipstick smeared across his mouth from your eager lips, his dark stage makeup smudged and running with sweat. 

He’s a goddamn visionary like this, adrenaline still coursing after playing so long and so furiously, now fucking you so hard that you might think it’s out of pure hatred. Of course, it's not; how could he hate you when the whines he's drawing from you sound so pretty?

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you babble, your eyes squeezing shut as his thick cock drags against the sweet spot inside you. 

He moves his hands from your hips and pulls you up against his chest, one palm travelling to cover your mouth. “Be quiet f’me, mkay?” he coos, holding your body against his. “Wouldn’t want the band to hear you, babe.”

A pang of worry springs through you at the mention of your compromised setting, the presence of others being merely a room away, but it quickly subsides when his lips press hotly to your shoulder. Your eyebrows furrow with the newfound wave of pleasure washing over you, your hand moving to grasp the wrist that covers your mouth, the forearm laden with tattoos. 

His cold rings press against your hot mouth, and you’d worry about going limp against him if it weren’t for his tight hold on you. You don’t notice him watching you in the mirror when you flutter your eyes shut, your face flush and your back arching in front of him. 

You realize you’re not the only one struggling here when a deep, throaty groan erupts from Eddie’s throat, his face knotted in concentration. The lewd sound spurs you on, the delicious coil in your lower belly growing tighter and tighter with every unforgiving pound into you. 

You gasp softly when one of his bandmates pounds impatiently on the door, a gruff voice calling from outside. “Eds, get the fuck out here! The limo’s on the way!”

Why are you surprised? He’s a part of a fucking hair metal band, why wouldn’t his mates be itching to get to an after party as soon as they’re off stage? Despite the circumstances, Eddie doesn’t even flinch, let alone stop at all. If anything, it urges him to go faster.

“Just a second!” he calls back, clearly irritated to be interrupted. 

He lets go of you, and instead presses you against the vanity once again, your hands now struggling to keep you upright against the desk. His hands move to roughly grasp your waist, helping himself to pull you back to meet his thrusts. 

“You think you can make this quick, babe?” he whispers rhetorically, a hand travelling to take a fistful of your hair.