Chapter Text
You watch the TV in the hotel room, fuming.
“Let’s talk about your little feud,” the interviewer starts.
“Oh, my lover’s quarrel?” Remmick jokes, his accent dancing over his words.
The audience laughs and the host gives him a polite chuckle.
They say your name, and a superimposed image of your most recent album cover appears on the lower third of the screen. Remmick wolf-whistles, sunglasses over his eyes.
“She’s a good-looking girl,” the host says.
“And thank God she is, cause that music? Phew.”
You hear mostly men laughing in the audience, and you crush the sheet music in your hand.
“You really think that?”
“C’mon, you think people bought that album cause they just love her songs? It’s cause’a how tight that shirt is.”
“You think all of her success comes from her looks?”
“Maybe we should turn it off,” your publicist Marcia starts.
“Turn it up.”
Marcia turns up the volume.
“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? She’s very successful.”
“Harsh? She’s the one who was calling my music-”
The audio cuts out and you hear the audience in shock. You know what you said. One month ago, while very drunk at an afterparty, his music had started playing. When you heard his newest song– a dirty industrial rock song that has been climbing up the charts from whatever filthy studio he recorded it in. It’s a song about group sex that Marcia deemed “disgusting”. You had rolled your eyes and slurred out–
“Ugh, why is the DJ playing such shitty music?”
Unfortunately, someone overheard that, and it got quickly relayed to him.
He said some things about you most magazines were afraid to publish, but in an issue of some sleazy rock magazine they printed exactly what he said word for word.
WHEN ASKED ABOUT THE POPSTAR’S OPINION ON HIS MUSIC
“I DON’T REALLY GIVE A F**K ABOUT IT. I THINK THAT POOR GIRL JUST NEEDS TO GET LAID. I BET HER RECORD LABEL PUT A CHASTITY BELT ON HER WHEN SHE SIGNED HER CONTRACT. BUT YOU’RE VERY CUTE, SWEETHEART, LET ME KNOW IF YOU NEED MY SERVICES. ”
“You know you can’t say that on TV,” the host jokes lightly.
“Grow up,” he sneers to the audience. “I didn’t even know she could say that word, I think her record label keeps a pretty tight leash.”
He looks at the camera, tugging down his sunglasses to show those stupid red contacts he’s always wearing.
“You started it, sweetheart.”
You sneak a cigarette outside the studio, on the hidden back fire escape where nobody can see you.
“No fuckin’ way,” a voice speaks from below you.
You quickly put out your cigarette look down. Your eyes narrow instantly.
It’s Remmick. In a ripped up shirt, a cigarette between his lips, and his sunglasses on.
“What are you doing here?” you snarl at him.
“Whoa, relax, sweetheart. I’m recordin’ here.”
“What? No, I’m recording here.”
“I’m sure it’s a different studio, baby-”
“Don’t call me baby, scumbag.”
“Aw, are we doin’ petnames now?”
"Y'know, I was sort of hoping you'd be nicer than everybody says you are," you tell him, rolling your eyes. "But you're just a jerk."
He takes one step forward and blows a ring of smoke upward.
“Y’know… one more step and I can see up your skirt, doll” he teases, smirking at you.
You gasp and step away from him. He snickers, smoke puffing from his nostrils. You grab your purse and open the window to climb back in.
“Wait, what studio are you in?” he shouts to you.
“The one with the big security guard!” you bark back.
He doesn’t know that back in your hotel room, you’re staring at the Playgirl issue he did three months ago. Someone had sent it to you as fanmail with the note-
HAVE A WANK AND CHILL OUT BITCH
And a hand-drawn heart. You sneakily snatched it from the pile. Now you’re contemplating opening it. You flip it open carelessly, hiding behind your hands and peeking from behind your fingers. Remmick lounges back on a plush velvet futon, shirtless. You didn’t know he had such a big cross tattooed on him. A woman’s hand with red ruby nails pulls down his pants.
Your hands fall away slowly. He’s gorgeous. It’s a good size and a nice girth, and the trail of hair that leads down his tummy before joining the groomed patch of hair by his shaft has you salivating. And he’s hard. Flushed pink and veiny.
You think about him looking up your skirt. He’d see a wet spot right now, soaking through the cotton. He’d probably call you something disgusting because you wear pink panties.
You want it, though. You want him to call you names and touch you all over with his big hands. You think about the tight recording booths at the studio and imagine being stuck in there with him, pressed against the soundproof wall and taking two of those fingers inside of you. The way he called you baby and doll.
You don’t even realise you’ve drawn blood on your lip until you taste copper and cover your mouth. You have to close the magazine, flipping it to the back cover, a cigarette ad, and turning your body to scream into a pillow.
Why did you do that? You know you’ll be mortified when you see him tomorrow at the studio.
You call your stylist and twirl the phone cord in your fingers until he picks up.
“Hi, love.”
“Hi, I want to make a really bad decision and Marcia is going to hate us both for it.”
“You know I love pissing off Marcia.”
“Can you get me a Remmick t-shirt?”
“What? That rocker weirdo who’s been slandering you in the news?”
“I wanna wear it to the studio tomorrow.”